CISCO, PUSSIES, AND BALL-STOMPERS

Have you seen the new Cisco commercial, where an unsupervised kid \"accidentally\" unleashes a worm into her father’s company network?
Well, you’re not missing anything, because it sucks. However, it does help point out why kids whose parents don’t beat them on a regular basis should never be allowed out of the house, let alone brought to work.
The commercial starts out promisingly enough, with some I.T. chick (possessing a high degree of \"dorkitude\") telling her boss (some clueless-looking white guy, of course) that one of his cubicle pissants has unleashed a virus onto the company’s network.
As soon as Bossman hears this, he gets a look like he is ready to stomp some serious pissant balls. In fact, I.T. chick hasn’t even stopped talking yet, and Bossman is already looking around the office for some balls to stomp. You can just tell he knows it\'s the fault of one of those lazy little malcontents he’s forced to nursemaid on a daily basis. Fucking ingrates, constantly sucking at his teat. If only they were more like him, there’d be no need for the impending ball-stomp.
Anyway, as I.T. chick keeps yapping, it becomes obvious that Bossman’s ball-stomping itch has grown so powerful, he’s seriously contemplating stomping I.T. chick’s uterus just out of principle, when suddenly his angelic (and by \"angelic\", I mean \"Satanic\") little girl comes running out of his office, and announces to the entire company that she\'s just, \"...DOWNLOADED A COOL NEW GAME!\" (This is because children are incapable of talking at a normal conversational level, and always speak in BOLDFACED CAPS. Unless you’re trying to get important information out of them, in which case, you can’t get them to speak any louder than a whisper, even with the aid of a hot Catholic poker.)
Oops. Looks like dumbass just got punked. Whose balls deserve a good stomping now, eh, Bossman? I’d say yours, but, obviously, your little girl already has them in a jar, or you would have never brought her to work in the first place.
Think I’m wrong? Then you’re an idiot. And I bet you’re just making things worse by never beating your children.
Face it, America, we’re raising a generation of pussies. A generation of fat, lazy, manipulative, whiney little pussies. And we have no one to blame but ourselves. And by \"ourselves\", I mean all those breeders too chickenshit to discipline their kids.
When I was a kid, if I did something stupid, I got the shit spanked out of me. In my father’s eyes, Dr. Spock was a pinko Commie faggot. Given the chance, Dad would’ve spanked the shit out of old Benjamin. Hell, he’d do it today, just for spite. Except now, instead of a belt, he’d use his prosthetic leg.
And yet, despite a steady diet of ass-whoopings, I turned out fine. Way better than today’s generation of kids are going to turn out, that’s for damn sure.
But, in spite of my overwhelming evidence that childhood beatings work, today’s \"enlightened\" parents give their children \"timeouts\" because they don’t want to hurt their child’s precious self-esteem. Yeah, give the little shit a timeout, so they can spend the next hour in their room playing video games or instant messaging all their friends about how lame their parents are. That\'ll teach \'em.
Dumbfucks.
If you can’t control your kids, leave them the fuck home. If you can’t get a babysitter for the day, stay the fuck home. The vice president of a company where I used to work once brought in his five kids, and told the receptionist it was her job to watch them for the day. Hell, Bossman, why not just piss in her face instead? That’s certainly less degrading than being forced to watch your little hellspawn.
Before our receptionist could lace their boxes of Juicy Juice with cyanide, however, one of the little shits (who’s obviously never seen the back of his father’s hand) comes down and starts bugging me. Since he’s the vice president’s kid, I can’t hit him. So I just cranked my stereo up to 11 (Marilyn Manson’s Antichrist Superstar), and tried ignoring him. Little fucker couldn’t take a hint, though, and started pestering me about what’s inside my Magic 8 Ball. Here’s how the conversation went:
Little Shit: What’s in your Magic 8 Ball?
Me: Urine.
Little Shit: (Silence, accompanied by the same blank stare his father gives me every time I try to explain something to him. No doubt, this kid has management written all over his shitty little face.)
Me: It’s a big ball of piss.
Little Shit: My daddy\'s the boss of everyone here.
Well, I certainly couldn’t argue with that logic. So I ran upstairs and stomped his daddy’s balls instead.