10 Things I Hate About SkyZone

Skyzone Logo With R

I work in an industrial type area. There’s not a single restaurant within a half a mile, which really sucks for coworkers without cars. Nestled in this industrial area is my company and a Sky Zone Indoor Trampoline Park. I hate Sky Zone and here’s why.


On regular days, the place is a ghost town. There are maybe a half-dozen cars out front. But, every time there’s a holiday, it’s a goddamn zoo. The area becomes lousy with children. This week is spring break for schools, which means all friggin’ week, Sky Zone has been a pooping children onto the street.

All this does is remind me that I don’t have a day off, let alone a whole week.


Children scream a lot. Can someone explain why that is? I can’t. Children scream when they’re happy, scared, excited, bored, hurt, etc. Having a Sky Zone within ear shot means that all day long, I get to hear the dulcet tones of screaming children.

Leaf blowers

My company is just across a narrow parking lot from Sky Zone. When there’s no one there, which there usually isn’t, we’re allowed to park on their side of the parking lot.

When I took my car to the dealership a few weeks ago, they washed it for me. I am so entirely unused to having a clean car that, when I do, I like to keep it that way as long as possible.

Two days after it was washed, those assholes at Sky Zone used leaf blowers on the sidewalk. Instead of blowing the dirt to the side, they blew it right at the cars parked there. Being a rather warm day, I left my windows and sunroof cracked. When I came out to my car, not only was there dirt all over the outside, but there was a fine layer of dirt covering the inside as well. Assholes.

Private parking

And, speaking of parking, my company doesn’t have enough. When Sky Zone is busy, not only do their guest take up all the parking on their side of the parking lot, but they take our parking as well.

We have a big sign that says parking for our building only, but these people either can’t read or don’t care. Whenever I come back from lunch on a holiday, it’s pretty much guaranteed that my company-owned parking spot will be filled with a minivan.

One day, a minivan was actually waiting for me to get in my car. I pointed at the no parking sign and she moved along. When I came back from lunch, the same stupid minivan was parked in my spot anyway, because walking is hard and fuck rules.

Willy-nilly parking

Being an industrial area, there are a lot of shipping bays around. The Sky Zone patrons who can’t find a regular parking spot will park anywhere. In shipping bays, private parking spots, sidewalks, sideways… wherever and however.

Sometimes, you can’t even drive through the gauntlet to to the exit since these jackasses will park any old way.

Let’s just stop for no reason

On foot or in their cars, these people just stop. They’ll be crossing the street and just stop moving like their batteries ran out. They’ll be at the head of a line of cars and stop. Why? I don’t know, but they do it all the time.

The other day, at 5 pm when us regular work-a-day schlubs were trying to leave for the day, there was an asshole minivan blocking the exit while its driver conversed with someone on foot like they were having high tea at The Russian Tea Room instead of blocking the only exit. She was totally oblivious to the line of honking horns behind her. GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY, BREEDER. Chat on your own time.

Feral children

You have to be insanely careful driving around the parking lot since children will just run right out in front of you. One of my coworkers nearly hit a child a couple of months ago. Fortunately, she was driving very slowly, but the mother blamed my coworker for nearly flattening her offspring rather than herself for letting it run into traffic like a goddamn wild deer.

Entitled parents

My child wants to go to Sky Zone, so fuck you for having to work around here. I don’t care if this is your parking spot. I don’t care that you’re just trying to get out of the parking lot to go home at 5 pm. My child is special. Nothing is more important than my child, especially not you and your no parking signs. Pshaw.

That seems to be the attitude that a lot of these shitbag parents have.


Trampolines. Really? My sister and I had a trampoline and it was fun for about a day until we realized that, surprisingly, jumping up and down for hours on end isn’t actually the most exciting thing in the world after all. Maybe we just weren’t screaming enough.

Sky Zone’s whole business model is based solely on screaming children jumping up and down. That’s it. That’s all they do there.

I really don’t like children

The older I get, the more I dislike them. They’re snotty, sniveling, oblivious, screaming meatbags. Their idea of fun is screaming while jumping up and down. That’s not my idea of fun.

I also really hate Sky Zone and spring break. Fortunately, those little meatbags will be back in school come Monday.

Babies vs. Animals


One of my coworkers has no soul. I am convinced she is a robot because she truly doesn’t understand the human connection with animals.

Another coworker had to put her eighteen year old dog to sleep. She took the day off for the procedure and the next day, too. The next two days were the weekend, and when she came back in on Monday, she was still a teary-eyed blubbery mess. Her heartache made me want to cry, too. I had to put my seventeen year old cat to sleep a few years before, so I totally understood.

When I went out to the parking lot at lunch, I found her leaning against her car sobbing. As she opened her car door, she noticed the seat cover on the back seat that was all of a sudden purposeless since she no longer had a dog. Just noticing it was enough to send her into another round of grieving.

During her absence, the soulless robot coworker asked where the grieving coworker was. When she was told the situation, she actually said aloud, “She took the day off for that?” We looked at her aghast, and instead of shutting her stupid mouth, some part of her robot programming decided to continue, “I’ll never understand why people grieve for animals. I mean, if it were a person, I could see taking time off, but a dog? They’re just animals.

I wanted to punch her in the face. The only things that saved her from facepunch were that a) she didn’t say those words to the woman who just lost her dog and b) she truly did not understand. Obviously, she’s never had a pet. People who’ve never had pets couldn’t possibly understand.

That same sentiment has been said to me in regards to babies. “Once you have your own kids, you’ll understand,” as if it’s required that all humans procreate and that I couldn’t possibly understand that kind of love without popping a baby out of my privates. I find that sentiment presumptive and a little insulting to be perfectly honest.

Humans with babies get all sorts of advantages that non-baby-having-humans don’t get. Baby-humans get to take time off of work at a moment’s notice. Baby-humans get tax breaks and discounted health insurance. Baby-humans get to take their impossibly ill-behaved babies to restaurants where they cry, poop themselves and throw things, while I don’t get to take my well-behaved dog.

I’m alright with that I suppose. I appreciate the fact that there is a big difference between human babies and animals. I don’t call my dog and cat “my children.” I don’t buy them clothes or strollers or have a college fund for them. They are not my flesh and blood. I would never equate babies and animals as the same. That said, I prefer animals over babies.

Someone needs to reproduce, but it won’t be me. Besides the fact that I just generally don’t like children, there are many reasons I won’t have babies. First, I’m nowhere near a level of financial stability that I would deem necessary to have kids. Children are expensive, even more expensive than animals. Second, I’m not in a committed relationship. Not that I feel it’s necessary to be married to have kids, but if I were to have children, I would want a partner. I don’t want to be a single mom. Third, I have some genetic concerns that I would be afraid to pass along to another generation, like Major Depressive Disorder, susceptibility to cancer and addiction issues. Last and most importantly, I do not have a snowy white past. I was abused as a child and abused children are far more likely to become abusers themselves. I would rather not have children at all than risk turning into an abuser.

So, when people say, “you won’t understand until you have kids of your own,” I find it presumptive and a little offensive. I don’t want children. My biological clock just never started ticking. I really don’t like babies. I don’t gush over them; I’m typically repelled by them. When people show me baby pictures, it takes all of my will not to grimace. Once they start walking, talking and not pooping their pants constantly, they’re not nearly as bad. You can kind of see that there’s a little human there.

That said, don’t demean my animals because I will key your car. If you’re going to tell someone without babies that they don’t understand because they don’t have their own spawn, please, use less concrete terms, e.g. you can’t (not won’t) understand unless (not until) you have kids of your own. I am aware that I can’t fully understand the relationship between mother and child, and until I win the lottery without ever buying a ticket, I probably never will.

I’m not using my pets as a substitute for babies. They just are my babies. My life seems to revolve around my pets and I’m alright with that.



I haven’t talked much about children, because I don’t have any and I’m not fond of them in general. They poop in their pants and cry a lot. They can’t even speak in full sentences. Whenever I’m out in public, for whatever reason, they always stare at me. Always. It’s a little creepy.

I am nearing the age where I need to decide once and for all whether there will be any pitter-pattery feet, and I’m very much leaning towards hell fucking no.

I always said I would consider having children if I could afford the team of fifteen nannies they would need. That is obviously hyperbole, but it does have a nugget of truth to it.

I am not financially stable. I live from paycheck to paycheck and there’s no extra money for diapers. I have no savings. I have no health insurance. I have nothing of value. Lots of people manage to have children with even less than I have, but I am not one of those people. If I were to have kids, I would want them to have a stable home and not worry about having food on the table. I am not there, and honestly, I’m not sure I ever will be.

But, that’s really just a convenient excuse. If I really wanted children, I would find a way to make it work, so I guess I don’t really want children.

Male and I have talked about what kind of kids we’d have. They’d be tall, pale, smart, funny, have absolutely gorgeous eyes, and suffer from major depressive disorder, substance abuse issues, borderline personality or avoidant personality disorder, body or anxiety disorders. And, for shits and giggles, they might have color blindness, photophobia, migraines, diverticulitis or bad backs. We are not great genetic stock.

But, that’s really just a convenient excuse. If I really wanted children, I would find a way to make it work, so I guess I don’t really want children.

The real reason why neither Male nor I want kids is we’re afraid. Male comes from a broken home in two different states with a revolving door of stepmothers. “This year’s model” is the joke about his father’s house. Nobody ever stuck around long enough for him to get attached. I seriously cannot keep track of how many stepbrothers, stepsisters, half-brothers and half-sisters he has. It was like a demented game of musical chairs and he never had a chair of his own. Male has a tendency to be emotionally distant and he would not want to raise children that way.

I was sexually abused as a child. I lived my entire childhood with a grandmother who was verbally abusive and emotionally manipulative, and a mother who mimicked her. I have more issues than I can list. We are both so very broken. We’re working on it, but we are not capable of taking care of anyone else. We can barely take care of each other.

A few days ago, I wrote a post about Motivation Blindness at Behind The Mask of Abuse. In it, I said:

Some victims aren’t even trying to sort themselves out. They’re living in denial. They might even go on to become abusers themselves. I cannot abide that thought, so I have chosen not to have children. I would rather not have children at all than risk turning into an abuser myself. As irrational as that may be, it’s a choice I have made to protect the children I will never have.

That’s the real reason I won’t have kids. There is a very high possibility that I could turn into an abuser myself, whether I want to or not. That possibility is enough to keep me from even seriously considering it. I cannot bear the thought of bringing another generation of kids into the world who will suffer what we did or worse.

When he sexually abused me, Monster #1 stole my childhood, my innocence, my sense of trust, my self-esteem and any sense of who I am without abuse, my sexual development, and my ability to see red flags, but he also stole my motherhood. He made it so that I relate more to the little girl who was me, than the little girl that I might have. I seriously hate him for that, but who’s to say whether I would have wanted kids anyway.

I look at pictures of me as a kid and it’s right there on my face. It’s so clear. I see it instantly because that was me. I don’t want to be blind to that pain. I wouldn’t want to cause that pain or sweep it under a rug afterwards, like my family did to me, but I wouldn’t want a child to live with my pain either. I would be afraid that they could see it in my eyes. I don’t want to have that conversation. I don’t want to have to explain what happened to me. I don’t want to be a mother because of it.

If I was financially stable, if I was emotionally stable, if a lot of things, I might consider adopting, but I don’t want to have kids of my own. I don’t want my twisted bloodline to continue after me. I don’t want to risk it. I would rather not have children at all than end up like my mother, grandmother or Monster. It is the price I pay for not having to worry about it. It is the price I pay for peace of mind. It is a fair trade to me.


Won’t Somebody Please Think Of The Children!?

From The Simpsons. You should be ashamed if you didn't know that already.

This week’s DPchallenge is about children. Specifically, they asked how I feel about children all up in adult-oriented places.

From The Simpsons. You should be ashamed (or not American) if you didn’t know that already.

I don’t have children. I don’t want children. I don’t even particularly like children. They’re loud, messy and they can’t even tie their shoes. For some reason, they always stare at me; I always lose staring contests with children. They seem to like me. I’m not sure why since the feeling isn’t really mutual.

I especially don’t like babies. Babies are jerks. They’re fat, ugly fleshblobs that don’t do anything besides cry and poop. They add nothing to the economy and they are totally helpless without us. They would die if we didn’t shove boobs in their mouths. It seems a very inefficient way of creating the next generation to me. We should probably grow them in crèches and hand them out to deserving parents once they’re old enough to use the bathroom by themselves. If you handed me a baby, I would hold it at arm’s length as if you just handed me a stinking bag of turd bombs and vomit, which is basically what they are. I wouldn’t recommend handing me a baby.

To make doubly sure that the answers to this week’s challenge are especially contentious, The Daily Post attached an argumentative poll:

As much as I just described how I think human offspring under the age of however-old-they-are-when-they-use-the-toilet-on-their-own should be sequestered away from proper society, I’m not answering that poll because I don’t agree with either answer.

First, let’s take the second. “Kids are people too.” No, they are not. They are not people; they are kids. There’s a very valid reason that minors can’t vote, hold a job, own a firearm, drink, drive or drink and drive: they can’t handle it because they are children. There’s no way that you can trust a baby to behave in an expensive restaurant when its entire job is screaming, napping, pooping, crying, eating 1/74th of the food that it’s given while vomiting, throwing or smearing the rest of it all over themselves and everything close at hand. It’s just not going to happen. Kids are jerks. Without adults telling them what to do, they’d run feral in the streets crapping on lawns and chewing on everything, because that’s what they do without adult intervention. They’re like puppies; everything goes in the mouth.

“Yo, Mom, I’m dyin’ over here.”

When I was a baby, they nicknamed me paint palette because I cried all the time and my mouth formed the shape of a, you guessed it, paint palette. My parents were so very clever. Tee hee. Anyway, I was an asshole and could not be taken out in public. It turns out that I had pneumococcal meningitis and my brain and spinal cord were being attacked by an infection. I was literally dying, which is why I would not shut the fuck up, like, ever.  After however many months in intensive care, I was sprung from the hospital and able to rejoin polite society. My point is, I was a noisy jerk and my parents didn’t take me out to dinner.

Pffft. Her look isn’t as good as mom’s.
Medusa, Gianlorenzo Bernini, c. 1640.

Once I recovered from death, they could take me out in public. If I acted up and was still too young to appreciate the consequences, my mom would take me outside until I got over whatever little bitchfest I was having. When I got a little older, I knew what was expected of me before we set foot inside a restaurant. There would be no screaming, arguing, punching my sister, throwing food, terrorizing the customers or generally doing anything mom didn’t like. If we did any of these things, mom would shoot us a Medusa look that would turn us to stone and we knew we were in for it when we got home. My sister and I always behaved in restaurants. My mom understood that she was ultimately responsible for our behavior. We understood that if mom was unhappy with our behavior, we would be unhappy, because unhappiness rolls downhill. There were consequences.

“They should be welcome where an adult is welcome.” No, they shouldn’t. It’s not a restaurant, movie theater or strip club’s job to decide what and where is appropriate for children. As a parent, it’s your job to decide what is appropriate for your child. If your child is well-behaved like my sister, then by all means, take them to a restaurant. I might even smile at it and comment on how well-behaved your child is. If your child is suffering from a not-yet-diagnosed semi-fatal disease like me, or is a little psychopath that insists on crawling around under tables and grabbing people’s hair (that has actually happened to me in a restaurant and a movie theater before), I might suggest you get take-out food until such time as you can develop a look like my mom’s and the child understands the doom that it portends.

Moving on to the second poll answer: “Part of why I go to a nice restaurant is for the ambiance and to spend time with other adults.” No. Adults are assholes, too. When children act up in restaurants, I don’t blame them; I blame the parents. Children don’t know any better. Their entire purpose is to push boundaries. That’s how they learn. So, when a child is crawling around on the floor of a restaurant and the mom acts as if she didn’t spew forth that child from her lady parts, it makes me angry. You decided to have the child, it is your job to teach it the way of the world. The way of the world involves consequences and not being an asshole.

However, that applies to a lot of adults, too. I’ve gone out to eat and have been disturbed by fully grown adult humans who talk loudly on cell phones, act rudely to waitstaff or pretend no one else is around them. Excuse me, Mr. Entitled Jerkwad, how about you learn not to be an insensitive twat and shut the hell up for once? Obviously, Mr. Entitled Jerkwad’s mother didn’t have “the look.”

I don’t go to nice restaurants for ambiance or to spend time with adults. I go to restaurants to eat, because I’m hungry and too lazy to cook. I am basically a reclusive misanthrope, so all of you are ruining my experience. All of you. The only difference between Mr. Entitled Jerkwad and a misbehaving child is that Mr. Entitled Jerkwad is slightly less likely to crawl around on the floor and pull my hair, but I wouldn’t put it past him.

“Get a baby-sitter.” No. That’s not right either. Babysitters are expensive and sometimes unreliable. I was a babysitter as a teenager. After reading this, would you trust me with your child? Exactly. It’s not fair to parents to expect them to get a babysitter every time they want to eat and not have to cook. If they want an hour to themselves to eat without peas being flicked into their hair, a babysitter is great, but you cannot expect all parents to hire babysitters all the time. That is exactly why family restaurants exist. If I see a restaurant named “Mama Mamie’s Family Restaurant,” I know that place isn’t for me unless I’m alright with children present while I eat. If I see a restaurant called “Monsieur Swank’s Restaurant de Fancé Pants,” I’m going to assume that there aren’t any children in there. If there are, and they are well-behaved, I don’t have a problem with that. I will, however, try to get a table as far as possible from yours just on the off chance that you haven’t perfected “the look.”

Neither answer to that poll is correct. The fact is, parents should know their children better than anyone. You know how well-behaved they are and how long they can reasonably be expected to stay that way. It all boils down to judgment and using the best of yours. Good luck!