Parents Who Want Their Daughters To Be Whores, and How To Spot Them At The Mall
Remember when little kids were allowed to look, dress, and act like little kids? You know, before idiot parents started dressing them like whores Britney Spears?
Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if little five-year-old girls started getting off the school bus with shaved heads and no underpants. Wouldn’t that be COOL?
I hope you don’t think I was being harsh up there in paragraph one where I used the politically incorrect expression “idiot parents.” Because you can save your energy; I should have used a harsher word than merely “idiot.” Small children don’t buy their own clothing, you know, nor should they have more than a “do you want the red or blue shirt” say in the choosing of said clothing. So when we see tiny little girls prancing along the sidewalk dressed exactly like the two-bit prostitutes leaning against the lamppost there by the alley, who’s responsible for that? Madison Avenue? The Gap? MTV? Nuh uh. Whatever adult, be it Mommy, Daddy, Grandma, or Aunt Matilda, who bought the outfit, that’s who’s responsible. Don’t try to make excuses and blame anybody or anything else; the fact is: a little child wears whatever the adult in charge puts on him/her. And from the looks of some of the little children in the mall the other night, there are some pimps out there masquerading as parents.
I let my children have a voice in the selection of their clothing, sure. The same voice they had at dinner: take it or leave it. As they got older, they were allowed a little more voice, but the fact was, I paid for their food and for their clothing and therefore, I was the one whose choice ultimately won out. I did not dress my children like whores and thugs because I considered that mentality a joke. I mean, what decent parent would DO THAT?
They don’t, that’s what. Parents who do that are not decent parents. Their mentality is stuck in seventh grade, and their morals are leaning against the lamppost by the alley, and they were standing behind the door trying to keep their pants up when judgment was passed out.
Sorry, I’m ranting again. But I really think that any adult who dresses a child like a hooker or a cheap thug is someone to watch very, very carefully. They obviously want their child to appeal to a certain kind of person, and I find that extremely scary.
Oh, look, a seven-year-old girl in fishnet stockings, Daisy Dukes, and a halter made of two rosebuds and a piece of velvet ribbon! Isn’t that just the cutest thing? Her whale-tail just MAKES that little outfit! And the little boy with four inches of underwear showing, and the t-shirt with the obscene remark about teachers on it, complete with graphics? So cute. Such a little man.
Gag me with a spoon.
Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly. . . these are a few of my most favoritest things. . . .
PLEASE go check out the latest Carnival of Education over at the Education Wonks. I can’t believe I forgot to mention this sooner. Yes, it’s THAT IMPORTANT. Get over there now.
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I just got home from hanging out with some of my most favoritest people in the world, one of whom is my Tumorless Sister. The other two know who they are, and I hope they also know they’re on my Most Favoritest People List, too. (They’re currently on the lam or I’d mention their names.) (No, they are not ax-murderers.) (Thank you for asking, though.)
We met at Noodletown and stayed ’till they turned off the lights. I haven’t laughed so much in a long, long time.
Happy Birthday, Tumorless. I love you. There’s no therapy like laugh therapy. (Don’t go getting all manic on me, now. . . . .)
I love my two Non-Ax-Murdering friends, too, but I’m not going to get all publicly mushy on them. Unless they want me to, of course.
I had such a good time that I stopped at Marsh and bought some chocolate-covered-peanuts, diabetes notwithstanding. I thought several times on the way home about cracking open the sack and diving in, but I managed to wait until I got home to do that. (As I approached the causeway, I noticed that John Mellencamp is having another party tonight. ) (I thought about trying to get through those big iron gates, claiming that John was waiting for this bag of chocolate-covered-peanuts, but I decided I wasn’t really dressed for the occasion.)
As soon as I got home I turned my computer on. (It thinks I’m sexy.) And as soon as my computer came on, I started in on the peanuts. It was a tiny little bag so it didn’t take long to get to the chocolate crumbs at the bottom.
And then, lo, just when I thought I was finished snacking for the evening, I felt SOMETHING slide down my, um, front. You know, ‘between.’
I panicked, thinking things like “big bug,” and “bigger bug,” but when I reached, um, “between,” I discovered it was a stray chocolate-covered-peanut, melting from the heat, so I ate it. And I’m really glad nobody is in this room with me to see me occasionally stick my finger, um, “between,” and lick it.
Run with it, Google.
Oh, come on, people, invite me over for dinner. My table manners are great. I’ll bring dessert.
You have asked, I'm afraid, the only thing in my power that I cannot grant. Please don't ask it again.
Erik, oh Erik. How could Christine have chosen that insipid Raoul (or his brother, Phillippe) over you? It might even have been worth living forever in the dark, by the lagoon below the Opera House, to be with you. . . . to listen to that voice, that beautiful dubbed voice. . . that beautiful accent. . . oh, Christine, how could you choose the Fockers over the Phantom? Erik, Erik, pick me instead? I know you murder people, but nobody’s perfect. Sometimes, I have those thoughts myself, although I haven’t your courage of conviction. And after hearing and watching this duet, I’d go anywhere with you. Oh Faust Erik. . . .
Ahem, um, excuse me, you were saying? (Blush) I tend to take anything that contains Charles Dance a bit seriously. Can you blame me? I mean, look at that chin. . . .Don’t worry; I wouldn’t really run away with Erik unless he asked me to in which case I’m gone, sorry kids .
I know that some people poke fun at this version, but I don’t care. Every time I see it, I entertain thoughts of. . . . well, never you mind.
Is it hot in here or is it just me?
