The following is a chapter from my upcoming book.

What caring adult among us wouldn’t be supportive of any child who has the guts, determination, discipline and work ethic to compete in the Scripps National Spelling Bee?

You can’t see me, but I’m raising my hand.

Everyone knows I don’t like babies and small children; I prefer them old enough to drink and to know what the curse words they’re directing towards me mean. Say about fifteen. Even though I don’t want them annoying me by their very presence, I do think children should be afforded the same respect we’re all supposed to give cranky, doddering old bastards who think they deserve it. Just because you have a faded AARP card stashed in your wallet behind a thirty-year old lucky condom you’re not equipped to use, doesn’t mean you deserve my respect.

Respect should be earned and I’ve always thought all the Scripps contestants had earned mine. I watched the movie Akeelah and the Bee, amazed at what it takes to reach the top of that competition. Hell, as anyone reading this can plainly see, I can’t even spell cat..

The other night, my much-maligned boyfriend and his precious remote control of death once again served me well. He managed to stop on the spelling bee long enough for us to watch the final three contestants. Within minutes it came down to two young men, one an American and one a Canadian. I love our lovely neighbor to the north, but despite rumors to the contrary about liberals, I’m a proud and patriotic American, so I began rooting for the lily-white homeboy.

After a commercial break, the play-by-play commentator mentioned the American had been home-schooled. I winced. The camera panned to the audience, where my choice sat in his mother’s lap. What the fuck? The kid was thirteen-years old. That was all it took to jump ship to his Canadian rival.

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