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Dear Unlicensed Breeders:
I was raised in a household where children were given freedom to have fun with the understanding that the parents were to be told when, where, and with whom, and if that was deviated from, a call home was de rigeur.
You did what your parents told you, Or Else. Why? Because They Said So. Failure to comply earned you an all-expenses-paid trip to your room. Grounding was a valid punishment. Allowances were given or earned or withheld. If you did something wrong, you were punished - and this included getting your ass tanned with a hand or a wooden spoon or a rolled up newspaper if you really fucked up.
You respected your parents. You called your friends' parents "Mr." and "Mrs." even when they said you could use their first name. You said "please" and "thank you" and "excuse me" and "I'm sorry" and fucking well meant them.
You didn't throw firecrackers at people's heads. You didn't try and zap strangers in the eye with a laser pointer - if your parents caught you doing this, they'd scold you at the very least and make you apologize. . . or spank you right in public, then make you apologize.
So don't look at me like I'm reciting Klingon opera when, the third time I catch your gurbby little urchin doing both of these things and proclaim loudly, "Look, you little fuck, knock that shit off right now," because, I'm gonna snap your little pissant's arms off, shove him up your ass, and then beat your husband into remoulade, because you're incapable of doing your job as a fucking parent.
If you and your ill-mannered spawn bother me again, hear me when I say I have no patience for you and your l'aissez faire "parenting" - the instant one of your little shitspawn breaches the personal boundaries of me or those I deem worth standing up for, I -will- forcibly intrude and impose some fucking responsiblity on you.
I've said it before and I say it again now - we require people to get a license to cut hair, but any yahoo with working genitalia can become a parent.
I'm not going to raise your fucking kids, but I will instill in them the idea that someone else might disapprove of their asocial caperings, even if you're incapable. So when you need Junior to help you pick up your teeth, remember. . . you may not be the only one teaching them the way the world works.
I was raised in a household where children were given freedom to have fun with the understanding that the parents were to be told when, where, and with whom, and if that was deviated from, a call home was de rigeur.
You did what your parents told you, Or Else. Why? Because They Said So. Failure to comply earned you an all-expenses-paid trip to your room. Grounding was a valid punishment. Allowances were given or earned or withheld. If you did something wrong, you were punished - and this included getting your ass tanned with a hand or a wooden spoon or a rolled up newspaper if you really fucked up.
You respected your parents. You called your friends' parents "Mr." and "Mrs." even when they said you could use their first name. You said "please" and "thank you" and "excuse me" and "I'm sorry" and fucking well meant them.
You didn't throw firecrackers at people's heads. You didn't try and zap strangers in the eye with a laser pointer - if your parents caught you doing this, they'd scold you at the very least and make you apologize. . . or spank you right in public, then make you apologize.
So don't look at me like I'm reciting Klingon opera when, the third time I catch your gurbby little urchin doing both of these things and proclaim loudly, "Look, you little fuck, knock that shit off right now," because, I'm gonna snap your little pissant's arms off, shove him up your ass, and then beat your husband into remoulade, because you're incapable of doing your job as a fucking parent.
If you and your ill-mannered spawn bother me again, hear me when I say I have no patience for you and your l'aissez faire "parenting" - the instant one of your little shitspawn breaches the personal boundaries of me or those I deem worth standing up for, I -will- forcibly intrude and impose some fucking responsiblity on you.
I've said it before and I say it again now - we require people to get a license to cut hair, but any yahoo with working genitalia can become a parent.
I'm not going to raise your fucking kids, but I will instill in them the idea that someone else might disapprove of their asocial caperings, even if you're incapable. So when you need Junior to help you pick up your teeth, remember. . . you may not be the only one teaching them the way the world works.
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