Velociworld

Ministering to the Children

Just when you think you've heard it all: I ofttimes keep the local real estate TV channel on in the background, the ubiquitous white noise, because it is interesting to see what is going on vis-a-vis one's investment, and both The Bride and I have licenses (although mine is of the unused, musty variety). But what the fuck:

I just watched an ad that called the upstairs playroom, what I would call the unnecessary space doting parents add on to accommodate their overwheening little whelps, the Children's Ministry!

I suppose that means where yupfucks minister to their childrens' needs. I call bullshit.

We had a childrens' ministry in my house growing up, too. That was your bedroom, where Dad ministered to you with a tiger tooth belt, and beat some damned appreciation into your sorry ass. If you needed a greater appreciation of "playspace" there was a most unusual territory called outside. If one was smart he took his special needs outside, lest his fucking ass get ministered to inside.

That model worked for me, although the underlying rage in some of my posts may lend the lie to the fact I needed a Childrens' Ministry, after all.