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Today, drag your daughter to Wilfrid Laurier University, the post-secondary education of her choice. She needs to go to important seminars and tour the campus and see what great academic adventures await her in the fall! You are confident that this school will make a woman of her, will turn her into the fine accounting executive or CEO or Important Rich Girl that you've always dreamed of. She'll finally reach her true potential after years of dicking around.

"Look at all the trees and parking lots and balloons! Isn't this cool? Check out these friendly volunteers and their informative poster-boards!" They smile, therefore they are. "You could volunteer, you know. This could be you." This will be you.

Your little girl is dressed scantily, just like all the other little girls. She's got a blue skirt and a white halter top and a deep tan that goes far beneath the skin. She strides four feet in front of you, calm and aloof and scandalized by your presence. She's like a dog on a leash, straining to run free without breaking a sweat. All around you, other parents are walking their kids too.

Guide your daughter into a seminar about Human Resources, where the girl running the presentation throws up in her mouth and bravely swallows before continuing her narrative on sexual harassment. Nobody notices but you. Tragic, these stomach viruses. And yet she bravely shoulders on! This girl could teach your kid about tenacity.

Later, buy a hot dog and a hamburger from the nice Shinerama people in the hot, hot sun. It's for charity! Some AIDS thing, you think. You don't know it, but they fully intend on fleecing your daughter for every penny you give her.

Take a tour of the Little House residence. You quickly find out that it's an all-male residence and nudge your little girl: "Guess you won't really be seeing this place again, eh?" She rolls her eyes. You walk down the hallway and pass by an open room: two scruffy kids are laughing in front of computers. You peek in and are relieved to see that the beds are small - far, far too small to fit your daughter + some rapist boy.

It's time to go. As you head back to the parking lot, listen carefully as the Little House doors close and you'll hear one of the scruffy kids laughing: "She might not live in Little House, but she'll sure be sleeping there a lot!" The crows scream farewell from the treetops.

Go home and pour yourself a scotch. Maybe two.

Posted by Chris at 02:44 PM >> Commentations (1)