I have nothing against children. Indeed, I think qualified persons should own a few. Children are often cute, sometimes amusing, and if we’re lucky, they grow into human beings instead of liberals. What does fry my old-straight-white-dude ass, however, is the effect that kids have on the people who create them–or who go out and adopt a trendy baby of color, which is, I suspect, a way for some white folk to signal they’re not entirely comfortable with being white.
Witness my former next-door neighbor, who adopted a child of color several years ago. Witness also the high-pitched wail I heard coming from this Radiohead-loving neighbor’s Facebook page following the Historic Election of 2016.
“How will I look my child in the eye when he grows up, and explain this election to him?” my neighbor wailed, rending his (own) Hillary 2016 pajamas for effect. “I am so beyond ashamed of my country right now.”
Holy fucking shit, Skippy! You were in danger of coming off like a weak-ass, sorry excuse for a man there: the sort that Bill Maher had in mind when he said too many liberal men sound as if they’ve given their balls to their wives to keep in their purses. (You also sounded like, and it pains me to write this, old sport, the kind of diversity-mongering father who would take his kid to a story-telling session hosted by a drag queen.)
Gimme me a Donald Trump fucking break, will ya?
Here’s what you do, daddy dearest, in anticipation of that tragic and fateful day when your young man asks why everybody still hates on that Orange Man who used to be president. First, grow a pair, or reclaim the pair that’s been jangling around in your wife’s purse these last few years. Then tell little Ababajoni (not his non-Christian name) that we can’t always get what we want; the early bird doesn’t always get the worm; and the race isn’t always to the swiftest or to the dyke who got the most popular votes. (And on the off chance that you understand the difference yourself, explain that we live in a constitutional republic, not a goddamn democracy.)
Whatever you do, pops, don’t feed the poor kid the same non-GMO gruel you must have gargled with somewhere along the line. Don’t tell him that Barry-H was undone by white people who didn’t like him because he’s half black. Don’t give him trigger warnings before you read him bedtime stories. And if he ever comes to you and tells you that he feels like a woman trapped in a man’s body, kick his ass nine ways to Sunday and send him to his room.
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