Sunday, 1 March 2009



On other inhabited planets orbiting our Milky Way children grow up in Tainment pods, which provide two integral facilitations for everyone. The first being entertainment that educates the child into a fully aware individual, dropping food and thoughts with kaleidoscopic originality. The second and more vital usage is containment. So the lovely aliens can fly around on swoosh juice at the speed of life in utter ecstasy, without sound or concern for their offspring; screaming brown noise though all 34 of its gumholes.


There are people who clock count the days down until they can get preggo. They adore these little mites. Accruing many samey wamey nameys for it. Transfixed by it’s every gargle as if it gob-farted a soliloquy. They always know where it is because they’re under it; nauseatingly bouncing it until it expels all it’s little treats over their skirt, which they mop up in fits of warm adoration. While parent number two videos its every atomic movement, so it can be poured over at night, while the little one strains to understand the practical applications to its reoccurring thoughts of death.


Conversely others prefer not.

There’s muddy middle here. Tons of Tods and Tanya’s who seem to trip up into the idea or do they get bored, maybe don’t like cats or think their relationship’s missing some more… Flesh?

The self
Having children is ultimate duality. The selfish part is the desire to have a part of you replicated because your frankly so fucking great the world couldn’t and shouldn’t be without your unbelievably resplendent spirit, evoking your tired genes to surpass your own barefaced failings. In an inherently selfish motive to enslave other people of the future with your own genial eccentricities you have unbeknown crossed the line into selflessness. From birth and for the rest of your life you have to feed, cloth, wash, care for this you hoo.

Thus people who don’t acquire kids are selfish because they want to be number one. They don’t want to care for any offspring. They want their life. What utter realists.

It’s perfect!
Chances are, you will not have the kid you desire. Countless families expecting to eject a cool calm Kendal find out of the fanny frame, a needy, loud, whinging little luminous skin sack. It’s not like an I-pod, you can’t take it back cos you really wanted a metallic pink one. You’re stuck with vomit yellow at top volume, for life.

What if he’s ugly, everyone will squirm a bit when they look at him, you’ll have to spend ten years massaging his floored esteem, hiding him from public gatherings, until he becomes a serial killing nutbar or a KFC supervisor.

What if she’s a Yar-tard, you have to buy her special shoes, fill your house with domestic scafolding and watch her dribble out every meal while you wipe her arse raw. To later sympathetically listen to the poor thing shuffle for half an hour to reach her head-stick you had down your bum crack all morning.

What if they’re quintuplets, it happens, you can’t just leave four at the hospital; you’ve got a basketball team of dribbler’s, cornchip.

You’re well rubbish
Some Mothers and Fathers bother me. Not my own, well a little. But those others. Say one day you see them in Asda smacking the shit out of a nipper. Next week you see them pulling down its pants so it can piss in the middle of the high street. Next month the kid’s crying and lost ‘cause their Mum left them to chat up a newly divorced 16-year-old yoof. Next year they’ve got their ear, eye and nose pierced, sporting what can only be described as heavily homosexualsed clothing being dragged to a friends 5th birthday party.

Two years later they’re shouting, “Oi you, fuckin paedo” while tabbing 20p off you. Five years later you recognise them, whilst serving you a shitty meal; with the bodily juices of their mate Gozy, for no extra charge. Two years after, you get nudged suddenly you are the altercater in a gang fight without a gang. Culminating in wounds you can’t even charge anyone for because they’re all underage binge drinking, asbo wannabes, with power.

Some people should not have children, these include:

  • People who make you consider that those people who fuck pigs may have crossed uncharted reproductive darkness.

  • Anyone who thinks after ten they want to pop out another.
  • Scallies

  • The homeless (no, maybe not, I like gypsies as long as they inherit the waltzers when they get their HGV licence)

  • Irritating people, e.g. the population of Canada

  • Anyone who “appreciates” any of the following music: hard house, donk, trance, all metal, un ironic techno, interpol indie, any fusion with jazz, Aussie hip-hop, tinny euro pop and U2. Don’t have kids and don’t try to get me to listen to the latest Korn album because you think ‘it manages to re-capture their original brilliance.
  • People who obviously don’t like kids (you’d think it was obviou
  • Paedophiles and equally sadomasochists. Probably the scariest thing in the world to know your Dad wants to fuck you whilst beating and tying up your mum.


People who should if they really want to, have kids.

  • Anyone who has contributed positively to the development of our species, so not Thomas Midgely.

  • Odd people like train spotters, people who wear pottery and cardies, very very tall people, anyone with extra limbs and people of peculiar races; Eskimo + Aboriginal = wow.

Advantages of having lots of children are that they’re malleable. You too can be the 21st century Fagin. With a 43rd century indoctrinated army of ideological rattle brains who warp language and structures by pontificating pontification while solicitating bemused bricks.

Kids, can be without crossing into the Glitter realms, cute, adorable, heart warming even, funny, entertaining but just not, all the time. That’s why it’s better to have friends with kids than to have kids. Leave Billy to his soiled pants and go, RUN!


I never had a child, I think, yet, that has tracked me down, atleast. Though I understand the various child full families who would find the very idea of not desiring them, sacrilegious. But…

C’mon children are stupid, you tell them something and they’ve forgotten it, remembered it, cried about it, pissed themselves and knocked themselves out before you’ve slapped yourself in thinking why you even talked to that underdeveloped foetus. They always look hopeless, fat, badly dresseed, doddering, and obsessed with rubbish stuff like sellotape and hosepipe. Why do they always talk shit aswell, if it isn’t why? Why? They change the subject or simply stare vacantly back at you, like you’re the idiot.

We need YOU?
Our planet isn’t crying out for any more of that source of wanton destructive deformity that has been its watermark of recent history. Is there anyplace for them? We can have birthing centres in spider’s eyes, or under rugs. China’s population control strategy seems to work-ish although their human rights, suppression of information, environmental policy, widespread poisoning of babies and already swollen populous seem to overshadow it’s awkward home planning service.

If we get rid of children in pretty much a hundred and twelve years the most intelligent species on the earth would be owls.


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