IJ

I need to make one thing perfectly clear: I am an equal-opportunity judge of character. I do not care about your race, religion, gender, or tax bracket. I find you all equally exhausting and distribute my annoyances completely equally across all demographics, other than short people. In fact, they got little hands, little eyes, they walk around tellin' great big lies. In addition, they got little noses, tiny little teeth and wear platform shoes on their nasty little feet. Let's just get this over with and say it, they have no reason to live.

Her Majesty and I are off to Ireland for 9 days. I’m driving, which means for the next week, my primary job is apologizing to sheep and trying not to drift into oncoming traffic. What could possibly go wrong?

We have good friends, perfectly decent human beings, who just happened to be the unwitting hosts for a particularly... spirited child named Joey. Now, most kids are a bit much, but Joey, he was special. He possessed a unique talent for making his mere breathing a personal affront. The sight, the smell, the general aura of his existence? Pure, unadulterated nerve-grating. My disdain for him was almost artistic.

Rewind twenty years. This pint-sized anarchist insisted on wearing shorts so snug they restricted vital organs, then proceeded to sprint everywhere like a hyperactive hummingbird, emitting ear-splitting, blood-curdling screams for reasons known only to himself and possibly some malevolent ancient deity.

One memorable visit to our house, he stormed in like a tiny, sugar-fueled Viking. He immediately initiated a violent, unprovoked pillow assault on our unsuspecting dog (who, frankly, deserved better), all while simultaneously bellowing demands for immediate access to anything containing sucrose. It was less a visit, more a home invasion.

The experience was so harrowing that I once willingly subjected myself to three extra hours of airport security lines and overpriced coffee, just to be anywhere but near him. Business travelers, you understand the sheer desperation involved in that decision. Our social calendar developed a mysterious blank spot for any event where 'the chaos' might be present. Apparently, he's a 'fine man' now. Good for him. As for me, I'm confident I shall never lay eyes on him again. Not just for this life, but for all eternity. My personal ban on Joey is universal and unwavering."

Yesterday, I was reminded of a fresh hell: IJ, or Indian Joey. Our neighbors are perfectly charming, genuinely lovely people. Which makes their complete abdication of all parental authority over this particular child even more baffling. They don't just 'not give him boundaries,' they seem to actively encourage his unhinged self-expression. I haven't performed an official weigh-in, but I'm confident that at nine years old, he's a feather-light 40-something pounds, standing a mighty four feet tall. Yet, they've gifted him a regulation, cemented-in-the-ground basketball hoop. And every afternoon, without fail, he launches into his daily ritual.

He stands there, a tiny, furious ball of ambition, and hurls that basketball. Not shoots, hurls. Every muscle in his underdeveloped body strains, as he attempts to get the ball within geographical proximity of the rim. It's usually a resounding crash off the backboard, but sometimes, a truly deafening CLANG as it hits the rim on its upward trajectory. It’s a guaranteed evening noise pollution event.

But the real genius of IJ emerged during a playdate. I overheard him addressing his friend: 'You are a maggot, and I am a player!' This gem was immediately followed by him declaring, 'You can't guard me!' while performing a dribble that was more a controlled chase of the ball three feet ahead of him. And because actual basketball prowess was non-existent, the rules were, let's say, flexible. I'd hear the other child's plaintive cry, 'Hey, that's against the rules!' and IJ's immediate, imperious retort: 'These are the new rules!' My heart genuinely went out to that kid. He clearly had no other options than to endure the absolute despotism of Indian Napoleon."

Yesterday, the saga continued. Picture this: IJ, now a pint-sized Pele, is kicking a soccer ball around. And for reasons that defy all logic and basic spatial awareness, his impromptu training ground was my back yard. Kick, retrieve, repeat, all within the sacred boundaries of my property. My office window, a front-row seat to this absurdity, was the perfect vantage point. He even had his 'friend' on speakerphone – and the stuff he was yelling, folks, you had to be there. It sounded less like soccer strategy and more like a miniature drill sergeant dissecting a war crime.

Now, I know for a fact that IJ is terrified of dogs. So, naturally, I unleashed my secret weapon. I let my dog into the backyard, and she immediately commenced with a furious barking barrage aimed squarely at the little tyrant. Normally, I'd call my pooch back, a responsible pet owner and all. But this time? Oh no. I turned my back, closed my eyes, and offered a silent prayer to every deity known to man, begging for her to not just attack, but to mentally scar him for life. Alas, my noble protector merely delivered a silent but equally impactful blow to his pristine lawn (she pooped, of course), and trotted back inside. And no, I have yet to pick it up.

Then, glorious salvation! He did it. His ball, a missile of pure, unadulterated nuisance, arced majestically... and landed squarely in my wife's prize-winning hydrangeas. My heart soared like an eagle! I flung open my window, threw my hands up in a gesture of triumphant exasperation, and fixed him with a death stare so potent it could curdle milk. There we were, locked in an ancient, primal battle of wills. His wide, terrified eyes met my unblinking, victorious gaze. There was no way I was looking away first. The whole time, my internal monologue was a single, resonant declaration: 'I own you.'

I haven't seen or heard a peep from him since. The silence is deafening, beautiful. And believe me, I am ready. If either of his lovely parents dare utter a single word of complaint, they would be wise to merely avert their gaze from mine. In fact, if they had any sense at all, they would immediately put their house on the market and consider a rapid relocation program to a different hemisphere. My victory is complete."