by Marina Orwell
At some point every person cogitates on how s/he came to land on this miserable planet. Most people quickly push these thoughts out of their consciousness because the reality of their parents’ craven and selfish behavior goes against their lemming “beliefs” (which are already pretty much set in stone by age 6). Other lemmings cannot bear the thought of their parents “doing it” — preferring to keep them (especially Mama) free of any stain. Still others imagine that their mother, like the mythical jewess “Mary,” are lily-white virgins.
Male lemmings in particular find it difficult to accept that Dickwad Dad “fucked” their favorite Walking Uterus. Since they’re constantly imagining the most vile acts in order to jack themselves off several times a day, male lemmings find it hard to square their filthy fantasies with those which brought about their own mindless existence. But it’s true, morons. Yer dad — who talked and thought about women in the same dispicable manner that you do — “fucked” yer mammy. (Chances are — if you were born after 1970 or so — that yer mammy pretended to enjoy being “screwed,” since porno pretense had been added to the virtually endless list of what good lil’ fucktuffets do to “capture” fake “femininity” luvers like yer estúpido y cachondo daddy.)
So what does this make you? Well, that’s what lemmings don’t want to think about. They luv to hold forth about the imaginary Geezus, Yahwad, and Mohamudmud while ignoring the stone cold truth. You are the daughter or son of two jackass fornicators — one pretending to like being “banged” in order to gain the attention of El Fucktardo, and the other an irrational fickmaschine who just had to stick his 1.5 oz. of flesh into a woman — when his own palm did just fine countless times before (but in Dickwad Dudeville it is necessary to show women “who’s boss” by “screwing” them).
Even given the disgusting reality of yer débauchés ancestrales — if I were you I would still go ahead and give yer own personal brood mare ein geschmackloses trinket — or better yet, something to usher in her death even sooner, like a box of high fructose shitsquares.
Why? Because the mindless Breeder Day shuffle is better than having to endure psychic pissing and moaning — or worse. So quick, slap together some doily n’ Elmers pussy placentes (If yer a “son,” you can tape together any kind of mess and yer brood mère will be delighted. If “mom” is yer fucktuffet, you’d better up the ante and head on out to Zalefsky’s and Sheeny’s Secret for some overpriced jooboobles. If yer a “daughter” you can kiss n’ shine her coño sexista to a high gloss and it’ll never be enough — so my advice is to do as little as possible. Everyone, however, must be sure to buy an overpriced Hallmark O Da Herd card that’s chock full o’ syrupy sentimentality.).
As you contemplate shekels v. yer Creator’s worth, keep in mind that yer Lieblings Kacke Esser not only didn’t receive any pleasure from being “pounded” in an orifice with no nerve endings, she then had to actually make you in her body — eating, breathing, pissing, and shitting for your parasitic ass — and then finally going through countless hours of excruciating pain to turn ye screeching little cacamonster loose. Your dad did nothing but shoot his wad like a wanker sitapeadest.
So, have fun shopping fer ever more junco judio at El Cemento de la Heeben — n’ try not to think about the fact that this egoïstische trut thoughtlessly forced you onto this effed-up Planet der Dummköpfen.
© 2017 Orwell’s Daughter