I had heard the child from the moment I entered the Meglo-Mart Super Grocery — a shrill, repetitive scream that clearly was not coming from any injury or perceived danger but rather from those dark recesses of pure determination to secure the crown of  biggest pre-school cunt ever — and it continued the entire 20 minutes it took me to pick up REAPER – SEASON 2, Pantene Ice Shine shampoo and conditioner, a bag of cat litter, Tristan’s favorite snack crackers (Basil and Parmesan Triscuits, if you must know), and a box of condoms.

As I made my way to the only open check-out (of course!), the shrieking grew in both volume and intensity, until I found myself face to face with the offensive little bitch responsible for the assault on my auditory canals.

Stringy haired, red faced from her theatrics, and clad in a Dora the Explorer tank top and short set, the crib lizard stood in the cart, her tiny hands clenching the edge of the right side in a death grip as she bounced up and down, keeping rhythm with the crazy in her tiny head.

And throughout the fucking miniature banshee’s endless wailing, her mother just threw the contents of the cart (that the tiny terror wasn’t stomping the shit out of that is) on the conveyor belt, a look of total disconnect on her bland face.

Finally I’d had enough.

“Hey!” I said to the shrieking child. “Enough is enough! Shut up that damn screaming.”

The child turned and looked at me, suddenly silent. She tilted her head, surveying me for a moment before she launched into a rousing chorus of “I hate you! You’re stupid!” followed by another series of ear piercing wails.

That’s when the mother finally acknowledged her Satanic spawn.

“Melissa,” she said in the flat, dead tone of someone who’s seen the rest of her life and realizes there’s no point in even trying any more. “Do you have to be such a twat?”