I try to keep an open mind. I'm always trying new experiences. I'll play with anything I can find in whatever cabinets I can open. I'll stick just about any object in my mouth. But despite my parents' insistence that I should enjoy it, I find bathtime a rather miserable affair.
What's the least fun liquid to drink? That's right: water, the tasteless entity that has no reason to exist when there are such things as fruit juice. And instead of drinking this water, I am placed into it. It's bizarre.
And my parents act like this is fun time, but if I actually try to have fun by doing things such as splashing the water at them, I get discouraged. Because this is not fun time. That's a lie. They're not giving me a bath for me. They're giving me a bath for them.
"Oh, you're dirty," they say - like this is something I care about. I like being caked in dirt and dried ketchup. That's when I'm at my most comfortable. But my parents are slaves to soulless aesthetics. It's how I look on the surface that's important to them, so into the bath I go. And then there's the greatest indignity - water dumped over my head. And afterward, my parents seem so pleased with their work when they could have just let me be in my filth and happiness.
I rate bathtime one star, though I wish I knew of some concept lower than one to rate it.
Citing concerns about stiff competition from Amazon and an impossible-to-please Gen Z, Santa has announced he's hanging up the hat for good.
