If Satan is reading this, my perfect Hell is sitting on a plane next to someone who wants to know where I'm headed, has strong thoughts on a particular sports team, and just got the results of a DNA ancestry test. I don't exactly hate strangers, but small talk with a "people person" is like condom-less sex with a beehive -- it's a lot of discomfort just to make some sweet pest happy. I don't make a secret of this, so the majority of non-assholes can sense I'm not the guy who's going to care about the climate they're used to or the best burger in Cedar Rapids. That all changed when I had a baby.
If you're carrying a baby, people who would have otherwise never talked to you ever in their lives walk right up and ask how it poops or if it eats out of titties. They could absolutely have 15 minutes of questions about your child's stroller or teeth. They might give an impassioned speech about how they, a person who sucks, also had a child with hair. They're all eager to find out how old your baby is, but I have no idea why. No matter what you say, their only response is, "That's a great age!" You'll never meet a parent who holds up a fingerless hand and says, "The reason I ask is because I'm looking for the 17-month-old who gave me THIS."
You might be thinking, "Boo-hoo, Mr. Cranky. So sorry you have to suffer through honest pleasantries with nice people while my incel subreddit pokes holes in my plan to breed docile cats with human buttholes!" And maybe I am strange, but I like to warm up to someone before I disclose my plans to impregnate my child's mother again. Sex dungeon janitors field fewer questions about sperm and breast milk than a father taking his daughter to the park.
Another thing I should mention is that while some parents have intimate questions about your family's genitals and nipples, most of them only start talking to you to eventually share condescending advice. No one is more sure that their dumbass basic take is wisdom than a parent you just met. It doesn't matter if they're the head of a loving household or an oxycodone addict who couldn't figure out the abortion paperwork -- all parents are dying to share some profound nugget of bedtime management or preschool selection only they know. And I guess that includes me, because look at this article I'm writing. Speaking of which, let's do the next one ...