But first, seriously, why are you bald? Are you 18 months old? No, no you’re not, you’re a preschooler. SO WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR HAIR? My kids are whiter than Christmas, and a couple of them were bald for a really long time, but by the time they were going to “play school,” even they at least had a respectable mullet.
Speaking of play school, what the fuck is “play school” and why can’t you call it “preschool” or “day care” like the rest of the world?
But really, that’s the least of our problems.
It’s clear to me you’re waging a war on the American people, running around households on the sly, disguised as some harmless cartoon when really you’re a small bald Satan with a diabolical plan.
I know what you’re doing. I see it. You’re trying to create a generation of entitled whiny-ass humans running around losing their shit because they want to go to the zoo NOW but they CAN’T because daddy has to work.
You won’t get away with it, little man, because some of us see through you. We know what you are.
Your voice alone should earn you permanent banishment from the gaze of innocent children: “I want to play with Leo NOW!”
“Rosie, this is MY GAME!!!”
“But I don’t want to go to play school, mommy!!!”
Look bitch. You’re going to play school.
NOW STOP TALKING.
Clementine and Leo hate you because you’re an asshole.
When Leo had a broken toe, what did you do? You whined because you wanted him to play with you NOW! Have you no consideration for the wounded? Have you no heart? Why don’t you just be grateful that your toe is INTACT and shut the hell up?
We already know the answer. Because you’re evil.
And Clementine. She sang the same song you wanted to sing at play school – I believe it was “Old MacDonald” – and you flipped your cookie as if the world had just ended, like you own that song, like the whole world is against small hairless humans. You know what? Despite the soothing tones of your teacher Julie (seriously what is she smoking because I WANT SOME) and the drivel exiting “grandma’s” mouth: nobody gives a shit.
Now, or ever.
Pick a different song you self-obsessed little monster.
“I CAN’T. IT’S TOO HARD!!!” Really, Caillou? When have you ever ONCE not been able to do something with those obviously twisted parents at your beck and call ALL DAY LONG, supporting your horrible (baby? Toddler? Kid?) antics with their nauseating proclamations of joy: “Good job, Caillou!”
They don’t mean it. You’re a horrible child.
You never get better. You never even vaguely improve. You just whine and whine and whine and fucking WHINE until something changes, and then you smile and get all happy when you get your way. So what’s the message to the young people: If you whine long enough, you’ll get your way! Leo will come to play!
Not in my house you little fucker.
Leo’s never comin’ over.
You keep saying “I’m doing it, if I practice, if I TRY” but then you never actually try anything. You just stand there and squeal for mommy or daddy or grandpa until they come and save you.
So you’re a liar. You’re a whiner and a liar.
Not to mention a manipulator. Take Rosie for example. You’re a big brother and as such you should at least PRETEND to have some patience for her, since she’s a baby. But you don’t. You don’t care. You just get in her face and bleat until you get your way: “May I have the bell for our scavenger hunt? Rosie, come onnnnnnn!”
Someday, Rosie’s gonna kick your ass.
And all of America is gonna watch it.
On another note, your rock-and-roll band sucks. “Caillou’s Rock and Roll Band” bites. It’s like the worst band in the world. Your animal noises and impersonations are equally bad. I’ve never ONCE thought you were an actual zebra.
Clearly your “mommy” and “daddy” aren’t going to tell you the truth, so I will: You’re something of a douchebag and you almost ruined my toddler.
One day she looked at me and said “But I want YOU to play with me, MOMMY!!!!”
And she had that lilt.
And she had that whiiiinnnnnnneeeee.
And she had entitlement seeping out of every pore.
And she called me “mommy,” which is banned in our house.
I knew what had to be done.
Two hours later, when she demanded she watch Caillou, I looked at her very seriously and said “I’m sorry, honey, but Caillou is dead.”
We buried him.
In the backyard.
With all the other horrible cartoon children trying to destroy America’s youth.