Children can be the scariest things of all

    If the mass amounts of bite-size candy being flaunted in supermarkets are any indication, Halloween is right around the corner. So to get in the spirit of the season (because I do that from time to time), I want to talk about something truly scary: little kids.

    Now, when it comes to kids, I know what I’m talking about. Not only did I used to be one (no I was not born a full-grown bitch), but I was also a camp counselor all four years I was in high school.

    That’s right, people used to pay me to foster the well-being, growth and happiness of their children. The future of America (or at least a small part of Los Angeles) was in my hands.

    Scary, I know.

    But the point of this particular article is that kids themselves are just plain disturbing. For one thing, they look way too much like midgets, which, as we all know, are rather frightening.

    But when you’re a camp counselor, kids represent the ultimate menace. Not just because they have large and often constipated parents, but because they outnumber you. If the education of this country ever improves and little kids learn to count accurately, they’ll realize that they can take over the world. And then things will really go to Hell.

    Yet it’s the things kids actually say that scare me the most. Whoever said kids should be seen and not heard was at least half right.

    One day I was sitting on the playground, minding my own business — oh no, wait, I was watching my little group of five-year-olds, since that’s what I was getting paid to do. Riiiiiiiight.

    Anyway, up runs Nicky, a young lad who liked to stream words together and pretend they made sense. Typical kid. And in typical adult fashion, I pasted a smile on my face and shifted into patronizing-young-children-with-the-squeakiest-voice-ever mode.

    Me (squeaking): “”Hi Nicky!””

    Nicky (out of breath from playing Spider-Man on the jungle gym): “”Hi!””

    A long pause follows because: First of all, I forgot to inject caffeine directly into my blood stream that morning and am thus too tired to feign interest; and second, because I know Nicky’s mom well enough to ignore her son.

    Nicky (completely unaware that I am ignoring him): “”Carrie, you know what I wanna be when I grow up?””

    Me (God, I sound like Minnie Mouse on lithium): “”What do you want to be?””

    Nicky (also sounding like Minnie Mouse on lithium): “”I’m gonna be a cop.””

    Me (thinking that won’t happen until he stops eating sand): “”Wow, that’s really great!””

    Nicky (eating sand): “”I already have the handcuffs, too. I practice using them all the time at home.”” (pause) “”You know where I got them?””

    Now, at this point a whole bunch of possible answers came to mind. A toy shop. One of those machines where you stick a quarter in and get the one prize you didn’t want. An arcade.

    Me (trying to remember that I get paid for this shit): “”Where’d you get them?””

    Nicky (way too proud of himself): “”From under my mom’s bed.””

    OK. Wasn’t expecting that particular answer.

    Now, at this point, it is very important that I not scar this child for life by being completely horrified that not only does his mom keep sex toys under her bed, but that her child knows about them. I must remain cool, calm and collected.

    Me (very cool, calm and collected): “”What?!?!””

    Nicky (too into that sand to notice my shock): “”Under my mom’s bed. But don’t tell her, cause she doesn’t know I know they’re there.””

    Don’t worry; I won’t say a thing.

    Now, like I said, I know Nicky’s mom. To be politically correct about it, she’s a divorced blonde with the biggest breast implants I’ve ever seen in real life.

    So I pretty much already know that she has sex.

    What I didn’t know was that she’s also a kinky amateur dominatrix. And I didn’t want to know it, really. (Note: If you too are a kinky amateur dominatrix, please keep it to yourself — at least until you’re no longer an amateur. I mean, come on.)

    Nicky (obviously thirsty from all that sand he just ate): “”Can I go get a drink of water?””

    Me (genuinely calm now): “”Sure. Go with a buddy.”” (As a counselor, I have to say that after pretty much everything.)

    Now tell me that isn’t the scariest story you’ll hear this Halloween.

    So basically, we need to make it illegal to keep sex toys within two miles of children. Take it from a former camp counselor: They’ll be a lot less terrifying after we do.

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