hen I was young my parents told me that good things come to those who wait.
They lied. Just like they lied about Santa Claus and the Toothfairy and string theory. They lied because we were poor and good things don't come to poor people. Only bad things. Like cabbage stew and Michael Jackson's wandering hands.

But try explaining that to a snot-nosed, bratty kid when you're standing in the 'Children's toys/Plus-size ladies' undergarments' isle at the local Walmart and he's longingly gazing upon that Super Duper Battle Zord he's always wanted and you don't have any money because you spent it on food and booze and spandex as the poor are wont to do and he's screaming that he wants he wants he wants.

Yeah, it's a tough situation and in tough situations those of lesser moral fiber lie. But I've lots of fiber. So much fiber my shit just slides right out. So much fiber I'd never lie to a kid because lying to soften the blow just makes kids weak. Those supple little bastards are already weak enough if you ask me, they don't need any more encouragement. If I were me, and I am, I would tell your kids the truth: you can't have that toy because mommy spent all her whoring money on crack.

Children should be left in the woods to raise themselves. None of this coddling bullshit. Kids need to be tough and there's only one way to learn. In the forest. With the trees and the butterflies and the savage deer.

Have you read in the paper about all those pit bulls attacking children? Course you haven't. You spend too much time reading the shite I spout on my Web Page of Doom. But if you had been reading the news you'd see that everyone is freaking out about the rise in these savage attacks on helpless children. You notice something wrong in that sentence? That's right. Helpless children. Youth isn't an excuse for helplessness. Children raised by the wild aren't helpless. Mowgli wasn't helpless. His best friend was a fucking bear. And he handed Shere Kahn's stripped ass over in a hand basket.

Let me tell you the heart wrenching story of little Nicky Faibish. Mrs. Faibish, Nicky's overly-doting mother had to leave the house to hunt for food. To protect her son from the two pitbulls she kept, she locked the boy in the basement. "I put him down there, with a shovel on the door," she said. "He had a bunch of foot. And I told him, 'Stay down there until I come back.'" But did he? Oh, no, he did not. Using the cunning given him by God and country he dislodged the ingenious shovel locking device his mother devised and escaped from his basemented confines.

Here our story takes a turn for the worst. The boy went upstairs right into the fangs of his family's pet bull. They fought. He died. And his mother had this to say: "Typical Nicky, he wouldn't listen to me."

Mrs. Faibish should be ashamed of herself. She spent twelve years raising a kid who couldn't even defend against a silly little pitbull. Pitbulls don't even have opposable thumbs for crying out loud. Twelve-year-old little Nicholas used his opposable thumbs to remove the shovel his mother had set against the cellar door. That shows smarts. Then he did the unthinkable, he was mauled by a fucking dog. If I were Nicholas, I would have taken that same shovel and beat the cur into sausage. Then mommy would come home and she would be proud because not only did I prove myself, but I made dinner as well.

The problem isn't that there are too many pit bull attacks. The problem is that there are too few. We are growing soft as a species. Now that we're sitting pretty atop the food chain, we've grown lethargic and I don't like it. I don't like it one bit. There's nothing to stop the commies from sweeping in and conquering us to the last fat, American ass.

Pit bull attacks should be a rite of passage. I know I'm going to throw my kid into the Thunderdome with a savage beast just as soon as his balls drop. I say 'his' because I will have only man-children. My sperm is all male.

I'll throw my kid in with a slavering pit bull, preferably one he's raised from a pup by his own hand, and I'll watch and chuckle as they duke it out until only one is left breathing. Whoever is left, that's my son. And I hate animals, so my man-child better win.

Perhaps a return to the days of the Wild West is in order. Those were the days, indeed. The days when men were men and women were men and children were men, but smaller men. And the women were men with boobs. But they were manly boobs. Like Carmen Brady's boobs. Oh, man, now there's a woman.

We need to beat your kids when they're young. No, not spank like the Bible tells us. Beat. Spanking is for when your kid does something bad. Like puts his shoes on the wrong feet. Or plays with dolls. Kids need to be beaten for no goddamn reason if they're to turn out right. Like me. When you come home from your nine to five, tired and sore and covered in blood, knock your kid around a bit. It's relaxing. It's therapeutic. If he asks why, just say 'oh, you know', because I guarantee the back-talking bastard did something that warrants a walloping behind your back.

These random ass-kicking’s will teach your children fear. Fear is a survival instinct. And beatings are a necessary developmental stage in a child's life. You can even turn it into a father/son bonding experience. 'Hey, daddy, can we go play catch?' 'Catch this fist in your ear, you pussy faggot.'

Regular random beatings teach your kid several important life lessons. First, they learn that life isn't fair. And they're gonna have to deal with it. By curling up into a ball and crying like a little pussy, if they have to. Second, they learn to respect authority. Especially when authority is bigger and stronger and is hitting them in the head with a 2x4. Lastly, they learn that might makes right. Darwin's golden rule. Don’t believe in Darwin? You deserve a beating, too.

The instinct kids these days are lacking is fear. They wander the streets in their trendy trucker caps and saggy Tommy jeans like they own the place. And they don't. They don't even pay taxes, for crying out loud. Fucking self-righteous little shits.

So beat your kids. Not for me. Not for you. For the children. Children are the future and there's nothing more important than that. They'll thank you as they're spitting on your grave.


Copyright 2003