My boss has done some pretty crappy stuff in the past, but he’s never done anything even remotely this evil. He suckered me into going to his kid’s birthday party. I’m so stupid. Why didn’t I just tell him I had plans? After all, I had planned on spending the day in bed, watching America’s Next Top Model cycle 13 marathon, bleaching my moustache while eating tub after tub of Betty Crocker vanilla frosting with my fingers, until I passed out into a diabetic coma.

As soon as I walked into Chuck E. Cheese’s, it was like the beach scene from Saving Private Ryan. Loud explosions everywhere, I was engulfed in kid smell, kinda sweaty, kinda barfy, kinda uriney. Children everywhere screaming, crying, sneezing, yelling, farting, biting, punching, grabbing, pinching. Instead of Chuck E. the dancing mouse, I was hoping Chucky the serial killer doll would make a cameo.

Eventually I found the line for pizza, the line for the restroom, the line for soda, but I couldn’t find the line where I could get my tubes tied. My boss’ wife saw the look of abject horror on my face, so she thanked me for coming and told me I could escape out the back exit near the diaper changing station. She didn’t have to tell me twice.

Driving home, wondering where I could buy a pony keg of Purell, another thought hit me. Behind each child was a parent. A parent who was there for no reason other than to make their kid happy. I was able to witness selflessness in its purest form. I’m grateful for Chuck E Cheese’s because when you look at the some of the extreme things parents do for the love of their children, there’s a sweetness to the place, a sweetness almost as nice as several tubs of vanilla frosting.

That’s why I’m grateful for Chuck E. Cheese’s.