This is no joke, folks.

Close your blinds. Shut your windows–both of those reversed, or–ah, screw it.

Tune into the police blotters to hear the news, the deadly truths…

It’s like a horror movie, but real, so…not actually a movie; but never mind the specifics.

Oh no, he’s here! The fearful thing that haunts the cities and the streets–and the vending machines for reasons of constant hunger. It’s–ah, God, but it can’t be; it is the new adult in training!

The horror. Oh, the horror. Screams. More screams.

He has no number–

But all the adults have numbers! Look at Mr. 123, he–oh my God, Mr. 123 is gone and–uggghh!

He has no identifiable tag, or label–

This is getting to sound a lot like a package of meat…

What shall we do against so mysterious, so vast, a threat as this creature?

Silver bullets? Damn. He’s not a werewolf; and yet, he’s always dreamt of being one.

A cross. No. Not a vampire, either.

Books? But he loves them!

Bring out the secret weapon. Give him the ol’ College Try.

Look, all, and gaze in dumbfounded wonder as he struggles to surmount its obstacles. We send test after test in his path; still, he manages to clamber his way out onto the top. It’s incredible. It’s astounding. It’s really pissing the hell out of me…

Seriously, guys, can nothing we own stop this Teenage Frankenstein? He–He doesn’t even have pimples to pop, not that I would want to. Just look at his face: lost in the caverns of his own mind. He is completely distracted, you idiots!

Oh, well, forget it now. The adult’s already moved on, already gone to find another problem to cause him unbearable stress. Why anyone would choose to do so is beyond me, but, let the freakishly large adult child do his thing, I suppose.

But if he starts whining for a binkie, set off the nukes.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

P.S: Love Calvin and Hobbes