Every woman wants a man who sits down to pee

I gleaned that nugget of wisdom from the Farm Manager this evening. Apparently, men are notorious for spraying all over the place when they stand up to pee, and for some mysterious reason, linked in some unspecified way to patriarchy, it falls to women to clean the bathroom. It's not that mysterious unless the person cleaning the bathroom is also the person shovelling the driveway, mowing the lawn, etc. From my personal perspective, I find that as I get older, I need to pee more often, but it can take some time to get anything going. Who wants to stand there that long? So I take the opportunity to sit down and relax, and catch up on some of those Atlantic magazines that came the year my dear daughter got me an Atlantic subscription as a birthday gift. It's a win-win.

Zen, sh!t, and bathroom renos

It's been an up and down couple of days here at Falling Downs, largely on account of the impromtu bathroom reno I embarked on, what seems like six months ago. Yesterday I was close to a heart attack, or possibly a suicide attempt, when we suddenly found there was no water pressure, hence no water coming out the taps. I immediately assumed this calamity was on me. After all, I've been making "plumbing improvements" for several weeks now. Turns out a running toilet drained the water tank and one or the other of the electronic gizmos that regulate water pressure was out of breath. An hour later, having caught their breath, we were back in business! But I have to say, that was one of the most stressful hours in my life. I was calling around to find local motels that take Neopolitan mastiffs. And I was sweating bullets on breaking the news of my latest screw-up to the Farm Manager. That scare bumped "new toilet" to the top of the priority list. Headed in bright and early to pick up the new one the FM picked out at the Home Depot website. They allegedly had 24 of the favoured model in stock, aisle 34. An hour later, I'm back home. Picked up a Globe and Mail on the way and fixed myself breakfast. Then a leisurely read-through of the Globe. Pretty much a waste of $4.20. Around noon I thought I'd best get to the task at hand. No rush after all; right on the box of my Glacier Bay toilet it tells me it's a ten minute installation. I know that's bullshit. It's gonna take me at least an hour, maybe two. You gotta wonder how "Glacier Bay" became the name of a toilet brand. Obviously marketing experts were involved. Shlepped the 129 pound toilet into the house, only to discover, ten minutes into the unpacking, the toilet bowl was shattered! Back to Home Depot. A round trip runs over an hour just in drive time, plus however long you spend in the store. They were good about the refund. I go for another toilet. Find a worker to help me load it on the cart. I explain I just returned the one I bought this morning, and if he doesn't mind, could we open the box and make certain this one is intact. It was in multiple shards, way more shards than my first purchase. Third time lucky, I finally get the new unit back to Falling Downs around 2 pm. Ten minute installation? It was 8 by the time I advised the FM that she wouldn't have to pee in that 5 gal Home Depot bucket I picked up just in case. I know! Am I a sensitive guy or what? While this did mightily please the FM, it also brought me to higher levels of understanding and wisdom. I learned that the FM wants her bathroom to be a "zen space," which makes you feel good whenever you're there. To me, a bathroom is just a place to take a dump and have a shower. I felt more than enough zen in the old bathroom, even with the drippy taps and the running toilet.

My kids already know I'm a slob, so why would I tidy up on their account?

The Farm Manager and I have found ourselves on opposite sides of the question; do you tidy the house when the kids are coming over? To me, the answer is clear and clear-cut. My kids know I'm a guy who has a jar of pickles and three bottles of beer in the fridge and nothing else. They know Dad's vacuum cleaner stalled out before they were born. They know Dad's place and they know Dad never puts on a show. What you see, three bottles of beer and a jar of pickles, is what you get. On top of a generous diet of KFC and Mickey D of course. On the other side, the FM will spend days tidying up the joint if kids are dropping in. Who does she think she's fooling?

I'm a sixty-year-old woman and I know an asshole when I meet one

I heard those words from the Farm Manager recently. She was referring to a gentleman of our recent acquaintance. Apparently he's got a bad case of toxic masculinity going on. Which could well be the case. I'm a bit up in the air myself over the toxicity of my masculinity, such as it is, and therefore a poor judge of either masculinity or toxicity. Be that as it may, it's very refreshing to hear a sixty-year-old woman assert her asshole-detection skills. And by God, they start honing those skills at a young age, do they not? Remember in grade 3 when you pelted the girl you liked with snowballs at recess? That's an eight-year-old boy showing affection, but that's toxic masculinity right there. That's in grade three. You can imagine how much you've seen and what it looks like by the time you're sixty.

The recycling bin of political promises

I was watching as Liz Truss announced her plans as leader of the disunited kingdom over in not-so-great Britain. She's got some fresh ideas! She will build schools and hospitals, create lots of well-paying green-economy jobs, and cut taxes. Yawn... Like nobody's heard that shit before! I owe that pithy title to the Farm Manager, who was reminiscing about when she was a youthful activist 40 years ago, being in Queens Park making a speech about universal day-care. Forty years ago! Well, PM Fluffy was the most recent pol to squeeze a few votes out of that one, but good luck finding one of those $10/day spaces. It's the same old same old all over again... for the umpteenth time. Even Her Royal Highness QE2, who'd just green-lit Liz Truss as the new PM of UK the day before, was so disgusted with our politics she decided it was time to go to the proverbial better place.

It's gonna be a good summer when the lawnmower starts on the first pull

Sorry about the formatting. I'm hoping one of the kids drops in for a visit soon. They'll have it sorted out in no time. Kids just get this internet shit way quicker than folks my age. I must be about the only dude who ever had to plead for permission to cut the grass. The Farm Manager has a bee in her bonnet about not cutting the grass till the end of May. Apparently that's to allow all sorts of wee critters like butterfies and bees to mature enough to get out of the way when you come along with the mower. I made the case that of 100 acres, I'm only mowing one of them, which leaves 99 acres of pastures and woodlands for the bees and the butterflys. Besides, by the end of May, the lawn around the house would be so thick I'd have to be going back and forth a few inches at a time. She relented, and shortly thereafter I had that Jesus moment. Oh ya, it's gonna be a good summer!

Bruno Report: our mastiff guard dog has adjusted well

That's him, guarding his half of the couch, the big half.

Other than that, he doesn't do much. He's a bit of a disappointment in terms of being a walking companion. For many years I had two or even three hounds along for my daily 5k up the side-road. Once in awhile Bella, who lives half-way up that side-road, would join us, making it a four-dog-pack!

After we said good-bye to Boomer, last of the old guard, what I missed most was not having a dog for company, especially on my walk.

Enter Bruno.

He wasn't too bad the first winter. Then when the weather got warm, he seemed to lose interest.

The Farm Manager, who fancies herself something of a mastiff whisperer, told me it's because they don't like the hot weather. Then the cool weather came back, and guess what?

Bruno's enthusiasm for our walk didn't!

I figure that first winter was a fluke. He was still trying to please.

But that was then.

This is now (refer to picture above).

Now we try to please him.

He likes to hang out with his buds at the dog park. Not too long, of course, because 15 minutes of serious romping pretty much tuckers the Big Boy out.

That sets up his daily nap. By "daily," I mean a nap that lasts all day. Interrupted only when he hears me open the fridge.

So that's your Bruno update for now. In case he ever does anything again, I'll let you know. 

Communicating with your cat

The resident house-cat is maybe 12-14 years old. Originally she was christened "Mew," by one of the kids, when we still had those hanging around the place.

She came from a woman in town, a workmate of the Farm Manager, who was a prosperous and well-educated person, who for some reason didn't believe in having her cats fixed, and therefore had multiple batches of kittens to give away every year.

Having a farm and a big old barn, this person assumed we were delighted to take in her surplus kittens, and over the years we took in at least half a dozen.

We were not delighted.

We had three dogs at the time. One of them had a taste for pussy, so to speak. Mew is the sole survivor.

Anyway, after the last kid left, I re-christened her "Doublewide," because, while I never brought it up with the kid in question, I found the original moniker lacking in any sort of imagination or creativity.

At least "Doublewide" more accurately captured her essence.

She is with us still.

She's still got a touch of PTSD from the first day we brought Bruno into her life. It was at least three months before we saw her again.

But she's pretty much back to normal.

Every time I walk through the kitchen, she shrieks at me. The shrieking all sounds the same, but I know what she means by where she's hollering from.

If she's under the sink behind the water dish, she's saying, "there's too much dog drool and fix it now."

If she's under the sink in front of the water dish, she needs you to give her a sprinkle of tap water for her daily ablutions.

And if she's half way between the sink and the back stairs, she's saying "throw a few treats on the third step from the bottom, thanks!"

In return, this cat, who used to be a first-class mouser, does absolutely nothing.

Other than nap.

Pure puppy bliss

Both me and the Farm Manager grew up with dogs.

She had a pup who did the mail route with the mailman, and then wandered home.

I grew up with a series of German shepherd pups. My dear mother had always loved those dogs and went to the trouble of registering as a CKC breeder.

As much as we love all the dogs we knew before, we both love Bruno like nobody else.

He had an inauspicious start here. Rescued him from a shelter two km down the road. That wouldn't be a place an Italian mastiff would show up, but apparently he's a runt in the world of mastiff breeders, and had to be ditched.

We're more than delighted with what we pulled out of the ditch.

There were some early interactions with other dogs that did not go well. That's when I started taking the Big Boy to the Owen Sound dog park.

He managed to get on the wrong side of Cooper and Lilly in the first five minutes.

But he's been making up for that faux pas ever since.

Bruno doesn't realize he's the biggest dog in the dog park. His best pals are the wee pups like Bucky, a miniature spaniel, and Bruce, a six-week-old black lab.

Another thing he doesn't realize is he's now on the Facebook page for the local dog park. I wouldn't have known, but the Farm Manager is on Facebook, and she tells me the Big Boy is a rock star there.

Whatever. 

What I know for sure; this is the smartest canine I've ever had stewardship of. (You never actually "own" them). He's made peace with the realities of dog park life. 

And he makes me laugh out loud 100 times a day.

Good boy, Bruno!

The view from Dorcas Bay

From time to time me and the Farm Manager get to pondering about cashing out of Falling Downs and getting a place on the water up the Peninsula.

We saw a place today that would be economically feasible. On the Lake Huron side, not too far from Dorcas Bay. Bit of sand, bit of rock, perfect spot for grandchildren to come and spend the summer.

Then the FM messes it all up by pointing out that we have no grandchildren.

She's got a point there.


Where did we go wrong?

Deep State War Dogs salivating over prospects of Iran attack

Looks like the greatest leader since Moses has come up with some incontrovertible evidence that, nuclear deal or not, Iran is just months away from a nuclear weapon. Yes, just like they've been months away from a nuclear weapon since Netanyahu's first stint as PM a quarter century ago.

The entire expose on Israeli media had a strong whiff of Colin Powell's magic vial about it, but nevertheless, it was good enough for Bibi's sock puppet in the White House.

Today's PR stunt was exquisitely timed. We're just a few days away from the anticipated renewal of the Iran Nuclear deal by Washington. You can kiss that goodbye.

Both Trump and Netanyahu have their plates full with domestic scandals that they're more than keen to distract their respective electorates from.

Netanyahu needs to win back the diaspora, where the faint of heart, like Natalie Portman, have looked askance at the footage of IDF snipers gunning down unarmed Palestinians.

And Trump is wallowing in praise for allegedly finessing the DRK stand-down.

Oh look, he's a man of peace!

Ya right!

Perhaps there's been a trade-off made... we give up on Korea but all hands on deck for the imminent destruction of Iran.


The Farm Manager has family in the Holy Land. Might be a good time for that extended visit to Falling Downs they've long threatened.

The Ice Storm cometh...

Here we are, bearing down hard on the middle of April, and this is what Environment Canada says Mother Nature is sending our way:

Snowfall with total amounts of 15 to 20 cm is expected.

Significant snow with ice pellets expected overnight into Saturday.

A moisture laden low pressure area over the Central Plains States will amble slowly towards the lower Great Lakes this weekend. As the low gets closer, brisk northeasterly winds will pump in cold arctic air, forcing temperatures to fall to below the zero degree overnight then remaining below freezing on Saturday.

Occasional rain is expected to change to ice pellets then snow tonight. Brief freezing rain is possible during the changeover.
Snow may be mixed at times with ice pellets Saturday, with total amounts near 15 cm likely by Saturday evening.

Northeast winds will gust to near 60 km/h on Saturday leading to local blowing snow in exposed areas reducing visibilities at times.

The snow is expected to end Saturday evening.

As the low gets closer to Southern Ontario Sunday, another round of snow and ice pellets will whiten the area Sunday into Monday with additional significant accumulations possible. Several hours of freezing rain are also possible Sunday night into Monday morning.

There remains uncertainty with regards to precipitation amounts, however there is a potential for this to be a high impact storm.

You gotta love how this storm system will "amble slowly..."

But we're ready here at Falling Downs. Me and the Farm Manager went into town today and picked up a case of beer, a four litre box of Cabernet Merlot, and a flask of vodka. We should be good till the middle of next week.

Bring it on, Mamma Nature!

Boomer

I'm not a big fan of taking animals to the vet. Even after the most egregious porcupine encounter there's no need to run to the vet. I remember my old German Shepherd (or "Alsatian" as my elderly Jewish neighbour insisted on calling him) Buddy, who had a truly fearsome killer instinct, lunging up a utility pole time after time in a vain attempt to get at the porcupine who'd already left hundreds of quills in his snout.

Vet time? No way. Me and Buddy, a pair of pliers, and a bottle of brandy shared between the two of us was all it took, at a savings of at least a couple hundred bucks. By the way, if you can't get your  dog to down the brandy, try mixing it with eggnog.

I always figure, worst case scenario, a bullet costs less than fifty cents.

Not that I could bring myself to do that; that's more tough-guy bluster than anything else. But the Farm Manager has a different approach. Even though I've never known her to make a medical appointment for herself, she's really keen on taking the hounds to the vet on a regular basis.

So it was that we took the girls to Wiarton to have their shots updated and get a general assessment of their health.

While I don't want to blow his cover, I'm pretty sure the Wiarton vet is that Bulgarian weight-lifter who applied for political asylum during the Montreal Olympics. His biceps are bigger than my thighs. He can pick up a hundred pound mutt by the scruff of the neck and plop her on the examination table - with one hand.

We'd had some dark conversations around the old girl the last couple weeks. We're not 100% sure of Boomer's vintage, but she's more than likely in her early teens. That would be around 90 in dog years. We've noticed that there's sometimes a puddle under her when she's lounging in front of the fireplace for an extended period. If she's on the couch for a spell she'll leave a wet spot.

So my thinking, as the guy who pays the vet bills, is maybe the only bill that makes sense is the last one, if you know what I mean.

But as the guy who takes her on that 5k walk every morning, I've got another perspective. She's perky as all get out on that morning walk. She has serious quality of life! Sure, she may be tuckered out by the end of it, especially in the summer months, but what the hey?...

Putting down a creature that still has decent quality of life would be a crime.

The Bulgarian didn't seem to think the leakage was a big deal. She's an old girl, he says. A course of hormone replacement therapy should fix her up in no time.

Alrighty! Got out of there for a whisker under five hundred bucks, plus whatever a few months of hormone therapy is gonna cost...

And it's nice to know we can look forward to a few more seasons of Boomer.

Globe and Mail normalizing Trump

Seems to me the guardians of Canada's democracy at 351 King are letting their guard down. All through the first section, not a single headline with the name "Trump" in it. Nowhere in the Opinion section either. And not a single letter to the editor mentions Trump even in passing.

Let's hope they're over their obsession with Trumpian doggerel. It's nice to have my newspaper back.

Silly Philly demonstrated a new trick this morning on our trip to ransom the Saturday Globe from the Korean extortionist. Exiting the car via the window. I had just parked the car out at the water treatment plant to let the girls out for a romp, when she popped up outside my window. She'd let herself out. For some time she's been able to lower the back windows by standing her front paws on the arm rest, a trick the gals at the Timmies drive-thru window find really cute. Today was the first time she actually went out the window, though.

Then she did it again five minutes later, as we're driving by the marina on Bayview Street. That's not funny anymore! Luckily, there's not much traffic there in February, but after that I figured I'd best activate the child locks for the first time in many years. In another month her ass will be too big to fit out the window, but in the meantime we'll play it safe.

Another thing that's not funny any more is what screen addiction is doing to our society. The Opinion section features a lengthy discussion between psychiatrist Norman Doidge and Jim Balsille of "Crackberry" fame. Me and the Farm Manager have long been skeptical of all this supposed connectedness technology has gifted us.

We'll be sitting in a restaurant and there's entire families around us so connected that they completely ignore one another.

Mothers are pushing strollers down the street while texting.

Otherwise respectable people think nothing of giving iPads to their pre-schoolers.

Anyway, that alone is well worth the price of the paper.

Elsewhere, I found myself agreeing with both Saunders and Wente's opinion pieces. Not sure what's going on there... maybe those folks are finally coming to their senses?

Or maybe that's just another marker on the side of the Alzheimer Highway. Either way, it's boring to read stuff you agree with.

At the end of the day

At the end of the day I'm sitting in front of the fire with an elbow on the haunches of one of the hounds, the one sharing the sofa with me at the moment.

Today is "Valentines Day."

That's the fake holiday manufactured by the manufacturers of mass market greeting cards, chocolates, and cut flowers from Colombia and Ethiopia.

Fake or not, you gotta give it some respect.


One year I thought I'd be perfectly honest, and I didn't get the Farm Manager a thing. No flowers, no chocolates, no nothing.

I told her I didn't want to buy into the commodification of sentimentality.

She was not impressed.

I never played that hand again.


At the end of the day, Valentine's Day, I'm sitting in front of the fire. I'd picked up a heart-shaped box of craft chocolates at Mill Creek Chocolates.

It was the least I could do.

The beauty of it all

Will God smite Mar-a-Lago?

Or will God spare Mar-a-Lago?

If God is indeed dead, as has been hypothesised by deep thinkers since the time of Nietzsche and beyond, will Mother Nature or Hurricane Irma spare or smite?

Allow me to speculate for a moment; what use is the death of God if Mother Nature and Hurricane Irma are rushing in to fill the void?

These were the questions I was pondering when there was a sudden knock on the door.

A knock on the door is a novelty in these parts. There's a reason folks like us live off the beaten path. We don't appreciate random knocks on the door. That's why our welcome mat has "naff off" embroidered into it.

I see where the Wynne regime has charted its own course on the legal weed journey. They'll grow a whole new bureaucracy called the "Cannabis Control Board." I'll bet growing that bureaucracy is gonna be a whole lot more lucrative than growing weed.

But that's how things play out when you let politicians run the show. Somewhere along the line those folks forgot that they were public servants, ie, servants to the public.

Hahaha... that's a good one, eh!?

A few days ago I breakfasted with my old pal Kipling at the Teviotdale Truck Stop. He's knee-deep in grandchildren these days, so it's hard to get together, but Kipling has an old-timer's perspective on this whole legal weed question. He figures the entire legal weed thing is a scam to put pot profits (triple alliteration!!!) into the hands of Bay Street wankers and their attendant bureaucracy sycophants, while cutting out guys like himself who have been growing quality organic shit for forty years.

I suspect he's right.

So there's a knock on the door.

The hounds go ballistic.

The Farm Manager wants to run for the gun cabinet.

Relax!

It's just a couple of local kids who hunted our property last year and repaid the favour with some mighty tasty goose summer sausage.

I gave them the thumbs up.

Conditional on another round of summer sausage of course.


The beauty of it all...

Checking my white privilege

Ya, I guess there's no getting around the fact that I'm a honky. Unlike that Dolezal woman, I don't have a snowball's chance in hell of passing.

Today me and the Farm Manager took a tour up to Tobermory to scope out waterfront real estate that might be suitable for our retirement.

Personally, I find that white privilege is highly over-rated. True, I've never suffered police brutality, although there were a couple of occasions in my youth where I didn't really think it was necessary for the dickheads to draw their sidearms. And I have to admit they didn't open fire, so maybe white privilege does count for something.

Anyway, we had a fine day if it, capped by a lovely lunch at the Princess Hotel in Tobermory. That's run by a Greek family. What's up with the Greeks? Do they have white privilege? One thing I know for sure is they have a knack for running restaurants. The Kritikos family has done a great job with their hotel-restaurant, and they've recently expanded into offering extra-virgin olive oil from their family's olive groves in the old country.

Then we drove around and collected some names off for sale signs, and got home to do some research on the internet. Here's one real estate agent who came up more than once.

Not sure how far my white privilege is gonna get me in my quest for waterfront on the Bruce.

About the Ninja

I knew a guy once who owned a racehorse. He kept it at his buddy's place down the road. His wife knew nothing about the racehorse. He'd tell her that he was just heading over to Buddy's farm to help with the chores, and of course every Saturday he had to help Buddy out at the racetrack.

I was thinking about this as I was blasting down the side-road on the Ninja. She's an early eighties model, may have been a first year Ninja for all I know. Could be a collector item!

She's a four-stroke 500cc twin, not nearly as tempermental as those two-stroke 500cc triples Kawasaki was putting out in the early 70s. Still, she's got a redline of 11,000, and I generally lose my ambition by the time I'm half way there.

My pal Harvard lives at the end of the sideroad. He got his moniker because he's the only guy in these parts who actually went there. Hated it. Loves the quiet life up here in The Bruce.

I'm still up in the air about the Ninja. I haven't got round to registering it or getting insurance or any of that stuff, and I haven't actually bought a helmet. Frankly, the Ninja scares me a little bit.

That's not a bad thing. Being scared makes you careful.

As I was carefully negotiating the gravel side-road at a very decent clip, it occurred to me that I had something in common with Buddy and the racehorse.

The Farm Manager gets so into her Netflix she doesn't notice that I'm off on a ten mile toot round the block on the Ninja. Buddy's wife didn't realize her man owned a racehorse until that horse, after the top three favorites were unexpectedly scratched one Saturday night, won a race.

Buddy was so thrilled to have $7,049.50 in winnings he immediately went home and spilled the beans...

Maybe when I win a motorcycle race I'll do the same.

Boat shopping

It's that time of the year when the pot-addled hill-billy goes boat shopping. After all, who doesn't want to get out on the water in these three or four weeks we call "summer" around here?

It's something I've always done. It's easier now, though, thanks to the magic of the world wide web. What, somebody's got a good deal on a Marine Trader 32 in Croatia? I'll be right over for a look!

Must say the whole boat thing doesn't do much for the domestic life. As soon as I start talking boats, the Farm Manager, out of the blue, will start talking about painting the house.

What the hell is that about?

Not that she has anything to worry about.

I recall sitting down for a nice meal at that Sauble Beach restaurant with the patio right across from the water. The place next door sold all sorts of beach jive, including inflatable boats. I was with my wife of the time and our children, who were at that really cute stage of toddlerdom.

While we're awaiting our dinner, the kids are having a great time throwing themselves at the inflatables on display next door. I go over, mainly to reel them in and wreck their fun, but I managed to buy an eight foot inflatable dory while I was over there.

On hearing this news, the mother of my children said, and I quote; "does this mean you'll stop buying those boating magazines?"

When you think about it, that was a) really funny, and b) rather cruel.

No wonder things didn't work out.

Anyway, that eight foot inflatable didn't cut it, and I'm still boat shopping twenty-five years later.

The boat market has changed. If you're the proud owner of 36 feet of fibreglass more than twenty years old, powered by a pair of gasoline guzzling V-8s, you've basically got a recycling problem on your hands.

There's a lot of stuff for sale where the owners are in denial about that fundamental fact.

If, on the other hand, you're selling some forty year old mini-trawler piece of shit, powered by a 80 hp Lehman diesel, you're golden!

That would be worth three times what you paid for it back in '68.

I don't have a "bucket list" per se, but if I did, two things would be on it,

Number one would be sailing the North Channel from here to the Soo.

The second would be the Trent-Severn from Georgian Bay to Lake Ontario.

No sky-diving for me...

I see the odd realistically priced boat on offer that could make both of those trips happen.

But first, I really should do a little painting around here.


Maybe next year.

A case study in irresponsible parenting

Me and the Farm Manager were having breakfast at the Topnotch this morning, when this family of five strolls in; Mom and Dad and three kids between maybe four and nine. They settle in by the front window, and the first thing I notice is that nobody, adult or child, has any electronic device in evidence. No iphones. No tablets. No gameboys.

That in itself set alarm bells ringing. It's one thing if the grownups want to create a tech-free pseudo-reality for themselves, but what are they doing to their poor kids? Haven't those parents heard that we're living in the information age?

You won't believe what happened next. They pull out a little chessboard!

No shit! A chessboard! Who does that?

While they're waiting for their server, Mom and the older boy play chess. Dad is reading a magazine article to the younger kids. They're asking questions. They're engaged.

This goes on after they order. I notice not a one of the kids are expressing their youthful exuberance by running about the place raising hell and annoying the other patrons. Makes you wonder what kind of a regimented and coercive home life these poor youngsters must have.

Sure hope those kids get woke real soon. Call the Child Help Line before it's too late, kids!

Everybody deserves a normal childhood!

Otherwise, it's not hard to see what's going to happen here. Those kids are going to grow up to be engaged, chess-playing, highly literate independent thinkers as adults.

And as a society, that's certainly not something we want to encourage.