Although techno dance pop (I don’t care if it’s from the US, Moldavia, Korea, Mexico, or Japan) will likely give you meth mouth, please “LIKE” this video if you HATE totalitarianism. Hitch would’ve been impressed (although he’d probably despise the music as well and wouldn’t be too arsed to write a book about it)!
It stared with an article on bratfree about McDain’s, a restaurant and golf course that caters to the adult professional crowd who finally put their foot down on kids who ruined other patrons dinners that wouldn’t quit misbehaving. Now no child under six is allowed a seat. I applaud owner Mike Vuick (and sent him a supportive email), how many times have I had the urge to slap the living shit out of brats when they won’t shut their mouths, quit braying, won’t eat their meal, or mouth off to the adults in a restaurant? Countless. And so have you. But you spineless morons and
jealous hypersensitive breeders will post on your Fuckboook pages, Twat, and MOO on your message boards how we must be muscled (with pignancy lard) into submission because we are the evil childfree. Beautiful, rich jet setters that live a superficial, uber-materialistic lifestyle Smeyer couldn’t conjure up while blessing the dead.
Well bitches prepare to eat crow, because the kid-free zoning has caught on like the whooping cough you refuse to get your kid vaxed for!
A Texas movie theater chain has designated “baby days” for kids under six, Whole Foods in Missouri is offering childfree shopping hours, and a Florida condo is trying to ban kids from playing outside because it has no real courtyard or play area for them- just an active parking lot where cars can get wrecked and kids could get run over.
Floridian entitle cow: “I don’t have to. My child can do what she wants.” (Translation: “I’m fat, exhausted, and need to watch my stories! Let the brats do what they want, as long as it’s away from my flatscreen!”)
Pennsylvania cunt Stephanie Kelley: “All children do not have meltdowns, and I don’t feel I should have to suffer the repercussions.” (Translation: “My husband works all damn day and doesn’t care about me or the kids! I deserve a night out after being cooped up all day with these little idiots. Besides, we could just afford McDain’s and even if we could get a sitter I want the good looking businessmen to tell me what a beautiful mother I am!”)
Why does everything in this country have to be family friendly?! There’s a plague of Fuck E. Sneezes, Crapplebees, and McShit playlands that could take up every inch of land in the state of California! Breeders don’t have that much by way of disposable income! They’re only putting it on plastic and forgetting about it until the bill comes (ie. debt)! This should be covered in all business schools and economics classes as a new model for American (small) businesses.
P.S. It wouldn’t hurt if you dropped an email to the places mentioned above for a show of solidarity, I know I did!
Well I’m 31 today and I feel no different than when I turned 30. Still no job, didn’t get back to school, and the best part the old bitch is coming up to wish us a happy birthday, THEN harass us about getting a new dining table! Ain’t life grand? Three years ago the old bitch bought us a $2k dining table from the ghetto Macy’s (that happens to look JUST LIKE HERS) under the pretense that we’ll have dinner parties like this was 1987. We can’t have K. over to do the taxes because the old bitch doesn’t want to hear any noise from strangers (K. being black doesn’t make shit any better). Still K. comes over and does our taxes- TOUGH ASS OLD BITCH!
Then she’ll start on all the camera equipment my bro archer has in the corner of the living room for the umpteenth time. It’s enough that she’s codependent and the fact that she’s 80-years-old makes her near impossible. I know that as we age the processors in our brains slowly degrade, and we need things to be more black and white to feel secure. And if an elderly person is LOGICALLY challenged, that person will become more combative and obstinate. The old bitch also has made tremendous mistakes and pissed away money, and when we bring that up she won’t respond or she becomes a wildcat. And then when Mom, archer, or I talk about getting lives of our own she gets this pathetic look on her face. She knows what’s coming. We need out of here. It was our fault we didn’t teach her to become acclimated to life on her own earlier, but we weren’t normal. Conservatives will call us lazy, but if your back is against the wall and all you could do is stand stalk-still because you’re white and people laugh when you ask for a low-wage job in NYC, what else is there?
But at least I know I’m a person and not a punching bag.
This thread on bratfree may help breeders who may actually be PNB’s, but are fucked by today’s convoluted standards of child rearing. Nullipar-tay’s lifeguard job experience not only re-confirmed her decision on being CF, but I hope all you PNB’s in the same situation as rich moo help you understand that we CF aren’t evil, but want you to admit your humanity. And by that I mean being a parent doesn’t make you royalty, nor does it transform you into a Marvel superhero. Please help us help you.
Many years ago, I was a lifeguard at a public community center. I was the only adult lifeguard they had, so I ended up working during school hours. Homeschooling families would bring their kids in, especially in the winter when we’d cover the pool area with a ‘bubble’, making it indoors for the season..
Our community center was old, built in a poor community that got annexed by a very prestigious nearby city with their own PGA golf course next door. They had their own high-priced, snooty club for these stuck up famblees and their brats. But when moos got tired of the crowd, they’d come to our community center and ‘slum it’.
And I had one family I loathed with every bone in my body. I called them TSM’s – The Screaming Meanies. It was bleach-blonde, still trying to look 20 (and failing) moo, and her four trophies: a newly shat loaf (name unknown), a boy brat, James, (7?) and my least favorites, the two sisters: Madeline (4) and Caroline (6).
These were, to date, some of the worst behaved fucking children I’d ever had to deal with. The nightmare routine played out all spring and summer long. TSM Moo and her shitlings would come early, dragging in a sack of kinderspullen (and in the summer, we hardly had room for the visitors, much less toys), and the fighting would start immediately.
Moo would sometimes offer a weak, “James, stop. Madeline, stop.” But these fucking hellions (loaf excepted – it was usually pretty chill and locked into its carrier) infuriated me. They’d run around the edge of the pool, chasing each other, ignoring us when we’d whistle or tell them to stop. They couldn’t swim, but liked to haul ass down near the deep end of the pool.
Our pool was only 5.5 feet deep, and not olympic-sized. Not a huge pool. But James liked to try to knock or shove his sisters into the water, usually while mom was asleep working on her tan, or on her cellphone, turned away from where she should be watching them.
The lifeguard staff was forever shooting daggers at the entire family, or trying to keep the brats in line so nobody got hurt. I kept waiting for an accident to happen, but it never did. These kids often fought, violently, hitting, kicking, and spitting at each other.
And they did it to Moo, too. They’d kick her, hit her, spit on her or bite her on the few occasions where she’d actually try to discipline them. It was clearly too little, too late. She didn’t even bother anymore. Madeline was an ugly, nasty little troll of a she-brat, and she screamed and cried at the tops of her lungs whenever she wasn’t getting what she wanted (which was often). She had just the right pitch to make your brains scramble.
Caroline was a mean she-brat, who openly pointed at and made fun of overweight people, bullied her sister, and taunted her mom by purposefully doing the opposite of what her mom said, then sticking out her tongue and running away. Moo was in no shape to chase her.
James was a pint-sized tyrant who liked to get violent. Period. He was into pummeling his sisters, but would actually whine and cry whenever they attempted to defend themselves or reciprocate. Even when other families would stop and glare at Moo and her family from hell, she completely ignored them. She also ignored her kids during their screaming, wailing, violence, and dangerous antics. Like I said, hell on EARTH.
Winter came one year, and nobody was coming to the pool much, even though it was covered. I sat up on the lifeguard stand alone for hours, sometimes. But one day… to my horror and surprise… TSM fam comes dragging into the bubble, just as they had all summer long. I was alone with them. No other lifeguards or staff were anywhere near the structure. It was just me, and the family from hell.
They got into the area, plopped onto some deck chairs, and immediately, the kids started fighting. They were in the chairs behind me, behind my stand, so at least I could look forward at the pool and pretend not to see them. Sound really carries under that bubble, and Madeline was screaming bloody murder over something, and James was beating up on Caroline.
Moo was frustrated and sighing, weakly trying to tell them to stop. The kids hadn’t even gotten fully unpacked when the punching, kicking and wailing was in full force. I could see enough from the corner of my eye, and I did look over at Moo wearily, with a “really?” expression.
Moo threatened to take them all home, and the kids went running down to the far end of the pool area, near the deep end, of course. There, they carried on as per usual, cackling, fighting, crying and screaming. James and Caroline finally decided to swim, and they came back to the shallow end and got into the water.
Where they started fighting in the goddamned pool. I blew the whistle on them and told them ‘no way’. They got bored swimming soon after, and started running around the pool deck again and spitting at each other. Madeline ran after them, wailing because she wasn’t getting attention.
Moo was actually yelling at them, threatening them… Caroline stuck out her tongue, and they all went back to roughhousing. I wanted to nuke them all from orbit. The noise had reached a crescendo, they had started slapping each other, and Moo was still standing just behind my stand with loaf. She was close enough to me, that I could see that she was trying not to cry. Without thinking, I said to her quietly, “I would have gone insane by now.”
Moo was still trying not to cry. “I…I can’t get them to behave. No matter what I do… and in places like this, you can’t really punish them without someone reporting you to child services.” I knew what she really meant. Slowly, I turned around in my stand to look down to her. I removed my glasses, and said, dead-on: “…I don’t see anyone else here, and I’m certainly not going to say a word.”
Moo’s face went slack. She blinked at me, and nodded, almost in a trance. It wasn’t even 60 seconds before she was striding down the deck. That woman snatched James’ arm, jerking him towards her, and she lit his ass UP. The looks on the faces of all three brats was EPIC.
Their eyes were as wide as saucers, stunned, and after she beat James’ ass so hard the blows were echoing, she heaved him into a chair, and snapped up Caroline’s wrist. The girl was too shocked to think to move, and mom had her screaming from the ass whooping in two blows. Madeline saw what was coming and RAN, crying in terror. But Moo actually overtook her stumpy legs, and dragged the blonde brat across her knees in a chair, wailing on her ass as well.
“Now we’re going home!” Moo barked at them. “Pack your damn toys. NOW.” And the kids, all three crying, packed up the kinderspullen and started limping off to the bubble exit. The Moo walked over to pick up the carrier with the loaf, looked at me, and nodded. She didn’t come back on any of my shifts ever again.
What do the following three words have in common: “Breathe”, “Yes”, and “Lu”?
I had no idea you had celiac disease!
On bratfree we have a ball breaking on Mrs. Shauna James Ahern, a.k.a. the Gluten Free Girl, a.k.a. narcissistic fatass. Now I’m not making fun of anybody with the disease, I’m making fun of an annoying woman who happens to have this disease and writes her blog like a Whorelequin trash novel over the moon about herself and her Olympic Peninsula island idyll and managing to get knocked up at 42 branding and herself a hero. Oh yeah, and her husband is a cook who apparently is talented enough to keep the wheat gluten from his ham hock armed wifey, but not the butter or sugar. Anybody with a brain knows that after reading her beloved cookbook, somebody’s not playing with a full deck.
But I just want to tell you something Shauna, you fucked up. You know that promotional event you held on the Great Lawn in Central Park early last fall? You know you kind of publicly admitted that you held an event under the guise of a picnic that you kind of didn’t send in your paperwork and pay the fees that was required of you by the New York State Parks and Recreation department. Don’t worry my fellow honest New Yorkers, I’ve done my duty and reported her. I hope they could retroactively fine her fat Washingtonian ass, maybe that will force her to, I don’t know, go to the supermarket and buy frozen veggies and fruits from the produce aisle maybe? How about joining a gym to work off some of that stress that’ll hopefully come your way (say NO to food for once).
A. Bookstore readings are becoming antiquated, and particularly for a cookbook, it doesn’t seem too relevant. So we wanted to create a space where people could gather. We did a picnic in Central Park in New York , and everyone brought food.
What the fuck is wrong with women?
Seriously. And I’m asking you this as a woman.
For the last three weeks I’ve been getting confirmation of being childfree from this one spayshul little fucktard that lives up the block from me. It’s fairly safe to say that any idiosyncrasies and dysfunctions we have stem from childhood, and this little blood sucker is a good example. Mom believes she knows who her mother is, a divorcee living with her grandparents, and evidently her ex dumped her and their two shitbags because he couldn’t stand her, nor her family (not that hubby is any better). I don’t know what the custodial arrangements are- and could give a shit- but the little cunt dropping is here on weekends and holidays from what I’ve seen of her. For the last three weeks (since the weather has gotten nicer) she’s been outside playing with the daughters of a family who lives next door (I only know them because their oldest daughter is a cripple), but I’ve never had a problem with them. Now she’s one of the middle daughters’ new BFF so they’re outside with their kindercrap screaming their heads off about nothing when this little bitch says to me as I pass:
“You wear too much lipstick!”
And she ducks inside her friend’s door.
In my day that was called disrespect, and we got our asses handed to us with a MAJOR verbal beat down for the rest of the day, and maybe a punishment on the side. Even the worst of the bastards who tortured me in my Catlick school were reprimanded by their parents if a comment was made towards an adult. Who was a stuck-up little snot who couldn’t even wipe their ass on their own to criticize an adult for their fashion choices? Nobody, that’s who! Which is why spankings are a good idea.
But today the little douche has a myriad of acronym brain diseases because of her parents divorce and is simply acting out. Which is why avoidance on the victim’s part is paramount, and mediation and negotiation are the parents’ duties should it be deemed that the situation be brought to their attention. This is the welfare of a child we’re talking about here…
YOU FUCKING PARENTS ARE PUSSIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Did I say that too loud for you? I’m sorry, you’re deaf now? Well that’s you’re fault for buying into Life Script with Mr./Ms. Good Enough But The Cracks In The Surface Just Get Deeper Daily. I can proudly say that the little pussy biscuit will grow up to be just like her prize-winning mamma, or like the insane bitches that Mom works with. What a good citizen like myself should do is grab her by the hair, slap her until she’s bleeding from every top half orifice, body slam her ass on mee-maw’s floor like Bin Laden’s corpse and demand an apology from her coven for leading meaningless existences that they can’t be bothered (too old and bizzy) to raise the walking twat clump right. Of course that reality exists between this monitor and the bedroom door. Outside of that door I would be arrested, slapped with a multi-million dollar lawsuit, and be featured on the 10 o’clock news on the Nox Noise Channel. Then a quarter of a billion people will be siding with the poor mawm and behbeh and my whole life will be played out on You Tube saying that I am nothing but an evil, fat, ugly, lazy, unemployed, jealous, and crazy loser who likes to kick newborn puppies and bite the heads off Peeps. But really you’re just so weak that you can’t take a little nine-year-old kid’s jokes… and that maybe you do wear too much makeup, you child-hating slut!
Now we all know that after three weeks of childish taunting you would be harboring infanticide fantasies as well, but we can’t say what we feel anymore because we’re going to hurt someone’s perceived feelings. Please keep that word in mind. Perceived. Because the basis of our lives revolves upon the perception of what we think others believe about us. If I disciple mah chyuld, they’ll become a serial killer and Ah’ll get blamed! Or maybe they won’t be a millionaire brain surgeon and Ah’ll never live in a McMansion with country club membership! Ah’m a failure! Never mind what we believe about ourselves, that’s whole other delusion. And lately, I’ve been noticing that that goes doubly for women.
Dog knows that ageism, sexism, and lookism dominates everything from employment to sex, but it’s getting worse. In Mom’s office these ghetto diva bitches are so hung up on themselves that they walk around in Alzheimer’s-esque delusions. The thinner bitches Darlene, Cecelia, Lucille, and Hazel love to say just how sexy and desirable they are complimenting themselves every five minutes and flirting with everything that has a pair of hanging gonads. The truth is, no one could stand any of them, and people who know these bitches in purchasing ask how Mom- their longest standing temp of 4 years- how she could put up with them. The truth is, she can’t, but she needs a job, and at 56 the jobs don’t come easily regardless of the economy. Once Mom was walking with Cecelia and she met a friend, Ping, and for 20 minutes these two squwaking peacocks, after discovering that they shared the same birthdate, started in like 12-year-olds with the high fructose corn syrupy simpering “You’re pretty!” “No you’re pretty!” that had more back-and-forth than a ping-pong match in Harbin. Then you have one of the supervisors, Carmen, who honestly looks like the stereotypical butch lesbian (Mom said she dresses like a gym teacher). This dumbfuck always backpedals when she says she’ll never go out of her way (again) for someone who utterly disrespects her. Lucille is the hospital’s butt of jokes because she’s such a loudmouth, she tells everybody every detail of her fucked life. She’s nothing but a welfare queen with three anchor babies. This former Filipino bar girl had four loaves with three men- her eldest son during her days prostituting on a cruise ship (claimed the father was a Greek, but a picture she produced showed a Filipino guy, but no one can be sure with her because she’s a pathological liar), the next two with her ex-husband, and this latest one with her new Michigan backwoods white trash hubster she met online who is allergic to employment and comes from a litter of pill-headed alkeys (his moomy was so fucked up on pills that she slurred over the phone to Lucille that her 12-year-old daughter Ashley could come back to Michigan to suck her toe. For a year Lucille dumped her kids on hubster’s crazy clan so that they could go faux jet-setting and making a real white baby together, meanwhile the kids ate nothing, lived in a filthy house, and a semi-tarded 16-year-old nephew took “a liking” to Ashley). I don’t give a shit at how “nice” Lucille is, she’s a trashy user and abuser. Carmen went out of her way to get this ho her naturalization status, the job at purchasing, threw her baby showers, and when the bitch was done blowing her paycheck Carmen swooped in and made her friends in the cafeteria serve this whore and her kids full continental breakfasts, and then Carmen would cook for her. So what does this bitch do when Carmen called out Lucille and hubster web surfing at her workstation (where no one without an employee ID isn’t allowed)? She called her a dirty Puerto Rican.
Considering this bitch’s spotty record, I’m still amazed at how she didn’t get fired after that incident. No, I’m wrong. I’m amazed at how she wasn’t fired after she physically assaulted church lady Marcy some years ago. Church lady Marcy is Indian-Guyanese and has been so indoctrinated by her bassackwards culture and revivalist sect that she’s the family’s doormat (Mom could relate well). Her parents are practically invalids so despite having a career and doing all the housekeeping, much of their care has been dumped on Marcy. Her brothers are coddled drunks who do nothing, and all of her sisters have shuffled off to London, Minnesota, and Miami with their lives and families. But whenever they’re in town they’re forever calling Marcy at work to ask where the spices, pencils, or dustrags are. The upshot, they’re on the upper rungs of the totem pole in Guyana. They have so much money (from family businesses) that they need armed guards on the family’s plantation. According to the church lady, these bitches treated her like dirt and that the stress Mom has from these projects divas is nothing. And while that is true, church lady does NOTHING to defend herself. She always brought donuts and bagels from her cousin’s Dunkin’ Donuts shop, but all these asshats would complain that it was too much junk and they were get(ting) fat(ter). THEN when church lady would stop they complained why she wasn’t bringing any more food! The following drama took place when church lady was out sick; at her desk Mom overheard the other bitches making fun of church lady, pulling various parts of their
flab anatomies demonstrating where the bagels ended up on her body. After the office Xmas party (potluck) there was some complaint over the food she brought- it wasn’t enough… GREEDY! GREEDY! GREEDY! Mom and another employee took church lady aside and told her not to bother with the bitches any more and quit making food for them (like they expect everyone in the office to do- but Mom hasn’t!) then told her about the bagel jokes. You’d think that would get her riled up at least. Nope, she stayed home the next day and sobbed like a 15-year-old under the blankets over missing Justin Bieber fuck Robert Pattinson on Ustream.
Now I’ll get to the real cruelty.
Their recently retired boss, Bill Goof, saved church lady’s ass from getting downsized. Apparently the insurance company that now wants to dump the hospital decided she was too expensive and wanted to hire a desperate college grad for less.
“Well if she’s got to go, she’s got to go!” Darlene bitched right in front of silent church lady. This is the one who’s money-laden baby daddy won’t marry her because of the tighter younger pussy he gets on the side. The one applicant, a recent IT grad (young white dude), came in for an interview and Bill listed all of the menial tasks that would be required of him.
“I’m not doing that!” Bye-bye to the wannabe soap star.
“Why did you discourage him?!” Carmen screeched.
Bill knew that all of these old ghetto bitches (including Star the head supervisor) would be flirting with the poor guy and drive him to quit with their craziness. But moreover the office would be in chaos. These ghetto queens scream and fight over the pettiest shit, but when a man gets involved they become a wolf pack! Jealousy over imagined attention would wreak havoc and spill over into the work, and they would get nothing done if they’re too busy batting their eyes and shaking their saggy asses in front of someone who could be their kid.
When it comes down to it, they’re all insecure pathetic losers who’ll settle for the worst. Lucille is finally leaving the job to relocate to Texas to hopefully get hubster- who left her– out of Michigan to make a fresh start with their baybee that he doesn’t give a shit about. Cecelia is fucking some womanizer, Orlando, that’s engaged because she’s lonely and angry at herself for never being satisfied with herself or anybody else. I mean church lady and Carmen suffer from the 1st grade-itis (if I do everything for the pretty girls they’ll be my friends and I’ll be pretty too), but is this what I have to look forward to? Is this what middle-aged women do when they can’t bear aging?
Meanwhile on the whiter side of things…
The Ass Food that’s across the street has been the feed bag for our local hook and ladder since time immemorial, and as a kid my teachers always told us to wave to the firefighters in appreciation for their sacrifice. And as corny as that sounds, I waved, and they waved back. But in the store Mom was firm, You don’t bother the other shoppers. (THE RAYS!) And her word was law. But that didn’t stop the clucking hens from circling them at the registers. Now obviously I was raised not to criticize the grown ups, so I watched at how these bitches made idiots of themselves bombarding them with the dumbest questions! That hasn’t changed, but since 9/11 the age demographic has widened. I try to run as fast as I can with my old lady cart from the giggling and brown nosing, I wonder if all the teen and twenty-something fangirls are hot on firefighters because of the Chippendale-wannabe calendars they’ve released?
I don’t know. I’ve been working on this rant for nearly four hours, and I am nowhere near deciphering as to what’s fucking up women. Maybe I’m the exception to this odd rule. Okay, I went to a crap high school in a basement where I interacted with characters from the rejects zoo, and that was hardly the John Waters ideal that I had in mind when I was eight. I’m not really romantic, and outside of Microsoft Word I’m not very creative. And maybe I am a pessimist, but I prefer to define (not label) myself as a realist (read or listen to George Carlin’s Brain Droppings for a detailed explanation). I knew that I was CF pretty early on (I referred to my Cabbage Patch doll as my sister, not my daughter), and marriage doesn’t seem like a bowl of peaches and cream either (dysfunctional parents that had influence, I know). But let’s face it, when I lose my remaining 59 pounds (UPDATE: LOST 33 LBS. AS OF 7/6/11! 143 STILL IS THE GOAL!) that won’t guarantee me a ring, and should I get one I’m the type of bitch that if you were one of the morons I went to high school with met me on the street and saw it, your initial reaction would be, “YOU’RE MARRIED?! He must be as bad as you!”
I remember as a kid I begged my dad for ballet lessons. A lot of my non-friends at Catlick school went to the dance school just two blocks from here. It was $75 for the year. Mom always got this panicked look when I pleaded with her, and would try to deter me with “go ask your dad.” And I did. And I stood there whining for dog knows how long as he just sat at the table paying bills and balancing the checkbook, not once acknowledging me. I mean what’s the damn deal motherfucker? You tell me that fat girls aren’t loved (and that’s true) don’t you think a little activity would help with that? Was $75 bucks so hard to part with, you miserly assface? I took the long way to get some Chinese food avoiding that little bitch and I noticed that the weekend class was letting out at the dance school. Not much had changed, well the sign and the fact that the picture windows are shuttered since breeders believe that pedophiles are on every corner. The school advertizes with blown up recital photos, girls of varying ages and ability. A pink chain of five-year-olds in tulle and ribbons stiffly take their bow, a troupe of 10 to 12-year-olds pose in disco sequins with glitter in their hair and on their faces. Sugary smiles and Olga Korbut splits looking like so much North Korean propaganda. I wasn’t so lucky, but are they lucky? Out from the rear exit emerge two fat teen girls, both are in leggings. Their faces are sheened in sweat and are giddy. No cares in the world and they seem to be all buddy-buddy. Maybe weight loss partners, maybe not. But they all seem lucky, one by one skipping down the cracked concrete in the spun gold sunlight of late spring afternoon chasing after diamond fireflies. And it hits me just now. There’s really nothing fucked up with women. And yet everything. It gets really hot under stage lights, and you have to hit your cues on time, and if you screw up the whole cast looks bad, but… that fairy glamour makes it all worthwhile. Fifteen seconds, that’s all you ask for to look special, pretty even. And that’s what they’re doing. Chasing the fairy glamour.
Matinee at 2pm.
I get up from my seat and walk up the aisle. I’m the real lucky one. I get to leave the theater every time.
Did you know there is no such thing as an unwanted child?
Apparently this right-wing, religulous Arizonan bitch Heather K. Shew-Plummer thinks so.
Now my fellow CFers at bratfree were having a great laugh at resolve.org’s National Infertility Awareness Week, (notice how we have these awareness bullshit weeks and months without being aware of it in the first place?) and I read the anti-adoption myth list by Mrs. Plummer and nearly ruined my new ergonomic keyboard with diet Pepsi. Take a gander (emphases mine):
Myth: There are many unwanted babies available for domestic adoption.
Busted!: There are no unwanted babies. Birthmothers love their children and want what is best for them. A birthmother contacts an adoption agency when she is unable to parent her child. Adoption agencies recognize how difficult a decision this is and uses a unique hands-on case management approach for both birth parents and adoptive parents.
But like all politicians before the backpedal, the grain of truth must be exploited:
Myth: If you can’t get pregnant, you can “just adopt.” It’s easy, quick, and inexpensive.
Busted!: Adoption is not always easy, quick or inexpensive. Adoptive parents must complete a home study which includes home visits, interviews and extensive background checks which are required by both the state and their adoption agency. There is also no crystal ball in adoption that can predict the amount of time the process will take. The matching process can be lengthy, and the entire process can take up to two years. It is important for adoptive parents to remember, however, that their profile will be selected by the birth mother that is meant to work with them. It is also important for adoptive parents to remember that adoption should not be viewed as something they can “just” do if they can not get pregnant. Adoption is not a substitution when pregnancy is not achievable; it is another way to build a family.
Can you smell the garbage? I don’t know about you, but this fucking shit pile makes me want to go out and torch a church. My well-off Canadian cousins found out after many sessions of useless fucking that they were shooting blanks, and decided on international adoption. Never mind that the old people marginalize anybody who is “slightly off” in their opinions. They actually took extended leaves from their careers and moved to Russia in search of a baby. I don’t know how long it took, but it was quite an ordeal (a former Communist superpower that has lapsed into a corrupt mafiosa totalitarian state can give westerners with money trouble? Heavens to murgatroid, no!) and they brought home a blond-haired, blue-eyed boy Aleksandr, now renamed Alexandre. Today he’s 18 and in university, and as it turns out he’s an adoption success by PNB’s (parents not breeders). I’m happy to hear that he’s well-rounded, has his shit together, not a Chernobyl kid, a tard with brain damage, or a psycho, but how in fuck could Plummer bitch be so ignorant to push the typical natalist repertoire my-DNA-is-spayshul-we-need-to-breed-one-right-now-to-hell-with-the-cost! Did you know IVF is considered cosmetic under insurance rules, premiums go through the goddamned roof every time these bitch-moos (usually over 35 when you shouldn’t be having any after that age) and their wannaduhs dive into this cess pool! Men will get Viagra, but neither men nor women who want to opt out (or are done) will get their sterilization, birth control, or abortions covered! Do not make women- CF and not- have any more difficulty with getting their medical care covered (especially reproductive) more difficult because you are insecure headcases who believe the delusions that a child will save my marriage/make me a better person/give my life meaning/grandbabies to spoil/old age care.
That’s just my beef, but if you want to adopt, please do so. Seriously. I’m a selfish CF bitch who doesn’t like kids (I fit into the stereotype just like bible fucking Mrs. Duggar does for breeders), but if this is something you want to do because you are willing to make every fucking sacrifice in the book for that kid (discipline, education, and giving up your lifestyle) and love it to death, and not doing it to have the “package deal”/the ultimate accessory/Kodak moments/golden son/the next Jonbenet, you will be the proud label-wearers of PNB adopters.
So I’ll end this rant with a little message for Mrs. Plummer, a rich bitch from buildingarizonafamilies.com: You are from a red state that is run by Mr. John Arcane with little water, a major illegal alien problem, Native American reservations that have nothing but clay and dust, and seat yourself, your hubby and brood FAR from those slightly shabby people whilst in church receiving the Good News and lovin’ thy neighbor, and all that crap that you don’t practice. What you will do is direct a pregnant shabby looking woman from Planned Parenthood to the pastor so he could pray over her food stamps and 50 cents savings and hope it might transform into a trust fund for the spayshul sneauflayke in her belly that’s persecuted every day.