Oh my dear, sweet, Lord, talk about an unjust system some humans have to suffer through during their time here. It's times like these where I can stop being selfish, not looking at what life's hardships have solely showered onto me and sympathize with others who have had it a whole hell of a lot worse than I; of course, I am talking about the humans out there who are tiny little things, innocent to stereotypes and unburdened by hate, yet are being raised by a piece of shit, coked out, worthless whore of a stripper.
Indeed. I mean, talk about losing the race before it even got started; these kids were fucked the moment they left the hospital. Little boys and girls who have a single mother who is a stripper totally makes me understand the obstacles African-American youth must overcome in order to make it in society, because really, if one didn't have that smoke signal most of us call mom and dad to look for while the ills of the world beckoned our attention, you got lost in the woods of life and grew up a screw up with little or no guidance.
Therefore, like any amateur psychologist would suggest, first we must examine the root of the cause to find out how this problem manifested itself, and in this story, I guess it all starts with young woman we'll call . . . Linda.
Right from jump street, we'll condense her teen years into one paragraph and assume there was some cataclysmic event that had taken place. Perhaps her father had forgotten where his bedroom was roughly fourteen times while in drunken stupors and wandered into hers, or maybe poor Linda was out partying, being the rebel she was at such a tender age, and the night somehow ended up with her finding Jesus . . . more specifically the Jesus H. Christ air freshener she concentrated on while getting raped in the backseat of Juan's pinto, sullying his furry seat covers with stinging tears. In any case, we can safely assume her flower died a brutal death against her will, and no amount of therapy, medication, or undeserving rage onto others will ever make her feel pure again.
So it's off the titty bar to audition not only for prospective employment and financial gain, but more so it's an audition to acquire a job title that will make everyone else in the future have the bare-minimum expectations of her, because to be quite honest, she doesn't really have the drive in her to make something noteworthy of herself. Linda already has a six-month old, and for whatever reason, the male of that equation has left the family unit faster than a Jew who broke the cage back at camp some sixty years ago (we can only assume she was a cunt to him because of what daddy or the Mexican did, not specifically anything he did personally, so he finally had enough.)
Linda's first six month at the club serve as preschool all over again therewith all the adult-infants running around like morons for seven hours. Ten out of the seventeen other girls who normally work the same shift as Linda are always intoxicated by the time the rotation gets through one time, and some of the other girls seemingly always smell like skunk despite all the body spray they use as a cloaking agent. So for a few months, Linda smokes some weed every now and then and sips Cosmopolitans while at work until she is widely considered a veteran of the club. Ahh . . . but those simple euphoria-achievers all seem unsatisfactory and prove to only be, in fact, gateway drugs.
Now, due to all the role models at any given exotic dancing venue, Linda is introduced to ecstasy, cocaine, and quite possibly, heroin. Within her first four years of employment, her child has had to stay at the sitters overnight when originally mommy had promised she would be back to pick the kid up that night. Often times when her own parents are watching her child while she's at work, that Friday night turns into a weekend-long bender, and little Dick or Jane (maybe both) unknowingly will be camping out in the guest room while mommy doesn't answer her cell phone for three days at a crack.
Linda is twenty-six now, and with her last seven boyfriends leaving her or going to prison, she's starting to accept the fact that there aren't any tailors out there making a prom queen dress for her in this lifetime. Lately she has been drinking in the dressing room before she even gets out to the bar because something has to numb the pain of being pawed at by perverted men. She doesn't want to quit dancing just yet because the money is good and her five-year old has become accustomed to getting whatever it wants. Thoughts like these let Linda to allow wealthy men to grope and finger her in the private dance area despite it going against the club's rules and moral excellence. Eleven times now she has met wealthy customers at hotel rooms, but she views those instances as necessity because she needed to pay heavy retainers, OWI tickets, and her new street pharmaceutical distributor just wasn't the deal-maker her old dealer was.
Now Linda is nearing the ago of thirty. The nights she is at her shitty apartment, she must resort to pills because there's not a bar around, and it's important to her that she not drink alcohol every day of the week. In her feeble mind, this acts as a voice in her own head saying she's not that bad. It also helps Linda to think of that one girl from work who is constantly in a drug-induced state of euphoria because by comparing herself to the biggest piece of shit she knows, Linda only has to stay a notch above in order to feel good about herself because she hasn't really been the ideal mother at home lately.
Seems that during a few of Linda's withdrawals or crabby attitudes because she hates her life, Linda has been yelling at her child more than ever lately. Sometimes Linda slaps the child because its toys and clothes are left in the hallway even after numerous admonishments; ironically all of this usually happens while Linda's own bedroom appears as if a garage sale went bad during a typhoon. Linda further leads by example when she tries to enforce bedtime upon the kid, yet she and about three other people are sometimes in the front room having a powwow at 4:00a.m., two of which are usually ridiculously drunk and obnoxiously loud.
Around this time, her kid (or oldest kid) is reaching the age of ten. This poor, little person has had to witness its mother at the worst of a drunken rage, crying, screaming, and countless male 'friends' who've acquainted the apartment in recent years. The kid likely spends a lot time in its room watching TV, as it has become timid of getting close to one of mommy's visitors since they always seem to go away. The kid is already learning not to depend on people at such a ripe age due to the turnover rate in her bedroom, which might be a good thing because this type of thought process gets it ready for all of the future people who will let it down in life.
Lately Linda has been blowing deejays as to not have to tip him and letting bartenders fuck her so she gets free drinks for a week . . . And it's with that same mouth she goes home and smiles at her child while having no conscience at all . . .
So happy Mother's Day, all you Lindas of the world! It's your day, baby! Way to go!
But hey, I'm not a total asshole, so fuck you. I'm a giver. In fact, I care about the little ones not being attended to. They might not have anyone looking out for them like I am right now. That's why I made this Mother's Day card for little kids to print out and give to their stripper moms because those little guys and girls might not be able to speak for themselves. After it's printed, just fold along the perforated lines and it will come out beautifully. In the end, it will really touch mommy's heart . . . whatever the fuck is left of it.
Seriously, if you're out there (stripper or not) celebrating Mother's day and consider yourself the center of attention, I think you should really consider having yourself frozen so you can maybe live during a time where people would give a shit. You're not special nor does anyone give a shit you've raised another snotty-nosed brat for all of us to tolerate while waiting to pay for our groceries.
And every piece of shit, stripper broad out there on Mother's Day thinks she's special, too, but really it's a forced observation of her having gave birth, which could have totally been avoided had she willingly taken it in the ass to begin with. Most single-mothers with a penchant for $1 bills, their lives suck anyway, so why they felt a need to give another human being an all-access pass to their misery is beyond my comprehension.
Z.
E-mail:embittered@catharticlament.com
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