Public child bans: put up or shut the fuck up breeders because this is YOUR fault!

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!

A childfree man vs. breeder-brain man: an illogic omelet in the making.

Fundie, mentally ill, and anti-vax wannabe hippie parents love homeschooling!

Fundie, mentally ill, and anti-vax wannabe hippie parents love homeschooling! Gee, I wonder why…

On bratfree we were making fun of the crazed homeschooling breeders, and swapping tales of our own personal experiences with homeschooling. Or should I say, unschooling. If you’re a Beverly Hills Cop I & II fan like me, then you know who Judge Freaking Reinhold is. A few years back he had a TV sitcom (that lasted all of 8 eps) called The O’Keefes. The premise was a hyperactive pretentious family homeschooling their supposed intellectually superior kids now transitioning into public school. Can you see how these characters might be the posterchildren for unschooling? I know I can.

Now as I bitched in my last post American public, religulous, and charter schools are SO FAR OFF THE FUCKING MARK, only a cultural revolution could change them. But, hey, this is America! And when do things really change? My father suffered from Paranoid Personality Disorder and codependency (like my grandmother), and several of the big red flags of these disorders are inflated ego and capability, projecting blame on others and even things, and quick loss of interest. In ’93 I was pulled out of my second Catlick school because I was the target of bullying. I had been the target of bullying up until I was in high school (I said this before). My father couldn’t and wouldn’t accept the reasons for this was my social maladjustment because of isolation, being biracial, and being overweight (PCOS played a big role in my weight problems I later found out). I had been out of school (the first time around) for 44 days. At the time Rudy Giuliani had been crowned king of NYC and he was overhauling the BOE big time. The big problem was truancy, the other big problem was the shit ass educational programs, but neither really got solved. Dad nicely informed the BOE that he would be homeschooling me for the remainder of my educational career, to which the secretary on the other end of the phone replied, “Put her back in school.” And hung up.

This fell on blissfully deaf ears. Mom, Dad, and me tramped down to the WNET (Channel 13) Building at Rockefeller Center to buy me GED workbooks. Now I always believed that the GED programs were for lazy ghetto-ass high school kids who don’t feel like doing anything (which is largely true since I know so fucking many of them), but Dad never figured out that 1) I was 13 and these materials were made for older teens and adult education and 2) in order to complete the work in the books you had to follow a set program series that aired at certain times of the morning on PBS. You can’t imagine our embarrassment upon walking into the smoky glass and steel monolith of establishment liberalism with a Hispanic man speaking too loud wearing grungy three sizes too small clothing barely stretching over his beer gut. The volunteer country club and 5th Ave. Synagogue old lady members stared us down with puckered disgust, and the uncomfortable college kid who rang him up (paying for the books with rolled up coins) was forced to listen to his insane diatribe that I was being homeschooled because I was a “misunderstood genius.” I seriously considered suicide for the first time when I got home that night.

At WNET they also sold the GED VHS series, but they were grossly overpriced and I think you had to have qualifications as a GED instructor to purchase them. So needless to say Dad felt that I was smart enough to figure out the material on my own. He forced me to watch the series in the middle of the lessons (consequently I was unable to follow them at all) and then sent me to my heatless room to do my “homework”. I found out that the workbooks had the answers in the back, making the whole thing pointless, and I just abandoned the books in my closet and proceeded to make dollhouse accessories from swatches of old clothes. This went on for a week, and Dad no longer brought up my homeschooling in favor of watching video taped eps of Star Trek: TNG, Forever Knight, and prime time crime dramas over and over again. After 44 days the school sent a letter requesting my return, or ACS would come a-callin’. I went back willingly knowing what I would face, so Dad put cotton balls in my ears to block out the abuse, but when Mom questioned how I would follow the lessons, he ignored her. I finished out the ’93 school year barely passing, and my parents didn’t pay the rest of the tuition (they didn’t deserve it), but I didn’t return to school until November ’94, and my bro Archer was pulled out of school for three months in September of ’94. We were both held back a year because of Dad’s (and Mom’s) actions, Archer became destructive, I fell into the deep well of an eating disorder and became more withdrawn and paranoid as I was not allowed to go near a window when I was at home during that very long year.

We should have been removed (as ACS did come to the house that year), but chances are nothing would have been done. Why? Simple, Mom, me, and Archer are white. We live in a clean, white middle-class neighborhood. I had no idea that Dad was mentally ill because his character was always unstable and I chalked it down to racism and the abuse he suffered from his equally insane family. I always saw homeschooled kids as being abuse victims, and this post from a Midwestern fundie cow of eight hailing from a piss-poor farming community in Buttfuck, Minnesota with no real job trolling the internet when she should be “teaching” her kids (especially when among them are disabled) reaffirms my belief:

“I have a feeling that you don’t know a whole lot about homeschooling, but you do know a lot about public school. You need to understand that homeschooling can be very different from public school. There is no law in Indiana that says an 11-year-old must know how to read well, or the parents have been neglectful. I wonder if you know the family well enough to know if that girl has a learning disability. As the other answer mentioned, it is legal for parents to encourage reading in a more gentle fashion, instead of forcing it on a child who is not ready or willing.As for what the children tell you, they might forget that they did tests, since tests can be far apart in time. As for lessons, homeschooling fits into the everyday lives of the families, and the children may not realize they are doing school. They might be learning through lots of activities, interaction with parents, and through books and movies. For example, some of my kids are studying the Vikings. Yesterday, they watched Veggie Tales “Lyle, the Kindly Viking”. Tonight, we are planning to watch “The 13th Warrior”. Videos and movies like these give lots of useful info about historical subjects. If I didn’t tell them, my kids might not realize the videos are part of their schooling. Also, last summer, I took them to the Kensington Ruinstone Museum.
For homeschooling, families do not usually have the kids in desks with the mother by a blackboard “teaching” them. It can be a lot more casual, and spread out throughout the day. It fits into the families’ lives.
If you reported this family, you would have to have first-hand knowledge that the parents are not in compliance with the law. If the law only says that the parents have to notify the public school of their children being homeschooled, and has no specifics about what or how the children are to be taught, then the parents are free to do it how they see fit.
I just urge you to be educated on the subject before you go and cause turmoil for this family. Educational neglect is a very serious charge. If you falsely accuse the family, you can expect that you will never see those kids or your sister or brother again. Talk to them before making judgement. Tell them your concerns, and ask them to explain their homeschooling philosophy and plan. Keep in mind that you may not agree with what they are doing, but that doesn’t mean it is wrong. If you won’t talk to the family first, then I question your motives. Possibly you are against homeschooling in the first place, and you just want to “get” them.
I have had my disabled child in public school for 2 1/2 months, and I can tell you, we were doing much better with him at home. There are no “magic special teachers” who can make the kids normal.” 

Breeders Know Better Than Teachers

Another bunch of breeder shit for the bitch books: breeders know better than teachers!

Now this isn’t news. I’ve seen this firsthand during my entire scholastic career. One-ton Betty Bimbo sloshes her way up to the school in her flipflops and grey sweats that she’s been wearing for the past three weeks because Shitford came home with a 50% on the latest spelling quiz. Never mind he spelled the word “theater” with a k.

On You Tube there are excerpts from a corporate propaganda film Waiting for “Superman”. It stars Bill Gates and Michelle Rhee, both right-leaning business people who think that since public school is shit (and it is), it should be wiped out (along with teachers unions) and replaced with an Enron-esque Rank ‘n Yank “charter” curriculum (I went to a “new visions” high school- that would be referred to as “charter” today) that leaves the weakest (non-competitive and non-incentive receptive) students in the dust because they will NOT be the ones leading Wall Street in generations to come.

Now I’m from New York, and it probably has the most corrupt (and weak) public education system in the country. The UFT is no better than the UAW today. And I can personally attest to the phenomenal failures of the public, Catholic, and alternative educational schools. Education has been going down the shitter for the last 35 years or so. And funding is only the tip of the iceberg to solve this problem. No, the problem begins at home. Two incomes are required today, so SAHMs should really rethink getting to the gym and updating their CVs in order to make the mortgages and grocery bills. I think breeders are failing their children education-wise because they lack backbone. They are being fed this epic load of horse shit that they need to be their kid’s co-sleeper, BFF, motivational speaker, partner, and coach (doesn’t matter if it’s play coach or sport/art coach). But parent? That’s passe. You want them to be the next LeBron James, Golda Meir, Al Pacino, and Marie Curie right? Well you don’t HAVE to want them to be that, they already ARE that. That’s what gifted/purple/crystal/spectrum analyses are for! Usually self-diagnosed, but shrinks, professors, and “experts” eager to buy yachts, shop at Bergdorf & Goodman, and rent out the dancers at Scores for a weekend in Puerto Rico are for.

On the latest laugh-fest we’re having at bratfree, kidlesskim (and Miss Hannigan who lead the race in snappy wit) put up a link and short list of “gifted” preschool kids (linkie):

From the U.S. Office of Gifted and Talented:

Short list of typical gifted preschooler (ages 2-5) characteristics:

  • Uses advanced vocabulary for age.
  • Uses spontaneous verbal elaboration with new experiences.
  • Has the ability to make interesting or unusual shapes or patterns through various media: blocks, playdough, crayons.
  • Ability to assemble puzzles designed for older children.
  • Sense of humor used in general conversation.
  • Understanding of abstract concepts such as death and time.
  • Mastery of new skills with little repetition.
  • Demonstration of advanced physical skills.
  • Demonstration of advanced reasoning skills through explanation of occurrences.

Source: Janice Szabos as quoted in “The Gifted and Talented Child,” Maryland Council for Gifted & Talented Children, Inc. P.O. Box 12221, Silver Spring, MD 20908

Got all that? And now with my “gifted” genius, I shall break down why I was in the “magnet” schools/classes for the “gifted”… even though it got me nowhere fast.

1) Asks the questions.

As with all kids, their favorite question is, “Why?” And that the first reason as why I find them annoying, and was quite annoying myself as a kid. I always asked “Why?” and “What for?”, before launching into a soul-sucking diatribe demanding to know the specifics. My first word was “clock”, and my favorite TV obsession was Sesame Street. More than likely I correlated that the big round thing with numbers above our stove was the same as big round thing with numbers that Big Bird, Ernie, and the deaf chick who worked at Hooper’s Store calling a clock glossed on and on about as if were Jesus’ tack hammer.  Having this epiphany I thrust out my fat finger nearly blinding my mother as she fed me mashed peas, and made my groundbreaking proclamation. After that it was… non… stop… yapping.

Now I’m a female, and it’s known that women use on average 20,000 words a day. Men use around 8,000. While humans are cerebral creatures, men primarily rely on visuals and women the mental. It’s why we think of sex 6 times a day, and men up to 30. But thanks to evolution and the feminist movement (with the added help of the privacy of the internet) women are enjoying pornography more than ever. We’re catching up guys, please continue to be threatened. And that brings us to…

2) Extremely curious.

Now the why’s and what for’s can be placed in this box as well, but I needed a clear definition behind the why’s and what for’s. I had to know. Want to know why? I had nothing better to do. For the first 6 years of my life I was a bored, friendless, overeating only child. Mom was a neurotic obsessed with living up to her co-dependent mother’s standards and Dad was a miserly shit. I really hated these people. The only good I saw in my parents was that Dad had a big VHS collection (thanks to a short-lived time with bootleg HBO), bought me a lot of books, Mom could cook, and her relatives fed me like a pig. My father dealt with living in a racist environment in an interracial marriage with biracial kids by ignoring it, even though he was fully aware of the consequences. This would cost him his family, marriage, sanity, and well-being. Mom also chose to ignore because she was sheltered and depressed all her life with no experience in real cold world. Grandma is a co-dependent bully, Grandpa was an indifferent shithead, and Mom’s brother is a rage-aholic schizoid type personality. I don’t like to call my family dysfunctional, I like to call them colorful.

Despite being alone, I got plenty of mental stimulation. There was always talking (yelling) in the kitchen between my grandparents, mother, great-grandmother, and great-aunt. I love food and loved to help in the kitchen which grandma encouraged, so I helped cook from an early age. The first movie I ever saw was The Empire Strikes Back. I loved Dorothy Hamill’s The Nutcracker on Ice, Follow That Bird, The Dark Crystal, Labyrinth, and The Secret of Nimh. I read through my grandparents’ encyclopedias, Gramps National Geographic collection (he got me a book set on animals through NG once), a fat cookbook on pasta, and a huge-ass Random House dictionary with full color maps. Gramps also had a Time Life book set on WWII with these awesome photos. Dog fights, battles at sea, the Normandy landing, Reichstag parades, you name it. If I had to know why some shit was what, I looked it up. All the while I munched on bags of chips from the Wise assortment box- the 80s version. Not the shit they hawk at Target or Squalor Mart today!

This isn’t to say, I didn’t watch TV. I loved TV! Especially musicals! I danced and sang all damn day, being so hyped up after The King and I. Mom would go through great lengths to prevent me from seeing them sometimes because I was so goddamn loud. I but I’d find out what channel it was on regardless. I’d know she was up to something. Which brings me to…

3) Gets involved physically and mentally.

I began school at 3 by accident. I had a “friend” that was six months older than me and she liked to scare me to death because she was an undisciplined daredevil. And I was a big chicken. She was the little bitch who abused her pets and later on the unhousebroken family doberman bit her in the face. I think I mentioned her in a previous post. She started school before me and our new game was playing school. Kids tend to re-enact and adapt the newest thing into their playtime. Also she had this sweet Playskool school role playing set, a blackboard and a desk. She was the teacher, fully armed with a plastic pointer, and I was relegated to dumbass student forever getting whacked upside the head with the fucking pointer. As if she were Cecil B. DeMille the bitch would direct me to give the wrong answer, because it looked funny when I played dumb. If we were with a bunch of kids on her block and played school she would NEVER play the dumbass. She’d fly into a tantrum over that shit. Once I got defiant and consistently gave the right answers. She pissed the bitch, and hit me HARD. But not hard enough, I admit. I took the abuse because I thought that was how to make and keep friends.

She went to a Catlick preschool out of parish because it was free (our parish pre-k had a tuition). Mom and me went with the bitch and her mother to drop her off one morning (early enough in the year) and I just saw all those other kids having so much fun running around the schoolyard and all those colorful construction paper signs hanging in the windows welcoming kids back for a new school year, and thought just what the fuck was I missing out on? Taking a cue from the bitch I started to whine.

“I wanna go to school! I wanna go to school!”

Luckily Mrs. S, the teacher, was rounding up her class when she heard me.

“It’s okay, she can come in.” At first Mom thought that she thought was I old enough being that me and the bitch were the same height. Mrs. S. directed Mom to the main office and told her that it was okay and I could register at my age. Mom gave in and I was ecstatic. Yay for me! I’m so happening! I’m a big kid! I’m going to school! School is cool! This would be the last time those words would be strung together in my mind. I joined everybody on the line as Mom went fill out the paperwork, getting reassured that everything would be okay. She’s an independent kid, so go home and catch up on your sleep. It was a win-win.

Mrs. S (up until high school) was probably the best teacher I had. She was old-skool Irish, really nice, but hella strict. If you didn’t follow the rules, she lit into your little ass! And with God-given right! She didn’t give two shits that we were four. We were little crack monkeys, and were not to be trusted. If you planned on pulling shit, she must’ve gone to the same psychic academy as Sylvia Browne- but passed- and took you down on the spot like fucking Navy SEAL. But as much as a disciplinarian as she was, she was also a good damn teacher. She was patient, and above all, she loved what she did. There was an overall good vibe in her classroom, it was immaculate, white, and sunny. It smelled the way a classroom should smell like, cracking linoleum glue with a hint of chalk dust, and reams of grainy yellowish art paper from the 1960s. NOT LIKE A DIAPER BAG! Mrs. S. asked if her kids were properly toilet trained. Today there would be lawsuits and she would be forced to register as a sex offender.  There were METAL group tables for the kids, purchased from Crayola because they looked like the fronts of crayon boxes. Made in the USA baby, splashed right under the branding , block font kelly green on ocher. Not that Chinese shit from recycled plastic letting off toxic fumes because they have no concept of quality control let alone human rights! Every table had its supply box: some flat pencils, assorted Crayola markers, and a pair of actual metal kiddie scissors! You know, the kind that we never put out eyes or cut off fingers with. Because the corporations brainwashed breeders some time in ’91 with the belief that kids would be influenced to commit mass murder with metal art scissors, just to import cheap tin-lined two-toned plastic shit from Taiwan that couldn’t spread margarine- loaded with trans-fat- in order to shut down a factory in Tulsa. Y’know, to empty out the sites for future meth labs.

Toward the back there was Mrs. S.’s desk (no man’s land) and a closet, and further up adjacent from the blackboard was an upright black piano. Mrs. S. led us in Old MacDonald, The Star Spangled Banner, and other big hits and had a kid lead the group in singing- and I often did it. Learning to read and write the alphabet and our names on that lined paper with the HUGE spaces were paramount, but colors, shapes, identifying animals and things followed and she made it fun. We did dioramas all the time with shoe boxes, construction paper, aluminum (we burned through rolls of the shit for Xmas), and cotton balls. She hung up all our pictures, and I drew the nuttiest things, flying cats and grizzly bears with green hair and giraffe necks. We acted out animals and made their sounds, and had us do group work and I often lead our group. It was fun and engaging, and I had no problems with the other kids.

When it was time for me to go to “real pre-k” I thought it would be a blast. We had more playtime in the between. I jumped in willingly and had fun… with the kids who would play with me, but it didn’t deter me. Bringing us to…

4) Plays around, still gets good grades.

Of course I got good grades. You know why I got good grades? If I didn’t, I got punished. SIMPLE. AS. THAT. I admit I’m a fucking overachiever. I LOVED reading ahead. I LOVED shooting up my hand to answer all the questions. I had to be told by the shit teacher Mrs. M. that I had to give the other kids a chance. Mom failed on that. But Mrs. M. was a racist and often complained that when I was playing during lunch break I was “out of control”. Mom got neurotic and screamed at me, got Dad in it too. But she stopped all of a sudden when, quietly, one of the paras (volunteer mommy monitor) took her aside and called on M.’s bullshit. I wasn’t misbehaving. It was because I was part PR and able to read better and write complete sentences before the rest of the class. And when I got to kindergarten? I was called out by Ms. G. being a “strange girl” for reading ahead, preferring to get books from the school library for “reports” because they had better books than our shit collection, and she NEVER hung up my pictures. Oh, and she pissed the bitch that I played too much in the doll corner. Never mind the fact that nearly ALL THE OTHER GIRLS occupied our pretend kitchen and the jungle gym was boy central. I had a ton of wooden blocks at home, and plenty of small tinker toys as well so the block and toy corners just didn’t interest me. Since when did being above-average mean we can’t play?

I despised that overgrown uber-80s teeny bopper wannabe kindergarten teacher of mine, and she was only the second. My third grade teacher Mrs. B. mispronounced pupa (PYOO-PA) as PUPPA. I made the mistake of correcting her, she made my life hell for a while there. But back in kinder-hell Mrs. G. gave us a rainbow “lesson”, meaning that the color schematic had a cool acronym that can be easily remembered: ROY G. BIV. I was secretly happy that red lead the parade, but felt guilty that a pretty color like violet (purple’s kid sister) had to bring up the rear. So I asked her why did violet come in last. You could see the red veins in her sclera pop from the last row of us seated on our carpet swatches. And that segues us into…

5) Questions the answers.

Anne Frank is an icon. She’s an international symbol of Holocaust children victims and survivors, solidarity, the anti-war movement, and anti-discrimination. She was an ordinary 15-year-old Dutch Jewish girl thrown into the extraordinary circumstances of Nazi occupied Holland. She and her older sister Margot died in Bergen-Belsen concentration camp several weeks before liberation by British troops on April 15, 1945. For those who read her published diary we like to think she was a prophetic messenger, but if you read Carol Ann Lee’s The Biography of Anne Frank: Roses From the Earth, The Diary of Anne Frank: The Critical Edition, and watched the documentary Anne Frank Remembered, Anne was described as quite the scamp. Naughty and quite annoying at times. Always talking, asking questions, and had to be the center of attention. So much so that her precious Pim (Otto Frank) had to remove her from the room. But we don’t like seeing Anne like a whole human being, warts and all. But that’s the “tragedy” of the “gifted” child.

6) Prefers adults or older children.

Being still an only child and surrounded by old people influences you. I thought adults were mystical and teens were glamorous (a regular dose of John Hughes movies and coked-up ’80s teen shows do the trick). I wanted to be around them rather than kids my age. I couldn’t relate to them, primarily because they rejected me first. The grown-ups had real stuff to talk about and teens looked so cool in their two piece Catlick school uniforms and varsity jackets. Just like in Teen Wolf or Porky’s (yeah I saw that at a young age, my parents didn’t give a shit about what I watched- overcompensation).

7) Good at guessing.

Three words: Preschool Lotto Game. Mom got up, switched off the Looney Tunes, and we played. All damn day. Looney Tunes? What’s that?

8 ) Bored. Already knew the answers.

I will direct you back to the little paragraph I described about reading materials at home. And that it’s not illegal to read ahead during homework.

9) Shows strong feelings and opinions.

You think this blog was the beginning? Seriously?

10) Highly critical of self (perfectionistic).

Did I not say I was an overachiever? What do you think I really mean? I’m obsessive. Being ugly and fat and only half white with a failure of a father and a co-dependent grandmoo who share similar personalities, I scrutinize myself and torture myself beyond. I will never be happy with my work. I could always do more, make more time, extend this, elaborate that, trim more fat, it never ends. Not with schoolwork, writing, or household chores. I’m simply unsatisfied.

Well there you have it folks, the “gifted” child. Or should I say, your above-average headcase. But knowing breeders they’ll slip on those rose-colored lenses, filter everything as usual, and dance in a daydream. I’m not gonna stop you. Have a nice nap America.

Discipline-shy pussy parents: a cautionary tale

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 the fuck is wrong with women?

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.

Lights dim.

Curtain closes.

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?

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.

Anti-abortionists on the rag…

Just saw the anti-abortion ad from the Super Bowl (congrats Saints). Not the first one I’ve seen, I mean these fundie, woman-hating nutbags will do anything. Here’s what insulted me, they get a pretty, middle-class white woman to proudly announce she got knocked up as a teen. Because teens have sex. That’s just reality. Human behavior trumps the bible, Torah, and Koran every day of the week- and twice on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Don’t believe me, look at third world countries.

And that’s what fucks me up about this. A white middle-class teen gets knocked up. And her parents with money are willing to put their anger aside and help her raise her son so she can complete her high school education and watch the kid while she gets a job to support it all the while living in a nice middle-class suburb. Tell me Jesus freak, right-wing assholes who aren’t willing to empty their pockets to every charity, education fund, and food pantry, you think that happens to the black and brown people living in ghettos where that’s the norm? Or how about the poor whites living in Appalachia, the Rust Belt, and depressed cities and near ghost towns where industry has left them for cheap labor in corrupt China and Mexico?

Support Planned Parenthood. Put away all abortion doctor murderers. Keep prayer (and the 10 Commandments) out of our public schools and court houses. Regulate the banks. Enforce estate tax. Tax the fuck out of anybody making more than $250k a year. Mega churches and cults make further moves on encroaching on people’s private lives any further and you will see me go for the guns you so worship. Keep your holy books, misogyny laws, and greedy right-wing hands OFF MY BODY! Or you will be looking down the barrel of a shotgun, because I will see my gynecologist in peace (and then I’ll firebomb your house of worship). And, no, it’s none of your business why I’m there.

Yet another reason to stay childfree.