Cute kid. It matches your couch.
You don't know me, but your kid was kicking my airplane seat. And my restaurant seat. And your entire family blocked my path by holding hands three abreast and strolling aimlessly up the aisle while I patiently waited for you to find a purpose. Any purpose would have sufficed, really. This was shortly before your kid stood on his booth seat, turned around, put his mouth to my ear, and rather shrilly narrated what I was having for dinner—but well after I was stuck behind a school bus on Metamuville Road all morning. Don't kids do bus stops anymore? Can't they be bothered to walk 10 feet to the next driveway with a kid? Why, this sort of thoughtlessness makes me want to stop paying for your kid's upbringing altogether.
But I won't, and not just because I can't. I will still pay. I will still wait endlessly behind your dragging, weaving asses. My meals will still be ruined, and I'll chalk it all up to "kids will be kids." But you, you don't get off so lightly. I want more from you. I want you to politely acknowledge the unremitting imposition you have, quite against my will, brought into my life. A nod or "sorry" would do. Better yet, ask your little vanity project to use his indoor voice.
Shocking though it may be, "parent" is also a verb.
Love,
john