It turned out in the end that the Bauhaus was a terrible place to raise children. First of all, it's more of a loose conglomeration of artistic ideals than it is a freestanding masonry structure or plywood shelter. That's the last time I trust a pink dolphin reading the New York Times. Huh, like the Times knows shit about shit. A mistake I chalk up to chalk and hallucinogenic sweater yarn.

Second of all, which of course is first of the subdivision following the above comment, uhm.... do you smell that? Nevermind. Second of all, them Bauhausers are just wierd goddammned people. I mean, you let loose a monkey in a dress wielding a monkeywrench in to the average person's bathtub and they don't fucking crawl under the sink and hide for three days, humming Wagner under their breath. Society just can't function on that level. You need straight-laced people who know the difference between tinfoil and galvanized tinfoil. Chumps.

So anyway, the third reason is that I never had any kids. I mean, shit, you'd think it wouldn't make much difference where you raise some imaginary kids you don't even have with some hot little dish you saw down at the DQ, but trust me my friends, it matters. See the tinfoil comment above for details. So yeah, if I ever had any kids with a little Latino in hotpants, there's no fucking way I'd raise them at the Bauhaus. That would be right after the frozen foods isle at the Safeway on my list. But that's another story. And you can quote me on that.

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