Let us spray

For children, that is. Specifically the children on television tonight. I switched from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory to Village of the Damned and am now pondering the mechanics of these films in lieu of chewing my fingernails.

The former has the following lessons to offer the young 'uns, listed in the order of children cut from the factory fun:

1. Don't contaminate the resources. You're a filthy human being and sticking your germy hands in a chocolate river will only result in the suffering of millions of PMS-laden ladies.
2. Chewing too much gum will make you ignorant. Your brain juices can only handle so much facial activity, you fat ass.
3. Don't be a greedy little bitch.
4. Don't run out in front of cameras. That's how child pornography and this website thrive.
5. Don't have any fun with your grandpa. Ever.

I guess the comprehensive message is to listen to adults. But what if they believe wallpaper to be delicious?

Creating the latter film must have required an interesting chain of events. Imagine little Billy Blackheart from down the street. He's still a tow-headed little sponge content to play with his toys and talk to himself until you walk in on him and cause that precious, precious moment of embarassment that will teach him to never communicate with himself outside of his echoing, unmanagable mental awareness. His mother has always wanted two things -- diamond-studded nipples and a child actor. To achieve one of her goals, she drives a frozen Billy to an audition, where he is cast for his resemblance to a demon boy. He begins filming and is subjected to such requests as, "Bill, we need less soul," and "Put your hand on your chest, kid. Feel that? Now, pretend it's a hollow well held together with cracking sorrow, much too fragile to hold anything but weightless apathy for others."

I'm conducting a parenting seminar, if you want to come and bring pie. I hope this post makes up for my slackassness regarding this week's Tolstoy Tuesday. C'mon. It's Christmas. And I'm sorry.