Tell me...tell me you didn't do it. In the name of everything that
I and the rest of the civilized, intelligent world hold dear, please tell me
you didn't do it. For fuck and a shingle's sake, swear upon the nine orbs of
sanity that you didn't do what I think you did.
You have.
We're all fucked. I will now accept donations so that I may fund a
rocket ship off of this doomed planet to somewhere a little more safe, such as
the Sun.
You went and got yourself a kid. You see, somehow you
managed to finagle your piggly wiggly flaccid and criminally unkempt pathetic
excuse for a penis, that tiny little nub which in itself presents the essence
of inadequacy and all that is wrong with the human genome, into a willing - I
reiterate, WILLING - female of the human species, and now you'd like for me to
take time out of my all-important and vastly productive business schedule to
tell you how to raise the little homunculus spawn of the unwanted mongoloid
mutant shit dribble that you are.
You know, Bob - let's call you Bob - I don't even know if I
should. You see, if I help you right here and now, I will have ensured that
that which should not be, that which should by all rights not even be alive and
breathing my air, will grow into a
member of society such that will have a semblance of purpose, and frankly, I
don't want you or anyone like you to further perpetuate their genetic line any
further past the point where it should have ended - about three generations
before your slovenly carcass ever stunned this Earth and its medical community
by being alive this long.
I wouldn't be doing my job, however, if I were to refuse you. I
take my job seriously, so much so that I took a three year absence from it. So
on we go onto...oh God I can't believe I'm saying this...child rearing.
Chapter One: Feeding
You may be surprised to hear this, but you are not the only
bottomless gullet this world has to offer.
No, in fact, now that you have somehow produced some ungodly offspring
carrying your putrid genetic line, there is one more of exactly those; an insatiable, gluttonous, ever drooling and
fetid maw is now born and ready for to take this small and barely significant
planet for all the calories and saturated fats its worth.
It is no easy task for us, the humans resembling anything in the
fashion of protein-based life forms capable of self-sustainment with body
temperatures anywhere between 97 and 98.2 degrees to provide nourishment for a
gargantuan ready-to-implode-and-take-the-rest-of-us-with-it joke of creation
such as your ever expanding personage. However, I am happy, and in fact
exhilarated to report that now you – yes you, Bob – get to experience that joy
and burden with the rest of us.
Yes, us. Those who toil away at the ever grueling tasks of
fashioning small trinkets from wood and straw as to invigorate the economy and
the farming sector thereof enough in due order to provide your slovenly and
greasy gullet with the means to propel your useless soon to be corpse into the
oblivion of sweet, merciful death.
But now you alone get to do exactly that. HAH!
Fuck you and your shit!
Now then, as you will soon notice, the creature what hath burst
forth from your unimaginably chafed and sweat strewn loins will be as hungry as
your fuckwitted fuckslut of a sister at an all you can eat dick buffet. The solution to this conundrum is as simple
as your entire Middle America family.
You will take this small, intellectually forlorn specimen of human
inadequacy, and plant it firmly upon your Wal-Martian Rascar Scootered wife’s
dirigible breast-like lumps. You will
now see that it nourishes itself as happily and gainfully as your worthless
self does at Clucky McFuckin’s Chicken Fuck Shack. Phew, that was easy.
Next!
Next!
Chapter 2: Raising
I don’t know your morals, I don’t know your values, nor do I care
to. You are most likely situated somewhere in the “no one gives a fuck about”
portion of this planet, and whatever ancient fable you take your fuckwitted
dipship moral tenets from is just as horrific and genocidal as the next one, so
I am willing to let you get away with teaching those to your poor, henceforth
grossly misguided lump of residual placenta and haphazardly thrown together
DNA. I will, however, advise the following: do not, under any circumstance,
tell it that it can be whatever it wants to be. No it can not, and damn you Ted
Nugent for inspiring false hope into its small and vapid heart. At most, and I
do mean at most, it will end up drawling its way through a drive-thru menu at
the aforementioned Clucky McFuckin’s Chicken Fuck Shack , and that is precisely
where that fuck sack of diseased monkey dick will belong. Our society has done well these past few
thousand years with little influence from those such as you have reared
(despite what this great and glorious fuckknuckle nation’s elected official
roster may look like), and I will not have them marring the future of my society. Keep your ill begotten ilk away from me and those like
me.
Chapter 3: Eighteen Years Old
Fuck ‘em, not my kid,
kick them out, fucks I give. Seriously though, once the small genetic specimen
of yourself grows into a fully formed member of your dilapidated cloister of a
culdesacian society, put foot to ass and have them venture out into the world.
Why, you may ask, considering my disdain for such immensely dull creatures
entering my world at large, should I advise you to spew such waste forth into
this, the great and powerful world we have built? Why, it’s a matter of natural selection. Yes,
once your paltry contribution to the gene pool has made it into the actual
world, one which is devoid entirely of any corn stocks and wheat fields, it
will find itself in such a position as to have itself thoroughly fucked in its
corn bread fed ass by an oncoming car, which will have seen it fit to do
doughnuts on its fetid carcass until such time as the septic waste from your
alleged penis has transformed itself into a pink stain on the concrete
pavement. Also, the car in question will be driven by me. Again, fuck you and
your shit
Chapter 4: Dealing With Loss
Iunno. Like I said, fuck you and your shit. Fucks I give.
Pfft.
And there we have it, folks! Raise your children in the way I’ve
just prescribed, and we’ll have a great and glorious society for us all to
enjoy! Deviate, and…well, we’ll probably
just have more Clucky McFuckin’s Chicken Fuck Shack workers.
Cheers!
