I know a lot of kids read this blog so here's something for them. It's a really sweet little story called "The Pokey Little Animation Writer." The story starts in a suburban bedroom where Billy's parents are roused out of their sleep by a knock on the bedroom door....
Knock! Knock! Knock! "Huuuh?" said Dad, waking suddenly. "Who...Wha...Wh...Who's there? For Pete's Sake, stop knocking!" 
"Um...It's me Dad. I can't sleep! Er...I have urges I can't explain!"
"URGES!? Oh, Bashaw! What kind of urges could you have at your age?
"Well Dad, I know it's strange but I have an urge to find an animation artist and beat him up. I know it doesn't make sense but I get really mad at the thought of artists writing and directing their own stories. I guess that's silly isn't it? I mean, why should I get mad about what artists do?"
"Son, did you say... 'beat up?' Oh, Good Lord! I didn't realize you'd grown so fast! Um... Sit down , It's time you and I had a talk."
"Son, I'll just say it outright. Your mother and I are...are...outcasts...hated and shunned by all civilized people because of what we are...animation writers. And you son, you will grow up to be an animation writer too!"
"That's right," said Billy's mom, "that's why you get so mad when you think of low-life artists making their own cartoons!"
"But Dad...won't the artists feel bad if we take their medium away from them?"
"Naw," said Dad, "they don't have feelings like we do! If they had feelings they'd be writers like us. They just have...notochords!"
"Now get to sleep, Buckaroo! If you're good I'll take you out hunting tomorrow! If we find an artist directing a cartoon we'll trash him and you can break his pencils!"
And they did. And Billy and his family lived happily ever after.
THE END
THE END
