Once in a while, I read an on line rant I love. Sometimes, I think, sheeesh, I could not have written it better if I tried. With that in mind, I give you an article about child safety seats, the absolute pain in my fat ass.
I would not think to sugar coat the truth, the following is a honest look at car seats. DISCLAIMER: It is more than R rated for language and content- as it should be.
Written by Big Daddy Drew, as posted here. But since no one really clicks links, I have cut and pasted the content to my blog.
There are many reasons to not have children. They poop. They cry. They cost unfathomable amounts of money. And sometimes, they run up to you and shriek into your ear as loudly as possible, causing your eardrum to nearly rupture, and you want to turn around and punch them right in the fucking face because Lord knows they EARNED it, but you can’t because that would make you a bad person even though you TOTALLY would have been justified. So there’s that.
But above all else, the main reason to never, ever have kids is child car seats. With the notable exceptions of the wedding industry and the Disney corporation, the child car seat industry is the single most evil business enterprise in the universe, an industry that will rob you blind and FUCK YOUR BACK TO DEATH in the process.
You “need” three different car seats for each child you have. Three. When they’re young, they need the baby carrier with the snap-in base. When they outgrow that, they need a toddler seat. And when they outgrow that, they need a booster seat. Current safety guidelines mandate that a child stay in a booster seat until eight to twelve years old. TWELVE FUCKING YEARS OLD! What the fuck? When I was a child, my parents strapped me to the fender and I LIKED IT! No wonder we’ve raised an entire generation that thinks Linkin Park constitutes acceptable music. Recent studies have shown that car seats aren’t really any safer for kids over 2 than a normal-ass seat belt. Granted, that research comes from “Superfreakonomics,” but it totally works with this rant, so fuck it. I’m using it. MY PROOF IS IRONCLAD.
This is how these car seat people screw you into paying top dollar for their cumbersome pieces of plastic dogshit. Sure, you could put your kid in a normal seat belt. IF YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT THEIR SAFETY. I bet you’re full of vodka when you drive them around, aren’t you? BECAUSE YOU’RE COUNTRY LIKE THAT. I guess you don’t care if another car comes and t-bones yours, causing your poor child’s ribcage to shatter and their little tiny skull to be crushed like a melon. SOME PARENT YOU ARE. PONY UP, FUCKFACE.
And no wife in the world will ever let you spring for a cheap car seat. What’s that? You want the $30 Target generic car seat? NOT FOR MY BABY. No, no. We’re gonna get the Britax Marathon Series 7 with diamond-encrusted sippy cup holder and Kevlar belt. IT CAN WITHSTAND FORCES OF UP TO 12 G’S. Fucking $300 down the toilet, right then and there. And if you lack the foresight to space out your fuck trophies enough? You’re buying two, bitch. Or three.
That’s just the expense part. That’s not even the shittiest part of the whole deal. The worst part is installation. When we had our first kid, we had a car that was a 1997. It didn’t come equipped with the now mandatory child car seat latches in all new cars. So you had to install the car seat base by threading the seat belt through the base (horrible), then jumping on top of the base and pushing down on it like a suitcase with a dead body inside. Only the seat belt ALWAYS kept giving you slack, unlike all the other times the seat belt decides to ruin your day by fucking locking in when you don’t want it to. And you have to do all this in the back of your car when it’s 99 degrees out and your body is DYING.
And the worst part is, that first time you install the piece of shit is never the last. Once you install that fancyass toddler seat a year later, you are taking that thing out and putting it back in all the time. Gotta go pick up a Christmas tree? No room for the toddler seat, which is inexplicably the size of a battleship. You gotta take that shit out to put the tree in. Going on vacation? Well, you gotta drag that whole goddamn setup with you. Ever carry a child car seat more than five feet? AGONY. Picture the world’s most cumbersome object, now picture that object with a drugged hippo resting on top. That’s a child car seat. They’re impossible to carry. They’re impossible to place into any sort of bag for checking at the airport. They NEVER stay on top of the Smarte Carte for more than five seconds if you want to try to avoid carrying them. They barely fit in the rental car. I’ve dismissed entire vacation ideas outright simply because I have no interest in dealing with the fucking car seats.
And you should see what these things do to your poor car. They destroy the upholstery. And when you take one out of your car, what you find underneath is the horrifying Santorum left behind by a toddler with repugnant manners: animal cracker bits, moldy raisins, odd patches of unexplainable, permanent moisture. It’s like looking under the couch of a heroin addict. WHAT IS THIS GREEN THING? WAS THIS A BABY CARROT? GAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! The upholstery of the car seat itself also becomes intolerable over time. You have to take it off and wash it, which means undoing all the strap mechanisms and then redoing them once the cover is clean, only you have NO IDEA what slots the straps are supposed to go through, and you sit there for a fucking hour outside your car trying to sort out how to get this piece of shit to work again. Then, five days later, your wife will ask you to readjust the straps because your kid is too big for the old strap placement, and you will curse your wife to infinity because she’s just sitting there on her CANDY ASS while you do all the backbreaking labor.
These fucking car seat people. They’ve made their ungainly plastic brat thrones mandatory in the American parenting landscape, and there’s nothing I can do about it, except to say FUCK YOU. I HATE YOU, GRACO AND CHICCO AND BRITAX AND MCCLAREN AND ALL OF YOU FUCKERS. AND I HATE YOUR SEATS. ONE NIGHT I’M GONNA BREAK INTO A BUY BUY BABY AND TAKE A SHIT IN EACH SEAT. DIE DIE DIE. FUCK.
See.... I told you. Totally worth re-posting, right.
Fuck trophies. Yeah, I got four, each with their own matching Britax Marathons. I am so in love with Big Daddy Drew.
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