Some time here using WordPress with quite gall has given birth to a strange fruit. There are some people convinced that a post can be only originally mine, if it is seasoned with some loud profanities. I’m not evil spoken. On the contrary. I rarely sneak an obscene lexeme during a conversation. A civilized one, I mean.
Different thing is this transgressor blog … Especially considering that these post are published in a world of autistic volunteers where no one is feeling alluded, unless -allow me this periphrastic contradiction which reinforces what I mean- you kick them directly in the balls.
It also rarely occurs to me… being alone … but it does … rarely and listening to the radio. Yes, I still hear the radio, but that is another matter altogether we won’t discuss here today.
I was saying that the other day, giving ear to a female radio reporter, so naive and innocent as my saint mother, she assured, with all the ingenuity of the world politically correct, that boys should not be given toys that encourage violence, and it’s good that we should entertain them also with dolls and small kitchen gadgets, thereby, that brat was assuring without citing sources, they will have better and more peaceful feelings, be better fathers, and perhaps successful hairdressers tomorrow.
And the pundits who accompanied the reportriz, instead of splitting the pectus with laughter and ask if she had children old enough to merit, to try them, they were, as usual in these cases, heartily agree. There you hit the nail, they said more or less. As if they were hearing the Gospel.
And nobody had the guts to say there, to that fellow creature: try with your midget bastard, a male one, if you have it. Or more visual, if possible: put him near a doll, a baby’s bottle and a hammer. After, watch what he takes and for what he will use it. Let’s see what he does, the motherfucker. And then tell me.
Now, do me a fucking favor. After you chock this page, if you do, spare me comments telling me that your Johnnies love their sister’s dolls and play to cook partridge that taste as glory. I’m not saying here there are no Johnnies. Nor that they shouldn’t there be.
In the same way that I love -even more than the others- the Susans that do not limit their tastes and horizons to cradle dolls, and are able to get the phylum of a dagger on your jugular while whispering “If you stop now, I’ll kill you.” Or whatever. For my part, I just talk about what it is. The natural haunts of the calf and the absurd, even dangerous, of forgetting overnight, with more good will than practical intelligence, millions of years of hunting and war. Giving, for example, the grotesque paradox I attended the other day.
They organized for a few children five and six -that have or will have at home video games with zombies and bloody massacres- a party at their school where the assholes should disguise as cowboys, but forbidding them to carry a gun. “You can go to the West without being violent,” “Let’s have good vibes with rustlers and Indians,” would a parent say. The same, I suppose, that was said by General Custer.
And for the record I’m not evil spoken. On the contrary. It is just this fucked up world!
I’m not evil spoken – Dugutigui