Feral Children in the 21st Century

This is a reprise of some emails I sent out earlier in the year. I’m posting them for those who may have missed them and to clarify the purpose of counting down to publishing my Trump Card:

Monday May 4, 2009

On my walk to Culver’s ($1.00 Hamburgers Mondays – limit 5) I encountered some children playing on the sidewalk next to the vacant lot where the Hometown ice factory once stood. There were three of them, two boys and a girl. The oldest boy was perhaps nine or ten ( I’m not good at judging ages) The other boy was a head smaller than the first so I assume he was also younger. They both had bicycles and had a little girl afoot who was all of six years old.

As I was drew nearer one of the boys made a remark which I couldn’t hear which set the others to laughing. As I approached I could hear more of what he was saying. He was mocking “the old man” and making cutting remarks about the way that I walk.

Truth be told, my right leg has always been slightly askew and now that I’m older I’ve also got loose hip joints, stretched cartilage, compressed nerves and bone spurs on my vertebrae; in sum: I walk like an old man; and I walk like an old man because it hurts. Apropos of nothing, the last time I went to the VA the doctors asked me to walk down the hall so they could observe my gait.

I’m still a little confused as to what took place next: They were all talking at once both to me and to each other. (Let me preface this by saying that some of the children in the neighborhood know me as Santa even though I long ago shaved off my beard and I‘m usually met with a cheery greeting.) The oldest boy alternated between mocking me to his friends and turning to ask if I was Santa.

I said “Were you just being sassy to me? I keep a list”. Starting with the oldest, a flurry of insulting words poured out of all three. They seemed very confused in that they would take cues from each other to either “be nice’ or lip off. Oddly, I was alternately called “Sir” “Mister” “stupid old man” and a bunch of things unprintable. I asked the oldest, “Where do you live?” He pointed east and said “Over there.” Loosing patience, I said “Go home. Go on. Get going.”

I turned to go on my way. They started calling me names and following. They then picked up some stones and began throwing them at me. When I turned to confront them they continued to hurl insults and stones in my direction. When I turned on my heel they would stop at a safe distance. When I turned away they’d close the gap and continue their attack.

Caught up in the “blood lust” excitement the little girl continued to approach long after the boys though it imprudent to get any closer: she actually pegged me with a rock.

Have you ever in your life seen a six year old girl with a “born killer” expression on her otherwise angelic face? Now, I have.

I reported this incident (from Culver’s) to the police (after a jurisdictional dispute between the West Milwaukee-Milwaukee Police) but the youngish female officer informed me there was little they could do because they couldn’t arrest them as they were all under twelve years of age.

Later, as I was having my usual coffee on the patio at Culver’s, my elder brother pulls up to take advantage of the aforementioned burger bargain. I informed him he’d missed all the excitement and told him I’d been stoned by some little kids. He blithely responded: “They were probably just bored” and went inside to eat.

Perhaps you haven’t been following the news hereabouts but just last week an old man on the North Side lost an eye in a vicious attack by a pack of young children. They were motivated by “boredom”.

So the next time you find yourself being eaten alive by a pack of thirty feral eight-year-olds, don’t blame me. I didn’t vote to send an unwed mother to Congress.

The Twentieth Man
__________________________________________________________________________________

May 10, 2009

This is a follow-up to my email about being stoned by children on the 4th of this month.

I sent the email to my son and he responded to it with this bit of sage advice: just ignore them. Ignoring brickbats aimed at your head is a bit of a tall order but nevertheless I followed his advice when, a couple of days later I walked my usual route past the place of the original incident. The boys involved in the previous incident were absent but the little girl was there. She was riding a bicycle back and forth in front of what I assume is her home. (There are two houses set back from the street between The Ice House Tavern and the railroad tracks near 43rd & Orchard Streets) I know she saw me because she rode past me twice. Her face was contorted and her lips were moving like she was angry and cursing or muttering to herself but I couldn’t make out anything she was saying over the noise of afternoon traffic on 43rd (Miller Park Way). All this I saw from behind my sunglasses as I passed, refusing to acknowledge even her presence. I thought ‘that went rather well’ and hoped that was the end of it and thought nothing further of it. Until today.

Sunday (Ironically, Mother’s Day)

Taking my usual path west on Orchard Street (no apple trees) I crossed the railroad track and passed the hedgerow parallel to it. I could hear children playing behind it and just as I crossed in front of the shrubbery a kid dashed out to the sidewalk, nearly crashing into me. He made a quick u-turn back to the yard, that’s when I noticed the others standing there. I didn’t count how may were present in the front yards as most were back toward the houses but there was a young grown-up, the little girl in question and an even tinier one (about three) standing near the sidewalk as I passed.

Obviously missing a tooth, the bigger girl spotted me and said:

“Hi, old man. Shithead!”

The littler one parroted: “Shithead!” and smiled impishly.

I took a harder look at the grown-up who was standing close enough to hear what they’d said to me. He was maybe all of eighteen and dressed like one of those baggy-pants trolls – you know the kind – I see them so often – they can’t seem to fit into their dad’s clothes. He may or may not have been their father but, saying nothing, he shooed the girls back toward the house.

(Following in this vein, I once observed a young couple walking down the street. They had their arms wrapped around each other and stopped from time to time to kiss. The guy had on a pair of those saggy baggy pants and the girl wore a pair of skintight blue jeans. I thought to myself “Now, if they’d just switch pants, they’d both have better judgment.”)

I categorically deny that I am a shithead. While I’m aware that some are of the opinion that I am, in fact, a shithead, and even if I were to concede to being, from time-to-time, a shithead, I am, at very least, the least shitheadiest shithead on the planet. For example: I’m the only person I know personally that has never owned a television.

I suppose a kinder way of putting it is that we all have shit in our heads but I’m not a complete shithead. The whole of humanity is thus, generally speaking, comprised of shitheads. The whole world (I think you’ll agree) is run by shitheads. I make this assertion with absolute confidence because I have all the necessary proof of it in my possession.

The proof of the world’s shitheadedness that I now possess is so overwhelming that some people might never recover from exposure to it. I am extremely hesitant to reveal this proof of the world’s shitheadedness to the whole world because I know “the truth hurts”, but this particular truth, this proof of the world’s shitheadedness, is so powerful that it may well kill some of those who, in the words of Jack Nicholson (in the film: A Few Good Men) “…can’t handle the truth.”

I’ve chosen a tentative date upon which I shall reveal this unequivocal and indisputable proof of the world’s shitheadedness, that is: ten days before the next U. S. Presidential Election. This will give everyone ten days to recoup themselves enough from the shock of exposure to this astounding proof of the world’s shitheadedness to decide if they want to vote for me as a write-in candidate for President or vote for some other shithead.

I am currently in the process of finding a proper mass communications venue in which to, as broadly as possible, publish to all this absolute proof of the world’s shitheadedness.

As to the children mentioned in this story: As a parent, I know they’re in serious trouble.

So is the rest of the world.

Wayne F. Reske The Twentieth Man
__________________________________________________________________________________

August 6, 2009

This is just a follow up about the little girl that hit me with a rock a while ago…(May 4th).

Yesterday evening as I was on my way home I noticed that there were three Police squads at her house with one more on the way. Good to see they finally cracked down on her.

The Twentieth Man

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About The Twentieth Man

Age 66
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