Caillou. Bald little fucker.
He’s become a bit of a shorthand for parents. We all hate him. In a world of breast vs. bottle, cloth vs. Pampers, organic vs. who-gives-a-shit, he’s the one thing we can agree on, waging us all in a battle against only our children, who for reasons beyond our scope, LOVE this little monster.
But it occurs to me that the non-breeders don’t know about our loathing. I hate when parents pull the “you just don’t understand” on people without kids but in this case, trust me, YOU JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND. And I envy it. And I miss it. I miss a world where I didn’t know Caillou, where life was beautiful, the halcyon days before that voice, THAT FUCKING VOICE.
And like a dead body in the last scene of a horror movie, I’m pulling you down here with me. EAT IT.
This is Caillou. He’s a real asshole.
He’s a whiny dick to his little sister and his mom.
He throws tantrums with a voice that pierces through to your very soul.
That. Fucking. Theme song. Also, WHO THE FUCK ARE THOSE PUPPETS AT THE END?
Then there’s the fact that my child won’t take a bath without acting out this entire goddamn monstrosity.
Caillou is the literal actual worst, so much so that there needs to exist a rumor that he’s a child dying of cancer just so anyone can feel some manner of empathy toward him. AND IT DOESN’T WORK.
Canada, this is the worst thing you’ve ever done. Ever.