I hate the kid who lives next door. The one my oldest son plays with most often.

It’s not because the kid is mean to other kids, disrespectful, or destructive, the usual trifecta of bad behavior in children. It’s because he’s stupid. I can’t stand stupid.

The kid is six years old and can’t button his goddamned pants without help. As late as a year ago (when he was five), he had yet to master velcro shoe straps. He has no fucking manners whatsoever; it took a year and a half of constant haranguing before it sank into his thick little skull that he wasn’t allowed to walk into our house and start rummaging through the cupboards looking for something to stuff into his pudgy face. He chews with his mouth open and heedlessly burps, coughs, and sneezes all over his surroundings. Since such behavior is anathema in our household, we dress him down for each one of his uncouth displays, but to little avail.

Normally, one would chalk this sort of behavior up to poor parenting. I think there is a lot to be said in that regard, but there is ample evidence that suggests that Junior is simply several thousand transistors short of an integrated circuit.

Just the other day, for instance, my three-year-old ran into the house screaming bloody murder (he’d fallen and skinned a knee). He jumped into my arms, shrieking his head off. Right behind him through the door was the neighbor kid. I had my arms around my youngest, trying to console him as he wailed his painful lament. Suddenly, above even his strepitous* ululation came the neighbor kid’s toneless voice: “Can I have some ice cream?”

I shot the kid a dirty look and returned to soothing the bloody, scraped knee of my son. As I did so, I heard again, “Can I have some ice cream?” I pointedly ignored him as I cooed over the injured limb.

“Can I have some ice cream?” Ignore the little shit, I said to myself. He’ll get the picture.

“Can I have some ice cream?”

“Can I have some ice cream?” I shot some more daggers at him with my eyes.

“Can I have some ice cream?”

“Can I have some ice cream?” he droned on, oblivious to the bawling.

“Can I have some ice cream?”

“Can I have some ice cream?” Incredibly, the flat, inflectionless query looped on. At this point, I didn’t know whether to be amazed or furious.

“Can I have some ice cream?”

“Can I have some ice cream?” I decided in favor of fury.

“NO!” I finally yelled in frustration, biting the inside of my cheek, lest choice expletives be loosed on his expressionless, uncomprehending face. The neighbor kid stood there gaping at me while my son, now settled down into heaving sobs, started to feel better about his once life-threatening abrasion.

“I can’t have any ice cream?” he whined. Equal parts astounded and apoplectic, I turned to him with murderous intent writ large on my face. “No”, I responded. “You can’t have any ice cream.” “Whaaaat?” said the diminutive idiot, his brow furrowed in confusion. “NO ICE CREAM, now go OUTSIDE!” I shouted. He gave me a final blank, open-mouthed stare, and left. I pelted his back with a string of Spanish curses and epithets, not wanting my own kid to pick up any of the several choice English phrases that yearned to burst from my mouth. I wish I could say this was an isolated incident of its type, but it was only the most recent.

Man, I hate that kid.

* Sorry, I couldn’t resist using the word “strepitous” again. It just fit too well.