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The Soft-istication of a Generation

Updated: Nov 11, 2019


The Soft-istication of a Generation

I remember when my first son was born (1998) bike helmets were seen everywhere;

every kid that rode a bike, skateboard, walked wore-at the least, a helmet.

At the time I really didn't make much of it, I thought-

huh...look...dorks, but if "THEY" say it's safe...

I say this because in my day no one wore a helmet and as far as I know-no one ever suffered any life altering injuries because they didn't wear one-or maybe i'm just showing my ignorance and age.

Then it happened-the day I became enlightened:

It was 2004, I had my two sons at one of our local playgrounds; it was a regular day, kids playing on the swings and kid stuff...or so I thought.

My boys’ voices faded into the background with all the other kids at this particular playground.

I was reading the Philadelphia Inquirer drinking my coffee, not really worried that my boys would run off because I trained them well and knew they wouldn't do something so stupid.

Then she approached me.

Before I finish, let me explain where I was-I was in a playground, in a working class neighborhood in Philadelphia-not too far from where I grew up.

A playground where I could-if wanted to, strike up normal conversation:

“How bout that game last night?” (Insert: Eagles, Phillies)

“Excuse me-you know anybody that does...)

(insert: plumbing, electric, cement, mechanic, etc.)

"Are they your children...the two running around with those...disgusting toys?"

she said with authority and snoot-izm and complete ignorance.

Her: A bulbous 210 if not more, ‘5-10”

Her eyes were close set and looked up as she spoke.

Her hair was a wild, dusty brown mess of a bob I only saw in pictures from the 1920’s-before conditioner.

She had straggles of gray hairs that sprung out like worn springs.

She wore a purple V-neck shirt-the thin soft cotton type that sucks to one’s body-like I wished it didn’t to hers. Her arms looked like two massive sides of beef and her gut…sorry-excuse me…I just swallowed throw up…She wore it tucked in-reveling her text book vagumic.

The pants were a cream colored-style unknown, but unfortunately seen by woman of her ilk-floods that stopped just before they reached her cankles where her blue boat shoes screamed for mercy.

The nose was way too long-for any face-and the scab on her upper lip was the cherry on the repulsive cake that was her face.

(CONTINUING...)

I immediately began looking for my boys and the apparent vibrator they must have found.

"What...where?" I asked as I stood up.

My sons must have thought we were leaving, seeing me stand up, they came over to my side.

"Must be someone else's kids." I said with a smile to the ugly woman.

"No...it's them-and I would hope parents today knew better than to let their kids play with guns-be it toys." She said with her dried out brown bob hair due and huge flaring nostrils.

I stood there confused for a moment. What is this fat bitch talking about...is she nuts. I thought as I gave her a, gradually increasing, irate look. Then I quickly realized what I was dealing with. "Ma-ma...MA MA, I hurt my hands sliding down the ride" said this fat kid-maybe 10 years of age, as he ran over to his “mama”...while wearing a helmet and elbow pads.

Now... I can't even lie and say I thought this kid might be some rad skateboard or

BMX bad ass-wearing all the pads and stuff, nope...I sized him up pretty quick and knew he was a little pussy...anyway back to my epiphany-Her kid after being consoled by his mama and wiped down with antibacterial wipes, got back on his...big wheel...the kid, was fashioned with equipment even the NFL doesn't know exist so he can ride his fucking big wheel.

It all dawned on me in the nanoseconds it takes a brain to process things. I looked at my sons, dirt on their cheeks as they stood there smiling holding their toy cowboy guns with their back towards Mrs. fatty and her bitch of a son.

She decided she was going to take the torch this day and carry it right to my face. I was now apart of the ‘Hillary Clinton Village’ and I needed to be schooled in the new edict of child behavior and proper parenting.

"Know what offends me...kids that call their mom-mama after two years old, and moms who think they are intimidating when they try the public humiliation tactic...especially when they're fat and ugly and procreate more dorks than a dildo factory...like you."

I don't condone mistreating woman, but this was the exception to the rule, who the fuck do you think you are coming over to me-especially with my boys, who don't butt in line at the slide 'n board let alone scream and shove like most these little shit bags-created by twats like fatty.

It all made sense to me as soon as I saw the pungent little dweeb that wore the symbols of security to the new generation of parents that would graduate to playdates, participation trophies, and discussions with their seven year old about “feelings” and what offends them.

I realize-now that my children are older, that I-along with my wife, did a good job with our kids.

When my kids were younger, whether in our house or out in public, if they acted up after being warned to stop-and didn't, I’d give them a little crack on the ass and that was the end of it-chaos contained.

Of course the looks I got from-fatty's kind, was that of complete horror…then, ten minutes later, down aisle 9, was her screaming kid-refusing to leave until he GOT Lucky Charms.

“I hate you mommy!” sounded like music as I passed aisle 9 with my two boys-and of course I bought them Lucky Charms, I love the compressed marshmallows.

The moral to my story is just let kids be kids. Guide them and use your best instincts when it comes to their betterment. Unless it makes sense-don’t follow trends in parenting...let your boys play toy guns (I did-so did my friends and as of today none of us have shot or killed anyone) …climb a tree, fart, get hurt then teach them to get back up.

I am not saying don’t take precautions, or you should let your child ride a bike in the street blindfolded, I guess I’m saying I’m sick of fat ugly woman who are raising their children, especially sons, to be softer than Neville Chamberlain's diplomacy skills. These will be the same kids-that one day, will be making the rules they themselves won’t follow…getting back at society that made them forgo an exciting childhood.

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