Gimme Back My Rib, Dammit.

Children ... the by-products of a few seconds of contorted facial expressions during a moment of ejaculatory bliss. Nine months later, you find yourself sitting in a delivery room watching the very same facial-contortions grotesquely exhibited on the woman's face as she craps in the bed and pushes from her freaskishly huge womanhood the baked goods you so feverishly created in a blink of an eye nine months prior. Joyous day, my lily white ass.

Flash forward nineteen years ... Children .... Can't send 'em back, even though I'm pretty sure I know of one money-grubbing, bearded cooch that could accommodate two spoiled and misguided spawn that I'm personally very familiar with. I'm beginning to believe that I was an unwilling participant in the devilish scheme of a family bent on world domination. Domination obtained through material appreciation, image massage and control of everyone through subjugated servitude provided by the unknowing, myself included.
Sadly, there are two innocents who have succumbed to the wiley ways of the Southern Charmer's hypocritical clan. Not knowing the difference between reality and perceived, or learned, reality is most certainly setting them up for a difficult life once they have been kicked from.... I mean, sent on their way from ... the cozy Restoration Hardware inspired designer home so meticulously prepared by a similarly plastic and recyclable birther.

Sure, I'm not perfect. Far from perfect, no less. Actually, I am so far removed from prefect that my flaws have flaws of their own. But that's okay with me. I like being flawed, it is quite liberating and knowing that I'm an imperfect being takes the worry out of consideration when contemplating walking through fire or across a pirhana-infested lake. I moved from that lake and hellfire a couple of years ago, leaving the birther with her magic mirror, purchased self-assuredness and neatly-appointed living spaces. I also left two impressionable teenage materialistic children who have undoubtedly been swayed into believing that the sperm donor that is their father is out of touch with what is real and important. Namely, paintball guns, a Mercedes-Benz, last-minute vacations and really spiffy toys and clothes. You, know, the necessities. Ironically, I am the one perceived to be at odds with reality when in fact I will attest that by losing everything I have gained everything and by everything I mean my sense of self and a firm grasp on what is real and important.

Yet, as these baked goods snub my advances to repair a relationship with them they unknowingly continue to fall prey to the horrors of future personal uncertainty about themselves. Hey, birther, possibly a new $700 paintball gun will allay this scenario? Perhaps a vacation? Why not just hand each of the spawn a crisp new $1000 bill each month with the word 'LOVE' written across the face in bright, red Gothis Script lettering?

Money is a necessary evil. In the wrong hands it is just evil and when viewed as the end-all means to an end it is more vile than a pile of birther crap cracklin' from the anus of one of Satan's minions during childbirth. Add vindictiveness and an unwillingness to accept defeat coupled with a headstrong attitude that forgiveness is conditional, for a price, and you have a recipe for today's society. I equate my children's birther mentality to that of the US Military involvement in Afghanistan. Tell the people (kids) what they want to hear. We are doing what we need to do. The enemy is evil. We must destroy oppression and tyranny since, afterall, they grow poppies and live in caves. Tell them these things to promote solidarity while secretly plotting to rape and pillage the enemy's resources which, whattaya know, just so happen to be very valuable... worth trillions perhaps.
Of course, I'm not worth trillions of dollars, but my individualism is worth far more and is something that the birther cannot lay claim to. And just like Afghanistan laying claim to their own resources and the US not being able to snatch it away despite very persistent attempts masked as aid and compassion, I hold onto my greatest asset, my independence and sense of self while the birther has no possible chance of taking claiming it from me despite her six-figure career, scads of high-profile 'friends' who support her in her destruction of the enemy (yours truly), plasticized chest and botoxed cheeks. Unfortunately, like many in our country who fall victim to the messages of 'spreading democracy' globally while being duped in the name of Franklin, Washington, Lincoln and Jackson, my baked goods will continue to snub the one half of the equation that helped create them as long as messiers Franklin, et al are presented as their guardians while good ol' dad is trashed and thrashed as being evil simply for refusing to accept personal defeat at the hands of a puppeteer.
Hope springs eternal and not from Bank of America. Joy comes from within, not from fluffed throw pillows and Celtics tickets.

Oh yeah, and when the time comes, I have pruning shears ... ideal for snipping puppet strings and trimming dead branches from skinned, beetle infested trees. No charge.