Ah, the boy—the boy! Today I took him out for a long walk along the river, and he acknowledged my commitment to the unending struggle to be a good parent by passing out within seconds of going outside. He missed a gaggle of ducks, an old man speedwalking backwards, plenty of old people playing around in the old people playground, and several old people who did not know the difference between right and left. There are signs all over the place, seriously everywhere, telling people to stay on the right, in Korean, English, and Chinese, but everyone still walks on the left.
Not to worry! I have developed a foolproof way of dealing with this. As opposed to getting the hell out of the way, which as a younger person I am supposed to do, according to Confucius (“When Old Man Come In, Young Man Get Fuck Out!”—Analects xii.22), I maintain my honor by just staring at my feet and pressing on at full speed.
In response to this, the old person lined up against me will always play chicken, from the very moment I am spotted on the horizon, until they can see the sun gleaming on every golden bristle sprouting forth from my black beard. Then they will break. They always break. Every time. I get them every fucking time because they’re no match for my secret weapon: the baby.
People are less inclined to screw you over when you’re holding a baby, even though everyone (except for the reptoids disguised as humans) was once a baby, and yes, even a zygote. Nevertheless, at some point you reach the age at which it is permissible for others to fuck you over; for the moment the only people who are allowed to fuck Harry over are his own parents.
This method of looking down and moving forward does not work nearly as well without the very necessary baby. People always move eventually, whether they’re running or walking, but I’ve gotten close enough to catch the kimchi-soju-barbecued-pork reek pulsating wildly from the teeth and the tongues of my adversaries before, at last, Confucius relents in the face of the Western Cult of Youth, wherein everything that is young is good (Confucianism being the opposite).
Armies on the march should employ baby tactics to win wars: seriously, if you’ve got a baby strapped to your chest, no one is going to shoot at you. Even in Busan, that hive of scum and villainy, people will actually be somewhat considerate if you happen to be carrying a baby, so that navigating the city resembles a walk in the park rather than that ridiculous fight scene from The Matrix: Reloaded.