An Open Letter to the Next Mass Shooter

The following message is directed towards the next school/club/theater shooter.  You know who you are.  

You’re angry.  The world fucking owes you, man.  At least you think so, and your opinion MATTERS.  To you.

You’re a male, of course.  It’s not even a question.  As a member of the inferior sex, you’re just prone to want to kill random people with guns, and hilariously, because ‘Muricans love guns way more than little kids, you’ve got a whole collection of “legal” firearms. Awwwww......

It’s not ever your fault, it’s our society or maybe your mommy abused you or your daddy was a racist some big-vaginaed woman said that trying to ride your teensy weensy (which was flaccid because you prefer big, hairy, butch ape men and could never admit it) was like throwing a hot dog down a hallway. Your precious fee-fees were hurt so now you’re a homicidal maniac blah blah blah.  

The Void awaits

At any rate, you’re a sad, sad, lonely man with a gargantuan ego and an even larger entitlement complex.  They will call you a lone wolf shortly after you take a dozen bullets to your scrotum (perhaps you should not have used it as your primary organ of cognition) and you and all your dreams will end in one terrifying second as you realize neither Heaven nor Hell awaits, just a terrifying flash-memory of everybody you disappointed and a one-way, screaming-in-protest-holy-shit-if-only-I-could-go-back-in-time ticket to the black, eternal void.  

No more you!  

As a wannabe serial killer who has a few more brain cells than you, meaning just enough so I don’t think I’m a speshul snowflake who could not possibly ever be wrong-headed, I would like to make a suggestion for your impending swan song.

How about taking your coup de grace act to a room of Wall Street executives?    In a world where Gwyneth Paltrow has her own restaurant, what the hell are you doing marching into a gay man’s club?  

Seriously, if you have a semi-automatic weapon and a grudge, there are plenty of country clubs and executive power retreats where you could gleefully introduce the very unheard-of and nouveau notion that infinite greed comes with infinite consequences.   You want to be a hero?  Want to start a cool trend?  There are Nestlé, Monsanto, and Dow Chemical CEOs with your name on their heads; it is written there between their eyes under the Number of the Beast.  You could be doing the whole world a huge public service.  You would be praised like a god long after your death.  

Instead, you choose mediocrity.

You target universities, because you’re dumb.  You target gay clubs, because you can’t admit you want to be corn-holed by other males.  You target sororities, because you are dweeby and unpopular.  You target schools full of kids because you can’t stand that you’re not King Bully of the schoolyard anymore.  

You’re a loser. After you die, you’ll be the worst sort of loser… a FORGOTTEN loser!  

Don't forget to pucker up when you kiss the void.

Hillary and the $10,000 Umbrella Stand that F**ked the World

You can trust this person... to hide from the nuclear apocalypse she orchestrated!

The year 2019... the Earth is deep in a nuclear winter.

The United States is but a smoking rubble heap; a gray, cold, sulphur-stinking open pit of skeletal half-buildings, endless ruined tract housing, blown out bridges and abandoned cars.  The rest of the world isn't doing too great either, suffering inconveniences such as skin-eating acid rain, radiation cancers, birth defects, and mass starvation.

This is what happens when you piss off countries with more power than you.

Safe tho

Somewhere, President Hillary Clinton cackles in her tricked-out secret bunker.  While Russia and China blew the US to smithereens, she and her one percent pals giggled like a rapist who received a few month's jail time instead of a prison sentence because of white privilege.  While the cities of the US were blown back into the year 5 billion B.C, Hillary and pals sipped fine wine from the province of Burgundy that cost 3x as much as some poor kid's cancelled college scholarship.

He won't need it though.  He's dead.

Outrageous!  How did we ever let it get to this point?  How could the US elect a psychopathic warmonger clearly and blatantly overjoyed to push the red button?  Wasn't there some other guy running who didn't have a dead, bleach-orange ferret on his head?

Don't blame Hillary Clinton or the unhinged Illuminati bankers and Monsanto executives who pull her puppet strings hiding in bunkers.

Blame the real culprit.

Blame Hillary's $10,000 umbrella stand.

Hillary Clinton has not been human since her days as a Goldwater Girl, that halcyon era when she still was able to use her pudgy, vanilla pudding brand of sensuality to advance herself to the highest executive bidder.  Hillary's complete lack of personal conviction and spongy morality made her a easy target for sleazebags, hence her marriage to Bill Clinton.  She was also vulnerable to a far more secret, potent adversary of mankind, the $10,000 umbrella stand.


The innocuous $10,000 umbrella stand.  You might think it is just a normal umbrella stand, but expensive.

You would be DEAD WRONG.  All umbrella stands are inherently diabolical because they are the embodiment of demonic space entities who were trapped in the center of the Earth millions of years ago.  Umbrella stands priced at 10K and above are the heads of the Mystical Ultimate High Priesthood of Umbrella Stands, or MUH-PUS.

Umbrella stands are obsessed with nuclear war, regardless of the fact many umbrella stands perish in nuclear wars.  Like Hillary Clinton, umbrella stands don't understand what nuclear war means, because they have no concept of actions causing consequences.

Really, what do you expect from a demonic umbrella stand?

Hillary Clinton once had a soul

I do realize I am asserting the ludicrous notion Hillary Clinton once had a soul.  Back when Hillary identified as a RepubliKKKan, there were a few glimmers of humanity buried under all that pathological, white girl hatred of black men.  Though most of her personality has sought power for its own sake the majority of her life, at one point Hillary had a small internal debate about whether or not to cheat on an exam.  Of course she chose to cheat, duh (how else do you think she became President?) yet there was a tiny spark of "Maybe I shouldn't cheat."  Once this weak glow was mercilessly stamped out, Hillary's thoughts wandered to home decor.

Home decor as a gateway drug!

Hillary is the exact type of white person that owns an umbrella stand, which gave the demonic entity a way in.  Pricey umbrella stands have always been de rigeur in certain greedy circles, as it is the finishing touch to a rich person's grand foyer.  One might argue that the umbrella stand is even more essential than the Farrow & Ball wallpaper or the hand-knotted wool rug washed in the tears of Persian children.

Of course Hillary had to have an umbrella stand -- how could she even pretend to concern herself with issues like universal health care (LOL that didn't happen) or affordable college education (don't even ask) when HER FOYER HAD A CHEAP UMBRELLA STAND?  Sure, Hillary's corpulent, middle class, divorced housewife equivalent in her tacky, $650,000 new construction vinyl-siding suburbox is satisfied with a $90 umbrella stand from HomeGoods (ugh can you even?), but Hillary Clinton knows she deserves better.

Umbrella stand goes to war

The umbrella stand, once in Hillary's life, began to run the show, because that's what demonic umbrella stands do.  Libya?  Overthrow the government!  Syria?  Same thing!  NATO?  Bring that shit right up to the Russian border!  ISIL?  Sell them some guns!  Ukraine?  Fund neo-Nazis in the name of democracy!  Hillary might not have known who she was pissing off (or maybe she thought she was doing it to profit from war and steal oil), but the umbrella stand knew full well.  Overworked, Kardashian-addicted 'Muricans were nonplussed when Hillary's and her cronies tried their illegal coup in Ukraine -- 'Muricans had other things to think about, such as how to get to the next paycheck without becoming homeless -- but once she started recruiting 18 - 25 year old young men and women for her suicidal campaign against Putin, even the dim-witted dullards of 'Murica knew they were in for it.

As she had done many times in the past, Hillary & Co. manufactured a false flag bombing of a city.  This time it was European city close to the Russian border, so even though nobody believed it, she claimed Russian terrorist anti-US militants were responsible.  One thing led to another, and soon Hillary was sending bombs and and a few, proud, disposable young men from the states of North Carolina and Kentucky to become "heroes" in Moscow.  Not a lot, just a couple thousand of them to show them the US meant business.

Mistake.

One dead world empire and severely-bottlenecked population later, there aren't any Americans left to put Hillary's head on the stake where it belonged all this time.  Any Americans who survived are too busy watching their children die of starvation and radiation sickness to care about some greedy politician and her foyer accessory (along with some fine linens and well-considered dining room seating) holed up in a lava-proof bunker in Iceland.

Necrovores Can't Take A Joke

Just keep believing animal fat isn't related to diabetes and you'll be fine... except you won't have toes.

Dear Necrovores,

You are annoying and your sense of humor sucks.  As vegans, we can hardly blame you for your constant general lack of good cheer, tendency towards the negative, and fervid, evangelistic desire to recruit others into your misery club.  

Unlike you, we vegans eat plants, so we are not dealing with:

A. Chronic cycles of approximately 4 -  20 days worth of constipation broken only by either hour-length sessions of violent, hemorrhoid-inducing straining or crampy diarrhea

AND

B. A constant state of paranoid defensiveness arising from a long-buried sense of morality where you realize you wouldn’t want to be treated like the animals you eat and exploit

If vegans had to deal with being full of shit (literally), I suppose we would be humorless, insufferable boobs too.

But for now, you necrovores have got the patent on that. My Jokes Are Funnier Than Yours Since your idea of a joke usually involves the suffering of an innocent being you think the world owes you to eat or use, I’m here to inform you my jokes are funnier than yours.

That one about bacon?   Your kid’s fried ass cheek tastes about the same, according to the good cannibals of the world.  If God didn’t mean for someone to eat your children, why did He make them out of meat?  Hilarity ensues when you can’t tell the difference between a pig’s belly and your kid’s in a taste test.  Could you tell the difference?  Let’s make it happen.  I’m happy to wait until you reproduce.  I’m very patient.

I want my baby back baby back baby back.... BARBECUE SAUCE!

That one about vegans being weak and sickly?   Nice try.

That one about plants having feelings?   That’s a self-defeating joke, as you eat cheese and the flesh of cows who feed on tons of GMO corn and soy.  Yeah, I hate to break it to you, all those visions of animals eating magic stones and rainbows that populate your tortured, superstitious, childish mind don’t reflect what happens in real life.  The Earth’s last rainforests are cut down for your addiction, so dumbass, please don’t make a fool of yourself telling us about your vegetable rights activism. Let's See... Looks like you've covered logical fallacies, especially ad hominem attacks, threats of rape, and racist slurs when trying to be "funny". Here's a clue: none of that shit is funny and you actually deserve severe and unforeseen comeuppance for it. Here's to retribution being delivered to you in a timely, but ultimately surprising fashion.  

Nothing to see here!  No need to worry!

Your Future, Not Mine :-)
My jokes, however, aren’t just funny in the short run.  It’s the long game at which my jokes excel.  
For every animal you eat, I’m going to do an extra lap around your future nursing home.  The Death of A Thousand Cuts awaits you and yours, my friend, caused by your current “free choice” to stuff little bits and pieces of cadavers and titty/vag squirts down your greedy gullet because you harbor a mental delusion that your body needs someone to die in order for you to live.  The last laugh will be on my face when I pedal my new bike around your Hellpit of Eternal Stench.

I’ll wave to you from outside while you slowly die in the care of underpaid nurse aides who routinely fail to change your soggy, rancid diapers.  Health is wealth, and by that standard, you are going to be very, very poor no matter what your portfolio looks like.  I don’t think you’ll enjoy your stay in the land of shunts and MRSA, though it will be a fitting culmination for certain.  Please have them try and crack one of the windows on that airless, reeking place, so I can hear the soft murmurs of you and your necrovore pals begging for death.  So much for you telling me to kill myself -- you’ll wish for me to come and kill you someday, but I am certain to have better things to do than relieve you of your suffering.  

I suppose anything, including death, is preferable to watching ancient syndicated re-runs of Two and a Half-Men while awaiting the next amputation/catheter insertion as your roommate babbles about how his four kids never visit.  What a lonely, scary, helpless future.  The animal’s lives now and your life in exchange later.  No wonder your sense of humor is so impaired.  Look what you’ve got coming!

You don’t think such a fate could happen to you?  That your speshul snowflake body needs flesh, titty milk, and hen abortions to stay healthy?  

Maybe you're getting somewhere, because that’s funny.

Madonna and the Diminishing Returns of Professional Trolldom

In those halcyon days when personal computers were the size of small washing machines and were booted from a pair of floppy disks, there was a text game called Temple of Loth.  Temple of Loth consisted only of text, sometimes spat at the player in the form of a grid meant to represent a map of a Dungeons and Dragons-like set of mystery rooms.

If you modern kids think this sounds a little hilarious, you would have crapped yourselves upon hearing the sounds.  Loth stretched the basic sine wave to its hard 1980s limits, uttering drones, screeches, and eclectic robot-y fart sounds.  

In the Temple of Loth, one spent an inordinate amount of time collecting resources from various rooms and avoiding attacks by monsters.  However, if the game got boring, or if perhaps you had won it and wanted to play it with a different approach, you could steal, kill, and pillage instead of cooperating.  You could attack instead of trade with or ignore.

In other words, you could be a troll.

In the game of life, pop star Madonna is the ultimate professional troll.  Far from the Michigan proletarian gutter trash that spawned her, she has clawed her way to the top of the garbage heap and now occupies a semi-permanent townhouse in the hallowed halls of ‘Murican celebrities, those chosen ones who get to rub altered noses with the one percent (and their wive’s surgeons) at fancy parties.

She did not get to this level by being kind or fighting against actual injustice.   She got there by closing her eyes and pretending whatever/whomever she was doing at the time wasn’t distasteful and disgusting.  She kept doing these things until her sentimental human heart gave up and died. It’s not easy being a troll. Legacy Tho

The gift that keeps on giving

Madonna has given us much, regardless of the fact we can’t return it.  Falsely credited by many stans and herself for inventing the women’s rights movement, she has gifted us with so much more: she paved the way for Kim Kardashian, who claims to have revolutionized interracial dating by letting a guy who did not share her skin color pee on her. This only mattered because it occurred during a time when she was cute did not look like an alien, bulbous species of android fish.  
Back in 1983, it was still considered somewhat shocking when a woman bared her butt cheeks or let her boobs flap free in the wind.  For Madonna, 1983 never ended.  In her mind, the current calendar date is but a long nightmare from which she will awaken, refreshed and legitimately bouncy-faced young again.  Instead, her existence is an ongoing hell of getting older and older, wrinkles and sags popping up in a vicious game of Whack-A-Mole to which she must react by running to her surgeon and painfully mutilating her once-pretty face again and again.  Without an abundance of athletic duct tape, her once firm ass droops like underfull Ziplock bags of vanilla pudding despite a punishing regime of three hour a day weight training and the bland diet preferred by self-castigating Buddhist monks.   Isn't it sad and a little funny when rich people can't even enjoy their money?

Also unhelpful is an unfortunate pill-eating and wine-chugging habit, which has resulted more than a few onstage drunken rants and tricycle riding, plus the soiling of a reputation for once being a punctual, professional entertainer.

The ouchiest part is ripping the duct tape off before going to bed.

When Bullies Grow Up
The painful part of being the popular bully comes when the bully is no longer young enough to attend high school.  Madonna was lucky -- her bully pulpit stretched over many decades, during which time many admirers bought her brand without checking the label.  Now her reign as Mountain King is over, and wannabe Evita/Marilyn/Danerys anything but an old, lonely, tacky, rich auntie sucking down bottles of wine in her gilded New York condo bathroom isn’t adjusting well.  It seems apparent Madonna’s particular poisoned dream is to fall in passionate love, that old timey heterosexual princess-rescued-by-a-handsome-prince trope.  Never mind that she’s tried it several times and it did not work out.  She’s still invested, which is why she believes she must look like the Mother of Dragons character in Game of Thrones instead of what she has achieved: the low rent AHS Freakshow version of Daphne from Dragon's Lair if Daphne suddenly transformed into the bathtub hag from the Kubrick version of the Shining.  

Time for your bath!

Ageism!

Because the super-rich feel a compulsive need to justify their existences (despite their protests having little effect to the masses, who simply wish to see their heads on pikes a la the “Let ‘em eat cake” era of 18th century France), Madonna pretends to champion women’s rights and to take a stand against ageism.  “They are judging me by age,” she complained to Rolling Stone.

Translation from the Bullshitese:

“Nobody cares about when I flash my tits anymore, so like a true troll, I do whatever I can to embarrass and humiliate my children, including publicly criticizing my teenage son’s lack of visible protruding genitalia during a backflip.  I can’t bring myself to admit I’m a garden variety attention whore though, so Imma gonna pretend this has something to do with me being over fifty-five and female.”

The crux of Madonna’s worsening predicament is it is much easier to be a Mean Girl if you are pretty and well, still a girl.  Yes, kiddies, it’s easier and more fun just to log off the old 486 and go outside and play.  For Madonna, such an alternative just isn’t possible, because she would have to actually be musical for that.

Being Vegan is Expensive: How Dare You?

The myth of the plant-based diet aspect of veganism as expensive is rubber-check, three dollar bill false, put forth by mendacious, First World “experts” who have recently converted to the Whole30 diet and silly fads like it. Any vegan, who by definition chooses not to eat or use animals for the sake of the animals, should be downright insulted by the mere insinuation being vegan is expensive.

For me, this accusation of pricey veganism hits home hard. I decided to become an ethical vegan on July 26, 2010, one of the worst personal finance eras I ever hope not to experience again in this lifetime. My husband lost his job through no fault of his own when the company he worked for failed and shut down. Every bill, including running my own small business, keeping a roof overhead, various insurances, and eventually a new car (for him) fell to me and his meager unemployment. If vegan food is expensive as they say, we both would have starved to death. At $18.46, a pair of factory farmed steaks destined for one third of a meat-eater’s meal was slightly more than my food budget for two hearty vegan eaters FOR ONE WEEK. Gwyneth Paltrow may not know how to shop the dollar store and Aldi to keep her family alive on pennies, but I figured it out fast.

A packet of factory farmed chicken’s thighs from my local grocery store costs $5.36. This is after the US government spends $38 billion to help out the meat and dairy industries, with a paltry $17 million put aside for subsidizing fruits and vegetables.

If these subsidies were suddenly removed, the meat and dairy industries would go bankrupt because a steak that previously cost $8 would skyrocket to $45. Animal exploitation industries are that pathetic – though it doesn’t take a genius to know there is no way to make systematic murder easy, clean, or cheap. On the plus side, if meat and dairy subsidies were removed, the average person would see her overall health act as if she had reversed in age by 5 – 30 years, impoverishing countless oncologists and taking away the assumed privilege of numerous specialists to take tri-annual jet vacations. I won’t feel sorry for the former horsey set, as I will remember how they made an industry from the suffering of the ignorant and brainwashed who spent their last dollars on cancer-causing radiation “therapy”, which did nothing but exacerbate the pain and suffering of the Death of A Thousand Cuts. Those parasites would be lucky to get a kick in the stomach from me to speed their demise as they lay flopping in the gutter.

The belief in lies like “vegan is expensive” or “vegan is unhealthy because soy” comes from a necrovore’s need to project guilt and shame on someone who is no longer engaging in dastardly behavior. The construct is very simple. When someone claims that being vegan is expensive, she is desperately scrambling for an excuse that will justify her physical and mental addiction to animal products. Much like my grandma, who clung to emphysema-causing cigarettes until the day she died of complications due to smoking, there’s always an excuse at the ready because a severe addict believes she will die if access to the substance is cut off.

That is why it deeply frightens meat eaters when I say I would rather die if it was between me and a pig on that fabled desert island we are always visiting in hypothetical scenarios. They are terrified by the idea of a modern person being willing to die for a cause, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer. If vegan was expensive and unhealthy, yes, I would still do it, even if it killed me. I am that punk rock! Lucky for me and the growing mass of ethical vegans out there, plant-based diets are neither expensive nor hardcore.

Death and the Fetus

You may wonder just how my convoluted little brain ties together the rise of the American obese, the prevalence of kiddy-diddlers and homosexuals among seemingly innocuous old guys, and a woman's right to choose to have an abortion.  Or perhaps you don't wonder at all.  It doesn't matter -- I'll tell you anyway!  

Statistics have it that sixty percent of Americans are overweight to obese.  From what I saw in the parking lot of a crowded movie theater on a Friday night in my Midwestern neck of the woods, I would say that number is more like seventy or even eighty percent, especially among the current crop of young people.  At forty-one, I was one of the oldest people in the parking lot besides my husband.  An astounding amount of people were so fat, they could barely walk a distance of seventy-five feet from car to movie theater door.  The word “waddle/wattle” comes to mind, not only to describe their ambulation but also the giant, flapping things under their chins where their necks should have been.  Perhaps I will say more about the obesity phenomenon and the car culture fueling it in a future essay.  For now, I will wrap up this part of the discussion by commenting that it’s a damn shame that kids half my age are wasting the best, healthiest, sexiest years they’ll ever see on oversized corn syrup drinks, chemical cheese goo-product, and barbecued pig corpses with fries.  


King James, That Bible Guy, was a flaming homosexual.

What do a bunch of fat people have to do with Josh Duggar, the reality show Christian zealot whose parents swept their teenage boy's serial sexual abuse of his younger sisters and various other little girls under the rug?  And what does any of it have to do with abortion?

In a word, patriarchy.  In two?  Abrahamic religions.  

Christianity is one of three nature-hating death worship cults that sprung to world domination after the fall of the Roman Empire.  Judaism, the least of the cults, has been persecuted for reasons I'll never truly understand, so maybe someone can inform me.  Islam is a brand of Abrahamic religion that claims to be about peace but is really about submission or the not-so-nice term for it, slavery.  Islam is Christianity's equal in hypocrisy and oppression.  Muslims just do a better job of following their insane orders than Christians, hence the animosity between two who are clearly fraternal twins.

All three Abrahamic orthodoxies enforce a pathological hatred of Gaia by placing mankind (with womankind at his beck and call) at the top of a pyramid scheme rigged for Apocalypse.  The trees?  Cut them down; there will be more of them in the next world, where they will be taller and sparkly and produce fruit constantly.  The animals?  They are here for our use, so we can skin them and eat them and make them haul our loads of chopped-down trees, or dance for us when we are bored.   Nature and its complex majesty is nowhere near good enough is what the three fatherly religions say: it's all about Heaven and what hoops one must jump through to get there.  Also, it doesn't really matter what you do while you're on Gaia just as long as you truly ask for forgiveness right before you die, even though there is supposedly a rule about doing unto others.  There are also rules about persecuting gays, Hindus, shellfish eaters, female teachers, or anyone else who doesn't fit into the Bible's mold of Golden City-bound righteousness.  

The whole mess is fueled by a pathological fear of death.  Almost all human beings come to the precipice of psychotic break when they are faced by the idea that they might completely lose their current idea of consciousness when they physically die.  In order to avoid the extreme dissonance of such a possibility, most people's egos go insane with rationalizations.  Patriarchal, zombie unigod religions are currently de rigueur.  Atheists and agnostics, or those who apparently have overcome a fear that is supposed to be innate and chronic, are thusly hated by the faithful, much like an alcoholic on his last three viable liver cells resents the happy teetotaler bicycling around the nursing home.  

Christians have a conveniently packaged dogma that, much like a video game, gives them an imaginary set of rules in book form that enables them to get to the Final Boss so they may escape Eternal Death.  When you dwell in a reality that is merely a pathway to another level with a bigger payload/boss, you may cherry pick which rules you think will get you to the better, more luxurious level.  

The only rule that is an absolute must for avoiding Eternal Death is faith.  Faith, or the deliberate act of sticking your fingers in your ears and screaming "No-no-no-no!" when presented with evidence contrary to your beliefs, is the sine qua non of all successful religions.  Any of the other rules can be bent, modified, or perverted according to whim.  Especially one as silly as overeating, to which Proverbs 23:2 suggests:

"And put a knife to your throat if you are given to gluttony."

The Bible, book of love and peace, tells us in no uncertain terms to attempt suicide if we cannot help a habit of compulsive binge eating.  Okay.

The Bible also condemns homosexuals, lumping them in the same general categories as overeaters and adulterers, labeling them as just another set who cannot control their Earthly longings.  So one might find it surprising that one of the most revered editions of the Bible, the King James Version, was compiled by a flaming homosexual.  Often affectionately referred to as Queen James, "the wisest fool in Christendom" paraded his lusty homoerotic exploits to the chagrin of his court and his country.   For a group that has made a sport of murdering witches and persecuting gays, Christians seem awfully unapologetic about stamping the name of a known Sodomite on a prized edition of their holy book.  

The reason it's hunky dory to become the Greyhound bus version of yourself in 'Murica is because you are allowed to immolate yourself without dying the true death.  Mortification of the flesh and overconsumption of the non-boss level planet you are stuck on for now is encouraged.  Why tread lightly when you can personally collect all the gold coins and mana?   It's all going to get blown up in the end, at any rate.  

Christianity is a capitalist's religion: even in its sheepherder beginnings, the point was to be born male and to amass as many heads of cattle/goats/women as possible.  The big problem there is when you don't think of women as actual human beings and when your admiration of them is confined to awe of the power they lord over you with their beguiling, concave genitalia and mammary glands, you are going to inevitably turn to children, animals, and even other men when your demonic male hormones gain the upper hand (with no lack of assistance from your meaty, milky GMO-rich diet).  I would venture a bet there is not a single Christian child-molester or closet buggerer who views women as sentient equals.  

A sentient equal would be entitled to control what happens inside her own body, even when the biological process is as important to the species as birth.  None of the patriarchal, capitalist sects want any part of that, so they seek to enforce control over the fetus growing inside the female drone, though they will hasten to abandon the offspring once it is born and requires social services and welfare.    

If religions eventually die of their own hypocrisy, which I believe they all do, Christianity, Islam, and Judaism are in a very extended hospice.  Unfortunately, I suffer from a belief that the patriarchal mandate to overpopulate Gaia with 7.3 billion and counting will result in the sort of nastiness that occurs in a Petri dish of yeast when a spoonful of sugar is introduced.  Unlike when Christians try to produce proof of the non-existence of the true death, my suspicions keep being bolstered by hard, concrete evidence.  Unlike the good and righteous faithful, I hope my assumptions are wrong.  

An Open Letter To My Friends Who Have Kids

Guess what?

I don't care that you had kids.

 I know you think the world has stopped so it can start revolving around you and your child, however, not much has changed since you added another member to the human race.

Nobody cares that you don't sleep anymore, except perhaps the spouse you yelled at or the person you cut off in traffic. Nobody cares about your breast milk decisions. Nobody cares that your life got a lot harder when you decided to procreate.

In fact, I don't even care that you no longer have time to hang out with me like we once used to because your priorities are so radically changed. I don't judge you -- the reason I did not have children is because I, just like you, realize it is a full time job.

You wanted that job. I did not.

What's going on here is pretty simple. People change. Friends grow apart. It's a sad reality of life, but it's not abnormal. You have embraced a lifestyle I do not understand. It's as if you decided to take up an odd, all-consuming hobby, and if you are honest with yourself, you don't have time for me either.

Imagine I become an avid collector of nineteenth century watercolors. Where you see a lovely picture, I foment an obsession. Suddenly, I eat, breathe, and poop nineteenth century paintings. They're all I can talk about and I spend inordinate amounts of money on them. Often, it is money I don't have because I love them so much. My habits change. I hang out mostly with friends who are passionate about Romantic-era portraiture and landscapes like me. I go to chatrooms and attend conventions.

I love nineteenth century art but I do not expect anyone else to embrace my crazy passion for it. Why would I? You get the idea.

This is what you have become, except of course the art in question is small human beings. There's nothing wrong with your hobby, but don't expect me to understand when you complain about spending your last dollar on a lifestyle you chose. If you have half a brain, you knew what you were getting into and you readied yourself as much as possible.

However, to me, childrearing is a weird, expensive hobby of yours that frankly I don't want much to do with. Please don't presume I hate children because I chose deliberately not to have them. Nothing could be further from the truth. Would I assume you hate all nineteenth century art if you did not devote your life to collecting it like me?

You are not a hero, either, unless you purposefully chose to adopt or foster instead of having babies. Why? The writing is on the wall. Humans are overpopulated. For every human baby added, there are measurable costs in resource depletion and ecological devastation. You've done something that is ultimately self-indulgent and driven by biological urge and the fear that you will die.

I don't admire you for kowtowing to societal pressures. I know what the pressures are because the same ones were on me. If I had a dollar for everyone who asked me when I was having children or if I did already, I would be quite wealthy.

You are aware of the pitfalls of your decision to bring children into an already-overcrowded world. If I ignite your cognitive dissonance by reminding you that there are other choices you might have made, that's on you.

The reason I did not become a parent is because it isn't for me. If it isn't for you either, and that's exactly what it seems like when you spend all of your time telling me how hard parenting is, then you've got yourself a real problem I cannot help you with. There is no miracle in what you've done. You are going to have to face that.

The decision you have made is a common one, smiled upon by an insane society that fails to recognize ecosystems we all depend on are falling apart at the seams because there are too many of us. We cannot have infinite growth on a finite planet. Your progeny, not mine, is going to have to deal with the consequences of your cornucopian attitude and from the way things are going, it's not looking like it will end well for them.

If I have value to you, then you will have to make a little time for me every once in a while between vomit-cleanup and Mommy & Me yoga class.

Please try to talk about what we still have in common -- don't be one of those frightening dead-inside slaves to your child. Please ask yourself if you absolutely must become a zombie? I could be wrong, but I don't think the kid is going to perish if his wails go unanswered for a half-hour. You're not a monster for telling little Madison or Tyler an outright NO, sans explanation. Maybe, just maybe, she'll learn that crying for no good reason doesn't get her anywhere.

There have been plenty of eras of history that weren't completely handed over to kids and their needs, i.e. the eighteenth century, which just happened to produce the Enlightenment thinkers and J.S. Bach. In fact, many societies still exist today where kids aren't coddled for every bruise or scrape and chaffeured to half a dozen after-school activities every week. Those kids don't seem unhappy about it. Maybe you can start a trend.

Or maybe not.

At any rate, I'll see you when I see you.

Good luck.