Posts tagged ‘mother’

Mother’s day 2017

Been to a gift shop, found these “innocent” party masks. 

I have seen that movie. Those three are going to have their way with a woman in an all night ravaging orgy. 

So, there’s a gift idea for this Sunday’s mother’s day 2017: If you don’t know mommies three “best friends”, just give her these masks, she’ll make good use of them. 

Crappy Mother’s day, and if you get a new sibling in February, and your mommy calls them an animal name like rabbit, deer or teddy/bear – you’ll know more than you ever wanted…

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Keeping the gate

 … closed. Real tight!

(An experimental father blog post)

During my vacation I got to spend a lot of time with my son. 
Alone, out in the wild, where people are. 
Where mothers roam.

Running around in an urban area one day, a suburban the next, rural one on day three, zoo, aquarium, playgrounds. 
Everywhere you go as a dad with your child, you meet them. 
The Mothers. 
Especially the “MOTHERS”(tm). 
And everywhere you meet them, they give you a smile.

Nice. Isn’t it?

No.
It isn’t. 
It is no smile of joy, of friendliness, of kindness. 
No. 
This the contemptuous, belittling smile of a person about to drown a puppy.
If women were treated this way in hardware-stores, feminists would (rightly) tear them to the ground. 
Brick by brick.

With that one “smiling” glance they let you feel how superior they feel over you, how they see you as an intruder into their realm, their domain, their existence. How they despise your very presence there, and think, or feel, that everything you do is wrong, that you are wrong for even attempting to spend time with your child alone.

These women define themselves, and validate their entire existence, through the fact they squeezed a human being out their vaginal opening. 
There is no place for you, for a father, a man, in that world, the realm of the mothers.

Maternal gate keeping.

It’s a thing: 
》A father maybe plays with the kids under maternal supervision, is permitted to accompany the “MOTHER”(tm) and the kids to the playground. But, and this is the most important thing, a true mother never, ever, lets her children leave the house with the father unsupervised. 
A father does not feel or think with/for his children like a mother, thus can’t take care of the child(ren) like the mother.《
BULLSHIT!

All that is implied in that one smile they give you.

Dads! Rejoice. 
For these women lead the most pitiful life imaginable. Once the kids are old enough to leave the nest, once the menopause has begun to haunt their bodies, ravaging their self-validation with the undeniable fact that birthing is forever off the table, they have but a shallow empty ghost of a reason to live. Whilst we have memories of time spent with our children, the husbands (or lifepartners) of these despicable women will have memories of them spending time with children under maternal supervision that was as strict like a prison visit. 
Relax fellow dads. 
Smile back, and put all the pity you feel for these old hags who have lost the reason to live due to aging, in that smile. 
Give them the same pity, the same contempt and dispise they give you. Disrupt their self image, for they expect a shocked expression, a shy or hurt glance, shame in your eyes. If you hand them back what they dish out, they are disrupted.
Maybe, just maybe, you can draw a “MOTHER”(tm) back to the realm pf normal people, and make her a normal mother.

Take care,
A.

Crappy Birthday in August

Imagine the possibilities with this!

Mother-in-law, tax agents, debt collectors, Antivaxxers, white supremacists, filthy rebel scum and others who you love just as much like the aforementioned groups. Who hadn’t had paranoia before, feels watched now.
To paraphrase (and alter) the slogan the furniture store I found this gem in: Do you still dwell, or are you afraid already?

Intrusive thieves will not find the safe behind/underneath this carpet. Rather they voluntarily will leave the premise in a copcar they called themselves (plagued by horrid fears of paranoid delusions), relieved to be incarcerated, thinking they could escape the soul piercing gaze, which will follow then into every cell, every nightmare.

Crappy Birthday.

Mommy blogs!

Or joint parent blogs.

I have never indulged in the activity of reading these insipid, driveling wastes of insignificantly minute storage space on the net.
First off, I’m not the target audience – a mom, and secondly these blogs almost never have any value.

You’re not gaining some new insight on how to “parent”, that you didn’t get from being one, or having one. There is not enough substance to these vapid excuses of brain leakage, that would permit wasting time on reading them. Or just one.
Same goes for 99% of these so called “parenting magazines”, with articles so empty you are left to wonder why these sniffling shits aren’t writing speeches for politicians.
If it weren’t for product testing – including lab tests for hazardous materials – these magazines would be worth less than ink and paper, separately, used to make this glossy kindling.
I digress.

Mommy (b)logs are used by the mommy bloggers to make the simplest most mundane task look like a deed more heroic than the deeds of all Marvel and DC superheroes combined.
Mommy dearest breastfeeds her baby despite it being four and will continue to do so, until the kid enrolls in college. She carries the child in a sling, although her shoulders are bleeding, claiming “her indigo crystal child needs the intimacy, closeness and prolonged bonding,” although the brat is clearly old enough to fracking walk, or even go on prolonged hikes.
Great job.

Vegan, gluten-, lactose-, sugar-, and fat-free is an added “burden”, because it creates a (selfimposed) martyrdom to raise a child this way, with relatives and friends and doctors(!) telling them that it is absolute BS.

Adding to that, they hallow their “parenting” (and thus themselves) even more, if they are absolute nutjobs who think science and medicine are evil and thus they raise desease ridden, virii spreading little snotballs who run from vaccines and pills like they stole something.
But hey, they raise kids who are “all natural”. (Despite humans being omnivores, not herbivores, and our very existence outside of Africa is unnatural, but that’s not the issue here.)

That’s another staple of mommy bloggers.
The absolute glorification of the natural, and nature, ignoring the cold, logical, harsh and mindblowing truth that EVERYTHING is perfectly natural, unless some shit comes oozing into this universe through some rift in the space-time continuum.

But these narcissistic, ego driven, professional parents and breeders probably have lactated away all the brain cells necessary for rational and coherent thought, thats why all these blogs (or magazines) are shallow, pitifully dumb, meaningless drivel. People who read or write mommy blogs are people who have picture frames with the words “Friends”, “Family” and especially “Selfies” at home. For this is just another of the “Give me attention, because I am” cases, like the Selfie-people .

If you ever happen to strand on a Mommyblog, take it for what it is, snot. If you stare at the screen for too long thinking that a deeper meaning would peel out of this mindless conglomeration of letters and words, your eyes will roll back in your skull and they will find you, once your bills go unpaid, as a half rotten corpse in front of a computer that burned down in self pity.

Take care, and don’t read mommy blogs, they are an insult on the very words making them up (“mommy” and “blog”), as sell as an insult to anyone thinking.
A.

Devastated o_o

We sent a picture of my son and another Baby (a girl) to my mom.

She didn’t recognize her own grandchild.

Some people said that he resembles me, others that he resembles his mother. I asked her whether she too thinks he looked like MY father on that picture.

No reaction. She didn’t recognize him.

My son wore a body that resembles a poloshirt, the girl (one day younger) wore a body that resembles a blouse, with a Minnie Mouse (pink bow) imprinted on the front.

She still didn’t figure out which one her grandSON is.

😦

What the actual frak?

Is it really that difficult for a woman to lift her hind-qarters off the couch and go visit her grandhchild? I would excuse this if we wwould live hundreds of kilometers apart. WE DON’T!
We live in the same god damn city! Just dial us up: “Are you folks home this weekend? Great, I’d like to see my grandson! Let’s meet somewhere / Can I come over / Would you come here / etc.?”

It wounds me. She saw him three times, THREE. And can’t tell him from another baby, which is clearly clad in girls clothes. WHAT THE ACTUAL FRAK?!?

Hope your weekend was better…
A.