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Domesticated, Not Demasculinized

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The Wiggles are a Sign of the apocalypse

Posted by doatmon on August 16, 2006

When you’re about to become a parent, people tell you repeatedly about their own experiences with children and with how exciting certain milestones are. They talk about crawling, walking, first words, first time sleeping through the night. But there are also important, life-changing milestones that people NEVER talk about, milestones that parents reach. A few examples: the first time you call YOURSELF mom/dad, the first time you wake up in the morning, turn on the TV and realize the LAST thing you watched was not Sportscenter, not some god awful reality show, nope, it was the Disney Channel, the first time your spouse and child go away for the weekend and you are so excited, sleep in, wake up and promptly realize you have NO idea what you used to do before you were a parent.

All valid examples and ones that non-parents probably really don’t understand the gravity of. I reached another one last night. We took our daughter to a Wiggles concert. For those of you not familiar with the Wiggles, please feel free to look them up here: To give you a quick description though, they are this generation’s Barney. Read: the most unbelievably annoying program that entrances children of all ages and causes parents to contemplate suicide, but ultimately cause them to also fall under the spell and buy-in to this crap.

To me, the Wiggles are a TV show, a TV show that entertains my daughter in the morning while were getting ready. It never occurred to me that there would be concerts. Concerts are for major music stars like Dave Matthews and American Idol fifth place finishers. Not ridiculous TV characters. Heh heh. Stupid dad. So when tickets went on sale for a concert within two weeks of my daughters birthday, it was a foregone conclusion that I would shell out well over $100 for this experience.

My first inkling of the absurdity I was taking part in was when my wife began scouring e-bay and calling in favors from her contacts in the city to get us on the floor. Now understand, we are like five rows back from the floor. But clearly being ON the floor was important enough to collect old debts. As the day approached, it was like boot camp. My wife insisted we watch over and over again until songs like Fruit Salad and Rock-a-bye Bear were not merely songs, but became mantras that somehow found their way into daily life. “So its like they say in Fruit Salad, ‘the first step, peel your bananas’.” Yikes.

The day finally came and we had our plans all set. I left work early, joined my wife and daughter over at the arena and chaos ensued. It seemed EVERY human who has ever had a child in the last six years was in attendance. I am officially changing the phrase, “I was sweating like a pedophile in a Toys R US” to “Sweating like a pedophile at a Wiggles concert.” It was that serious.

Before we even entered the arena, we were bombarded with the hawkers. People selling cotton candy, light up trinkets that someone in Bangladesh made for 5 cents were going for $10, even ticket scalpers. Seriously? Scalpers. People must need those floor seats. Once inside, the scene was vomit-inducing. There were two distinct groups. Wiggle veterans and Wiggle newbies. The veterans were easy to spot. Their children were uniformly decked out like a Wiggle character (Dorothy the Dinosaur, Captain Feathersword…kill me). But what really gave them away were the roses. Apparently in this Cult of the Wiggles, EVERYONE knows that Dorothy the Dinosaur loves roses. So you have to bring one to the concert. Good God.

So those were the veterans. The newbies? They were easy to spot because they were in line. LONG lines. Not for food or beer…nope…for merchandise. And while in those long lines, their eyes reflected abject terror. Terror that the trinket of choice would be sold out. Terror that the t-shirt of choice would be sold out and they would suddenly be selling the apparel to their child as a sleep shirt. Terror that if they DIDN’T buy their child something it was akin to everyone lining up for vaccinations while they stood on a street corner BEGGING for their child to contract Polio.

As I belly laughed at those fools, I turned to my wife to have her join in my public disdain for these lemmings. She was in line. That didn’t take long. At that point, the decision began. What to buy my 2-year-old daughter that really cant distinguish between any of the crap anyway. Hmmm…$8 mylar balloon? $7 6 oz. cup? $15 light-up wiggles car wand? Or my personal favorite, the $15 feather sword, which was clearly a featherduster glued to a stick. After much debate, we settled on the light-up car.

We found our seats and I was aghast at the display. (aghast at everything that is except the never-ending MILF parade…but I digress) Parents and children were running around with toys, hats, t-shirts, holding signs, roses and gifts for the Wiggles. I imagined it similar to a Papal visit. Then it struck me. THIS is why everyone hates the western countries. I cant see Iraqis filling a soccer stadium to watch the Wiggles. It just wouldn’t happen. They’re too busying trying to, well, not die. We’re so busy protecting airlines and sporting events…if I were a terrorist, I would be targeting the Wiggles. This concert is the epitome of Western greed.

I won’t bore you with the details of the actual concert. And my daughter couldn’t give you any details of the concert since she spent the whole thing SCARED and burying her head in my chest. Regardless, the concert was really the secondary entertainment though. It was the parents that were worth the price of admission and not just the MILFs. Educated adults were turned into pre-schoolers. Dancing, singing, positioning their kids just right so that they could wave to Henry the Octopus. If I was that malicious, I could have ruined the professional lives of countless Columbus executives with video blackmail. Finally, at one point, I noticed people begin filing out. I thought they at least had come to their senses. Nope. I quickly realized they were stampeding their children down onto the floor to get their pictures taken with a Wiggle. Oh sweet Jesus.

Thankfully it lasted a little over 1.5 hours and I was home and entered into a poker tournament by 9. All was right with the world. That is, until I began humming “Fruit Salad…yummy, yummy.” I don’t deserve to live.


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