Just so we're crystal-fucking-clear, I don't like kids. Not mine, not the Hive's, not the fucking secretary's. Nobody's.

So, with that firmly in your mind, you know, of course, what my favorite fucking time of the year is. Nope, I actually do like the company's annual Christmas party. That's when I get to dress up like Santa Claus, slip a couple bottles of Goblin Ale to the bartender, and cop feels on the hot secretaries in the name of old St. Nick. That night is mercifully child-free. No, the devil spawn lie in wait till a Saturday in September that I like to call Judgment Day. Also known as the fucking company picnic.

Now, by the time September rolls around, I've already got a good idea of whose kids are coming. All year, I've seen these assholes with their cute little pictures lining their cubicles, of little Johnny with the family dog or little Suzie in her diaper with a face-full of cake. All year, I've done my best to ignore the proud momma or papa, boasting about some formless pink lump in a reeking diaper like it's the next child Einstein. But all year, it's been in the back of my mind. I gotta show up to this fucking picnic. No choice. So, on this lovely, clear, calm September day, in a park so beautiful and clean even Garou dung would sparkle, I get to spend the day entertaining the whining brats. Yeah. Because it's never the people that like kids that are popular with the little maggots. It's always the one person that tells them to get lost. And God forbid I say anything. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned? No, folks. Hell hath no fury like a parent whose kid's been scorned. The woman will yell and call me a prick. The parents are out for blood.

So, you know what my mood was on that nice, warm September day. Birds chirping. There was that fresh-cut grass smell everywhere. Wind blowing through the trees and over the lake. Waves lapping gently at the shore. This park looked like something off a magazine cover. Actually, I think it might have been on a couple magazine covers. And as I'm walking across the grass, I'm hoping the local tree-huggers, the clawed-and-fanged and the nutjob varieties, don't have a fucking Wyrm-detector on this park or something. You know? That would just make my fucking day. I could just imagine it. You! Satan spawn! Come out of the park with your cellphone above your head! Not sure whether I'd prefer a pack of angry hippies or what was actually waiting on me.

I was there. The grill, the only child-free safe haven in this nightmare, was in sight. I could practically feel that blessed heat. Because, you know, the moms that hang out around the grill? They're the ones that send little Suzie and Johnny to go tease the dog or put tape on the cat's feet or do anything but stand underfoot. I love the grill moms. But, guess who was waiting to ambush me before I could reach my safe haven. "Hey! Kevin! You made it! Let me introduce my wife, Patricia, and our daughter, Stephanie. Stephanie, say hi, sweetie." Yeah. You guessed it. Mr. Friendly, the new hire. The guy too new to realize I hate these things. The guy so shiny new, the office gossip hasn't had time to sink through the new-hire propaganda. The guy too stupid to remember the other twenty times I've had to correct him when he calls me "Kevin".

Hey, what the heck, I was feeling charitable. Buzz from the pre-breakfast fuck hadn't quite worn off, yet. "Right. Steve. It's Director Hawking. Might want to make a memo of that. If you'll excuse me, I see the grill is already set up for me." I made to brush past Steve while he was still doing that slow, confused blink, trying to figure out whether I was insulting him somehow. 

Of course, he didn't let me. Dumb fuck smiled that bright, helpful smile that meant I was gonna hate what was about to come out of his cherubic, rosy-cheeked baby face. "Oh, don't worry about it. Ryan's already called the grill. Hey, you're going to be busy today, anyway, right? What, with the games and all..."

Correction. That just killed my buzz and what was left of my good mood. "Excuse me? Ryan My-Wife-Owns-My-Soul Adams? The guy who can't take a shit without asking his wife's permission? That Ryan? Who thought this was a good idea and why wasn't I informed? And what are you talking about, games?"

"Ooo, you said shit! Daddy, Kevin's got a potty mouth." Leave it to the kid to make it a big deal. She couldn't pay attention for two seconds while her father introduced her, but her goldfish-sized attention span miraculously picks up on the one curse I just couldn't hold back. Just great.

The look on my face must have been enough. Steve-o had the good-fucking-idea not to let me talk. Probably his first smart move all day. "Pat, honey, why don't you take Stephanie to get a popsicle. I put a few in our cooler." As soon as the little snot-nosed angel was out of earshot, he says, "Kevin, I really think..."

"Uh uh. The grill and the games. What the fuck?" I grabbed for my pack of cigarettes like it was a lifeline. A carcinogenic lifeline. One that earned me more than a few glares from the tree-hugging parents. Another reason I hate these things. Who cares that the smog is going to do you in long before the second-hand smoke will, Al Gore says that cigarettes are bad for you, so it must be true! Give me a fucking break.

"Well, the employees thought it would be fun for the kids if we organized a few games, maybe had management give out the prizes, and you're the only manager here, so we kinda hoped you'd do it. And Kevin, about Stephanie..."

"Look, Steve, couple things your co-workers have neglected to inform you of. One: I. Don't. Like. Kids. Little Mike Hancock over there smearing ice cream all over everything his little pudgy fingers can reach? That's not cute. That's a health and safety disaster, but luckily the grill moms are there to keep him out of the food. Your little angel, Stephanie? Just put a nice healthy dose of snot in the plate of chicken. No one wants to eat that shit, it's disgusting. I put up with the brats from a distance, once a year. Two: This little plan wasn't approved by management, or else I'd have gotten a memo and my secretary would have been extra sure to laugh at me yesterday. You want these games? Get Ryan Adams and his Medusa out from in front of my grill and have him give out your stupid prizes. That's why I pay him to be my assistant."  As he was walking away, I added, "Oh, and Steve? Call me Kevin one more time and I'll make sure there's no reason for you to call me boss."

Did I mention, I really hate kids? Really. I do.