December 7, 2005

• Not too long ago my art class was assigned to do a project that would take us the entire school year to complete.  We had to make a real children’s book, approximately thirty-two pages long, complete with original words, drawings, and ideas.  “Think back to when you were a child,” one of our teachers said, “What would you want to read about?  What would have entertained you when you were only four to eight years old?” 

  
  

   

  
  

  I remember enjoying the Bernstein Bears.  I recall chuckling at the daring mouse that gave the moose his muffin.  And it seems as if it were only yesterday that I was lying on my bed, talking about green eggs and ham, giggling at those stupid Who’s down in Whoville, wishing I was friends with the Cat in the Hat.  If there was any specific thing I liked about children’s books, it wasn’t the life lessons that were enforced throughout their random plots.  It had nothing to do with whether the text rhymed or not, on whether the author was regarded as a poetic genius, whether the pictures were compositionally acceptable.  What entertained me when I was four to eight years old?  Lies.  A bunch of brain rotting, life-ruining LIES.

  
  

   

  
  

  I mean, imagination’s great and everything.  But once you find that your thirteen year old is relentlessly accusing every green-haired punk in her school of deliberately stealing Christmas, then you know it’s time to burn those beloved Dr. Seuss’s and get your kid a social life. 

  
  

   

  
  

  So screw fantasy, imagination, creativity and whatnot.  Trash the magic, the silliness, the lies.  My book eats books like those for breakfast just for the sake of shitting them out and physically transforming them into the sparkly sugar-coated turds that they are.  My book cuts the crap, contains nothing more or less than the truth.  And that’s what every four to eight year old really wants.  A wholesome, happy, truthful childhood. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Enjoy.

  
  

   

  
  

  Possibly the Worst Children’s Book Ever Written

  
  

  (For ages 4-8)

  
  

  By Daryl S.

  
  

   

  
  

  Page 1:  Hello, Child. My name is Daryl and I am here to tell you all about the things your mother refuses to share with you.  This book does not contain any nursery rhymes and fairy tales, but answers, advice, and truths. If you don’t like that, shut this book right now and continue shoving all that green eggs and ham crap up your puny little ass.  Nobody loves you.

  
  

   

  
  

  Page 2:  So I see you’ve made the wiser decision of continuing your reading of this book.  Excellent.  Now, what I want you to do is think about all the things that make you happy.  Close your eyes and ponder it for a moment and then select one particular joyous thing.  Make sure it remains vivid in your mind, almost to the point where you feel you could even touch it; interact with it in any way.

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

  Want to hear something interesting? A recent poll has stated that 75% of all children imagine no one other than their dear friend Santa Claus.  That pleasantly plump old man who, on every December 25^th, happily plops down every child’s chimney and rewards them with sack-fulls of desired presents.  Practically the heart and soul of Christmas.  One of the main reasons to look forward to the holidays.  Now open yours eyes:

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

  SANTA CLAUS IS A FAKE!! GO!! TELL ALL OF YOUR FRIENDS!!

  
  

   

  
  

  Page 3:  Your mother always told you that when she and your father were ready to have a baby of their own, they simply called the stork and asked to drop one off by their doorstep.  Your mother lied to you.  There is no stork.  There never was a stork.  Who comes up with that crap?  Jesus.  You want to know how you were born?  You really honestly want to know? Let me just tell you.  Your parents had sex.  They had UNPROTECTED SEX.  In the same exact bed you cuddle in with them whenever you have nightmares.  And what’s more, they’re probably still at it.  The second you leave that room BOOM.  NAKED PARENTS ON TOP OF EACH OTHER.  Possibly making your future baby brother, for all you know.  They do it while you’re in school.  They do it when you’re at a friend’s house.  They do it while you’re sleeping.  My suggestion?  Run away.  Run away and never return.

  
  

   

  
  

  Page 4:  According to a recent study, people who eat their boogers are considered far more comfortable with their bodies than the average person.  So go ahead.  Pick your nose. Eat it. You’ll be the most popular kid in school.

  
  

   

  
  

  Page 5:  You see them everywhere.  On the streets, at your very own school.  But, of course, you wouldn’t dare speak to them.  Nuh uh.  Why?  Because they’re strangers, that’s why.  You’ve been taught since the day you could speak English that strangers were a Don’t if you wanted to survive in this harsh society.  “Get in the car!” they shout, “Hey kid!  I’m friends with your mom!”  “Hey, Kiddo!  I won’t hurt you!  Promise!”  You can always tell when a stranger is truly a stranger. Right?  Wrong.  There’s only one way of truly recognizing a genuine stranger.  Simply ask the person one question, that’s all.  Just one.  “What’s in it for me?”  Be unmerciful.  Only stand for one specific answer, nothing more, nothing less.  Hold your ground.  Be strong.

  
  

   

  
  

  “Candy,” he says.

  
  

   

  
  

  Proceed to enter the vehicle.

  
  

   

  
  

  Page 6:  ‘Bitch’ isn’t a profane word.  It only means ‘female dog’.  Grown ups think it’s a funny word.  Your mom would really appreciate it if you replaced ‘mom’ with ‘bitch’ in casual conversation.

  
  

  i.e: “My bitch needs to pick me up from Chuckie Cheese.”

  
  

        “Bitch, I want more ice cream.”

  
  

        “Happy Bitch Day, bitch.”

  
  

   

  
  

  Page 7:  Ignore page three.  You were adopted.

  
  

   

  
  

  Page 8:  Don’t worry.  The monster under your bed won’t eat you.  He’s basically completely harmless.  In fact, he prefers to sing lullabies to children rather than mangle their tiny little bodies.  Just enjoy his presence, that’s what I say.  Introduce yourself, have a conversation.  Anyone will tell you he’s kid friendly.  He is rather creepy looking, but judging books by their covers is no way to go through life, anyway. 

  
  

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

  Also, his name is Michael Jackson.

  
  

   

  
  

   Page 9: While waiting in line for a public event, attempt to lick your elbow.  If you succeed, you will acquire eternal enlightenment and get into an excellent college. 

  
  

   

  
  

  Page 10:  Contrary to popular belief, losing a tooth is hardly a big deal.  I mean, congratulations!  A tiny bone just popped out of your mouth and now you’ll be able to walk around with a giant space in your smile and a tendency to speak with theriouthy ridculouth lithp for three thpethial monthth!  And what’s more, you get money.  Lots and lots of money.  When I was a kid, I used to tell my mom I lost a tooth, then tell my dad, then tell each individual grandparent, then announce it to the entire extended family during Thanksgiving, and then for some barely explainable reason I’d end up with at least $150 big ones under my pillow the next morning.  The more relatives I told, the more money I recieved.  It’s no coincidence, either.  Because you don’t get your money from the tooth fairy.  There is no tooth fairy.  You never, ever, not even once, got your money from this "tooth fairy".  You get it from imposters like this guy:

  
  

   

  
  

  

  
  

   

  
  

  “Hug me."

  
  

   

  
  

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  
  

   

  
  

  Because I am only sixteen years old, I have run out of wise lessons and truths to reveal to you young bundles of joy.  Just take my advice, embrace my words, learn from them, live from them. Just don’t show this book to your parents.  Ever.  Or else you will experience puberty four years too early.  Trust me on this one.

  
  

   

  
  

  Merry Christmas.

  • 10:11 pm
  • 18 Comments