Smears and slanders about parents and children

(I ran out of images to share here, so I had to go and hastily steal a picture from the junk ads that arrived today. I just clipped it out & changed nothing: this is exactly how I found it.)

Dear diary,

Why do I so often think about parents and children? Because I’m a real hater-of-authority, and, in this life, parents are the first wave of archons that it’s imperative for one to rebel against. Ah, yes, you’re right: there are certain children who were lucky enough to have been born without parents (not because these children were not the products of fornication but rather because their biological parents either absconded or were annihilated), thus these kids get to skip the first circle of hell; but instantly, if you’re an orphan, you suffer an alt-crux: you meet with heavily armed bureaucrats who drag you off to the prison, which is the orphanage, and what goes on there is arguably even worse than the archons of parenthood. It’s so bad that I don’t even wanna talk about it. So let me be a weak philosopher this morning and limit my scope to those of us who were cursed with a two-parent upbringing.

Here’s the problem: The parents make the rules. They determine where the children shall live, who they may befriend, when they should sleep or wake, and even how and what they must eat.

Some parents potty-train their children; can you believe the cruelty of this? I’d rather live in a world where two businesspeople meet each other in the hallway of their firm and begin to chat, facing each other, and they are of course bottomless, which is to say, devoid of pants, and when the one who is talking feels the need to relieve her bladder, she simply lets it go while continuing her speech, and her conversation partner either consciously registers the warmth of the release or ignores it. And if the hearer gets hit, it’s no big deal; she simply thinks to herself “Oh, that’s nice; a new, physical sensation is accompanying our conversation — it’s like a backdrop of soothing music behind what’s being said.” And the speech’s topic is probably golf, anyway; for that’s what businessfolk like to converse about; and golf is dull, so any occurrence that can spice up the chat is a welcome diversion.

But I’ve gotten off the topic. I was trying to castigate parents for being bad leaders. Here’s what I really wanted to emphasize: The parents make all the rules, and they’re basically fascists who control every aspect of their poor child’s life. So the child is told “Thou shalt do this, but thou shalt NOT do that.” And these commandments are the sole intellectual property of the evil and wicked parents. In other words, the parents get to mold & craft & effectively mismanage their offspring’s destiny. They get to force their child’s development toward certain aims. And of course the parents themselves are products of the selfsame system of cruelty — they too were doomed toward a particular manner of being, by their own bad parents.

Why do I find this so wrong? Because parents are just children who have forgotten how to enjoy life — why should that give them the authority to wield authority? Only because, on earth, morality is the private property of the powerful. (Might makes right.) And parents are physically bigger than children.

Now what is the essence of the life of an average parent? Parents hate their job and thus ruin every instant of leisure-time with their griping. That’s every parent, in a nutshell. They’re either working or complaining about work. So children are taught to value exactly two things: the act of work, and the spiritual state of being grouchy.

Consider this in light of what children essentially are: wild machines of selfish enjoyment. So if we wanna sum what we’ve discovered here, we could state our findings as a code; we could almost call it The General Rule of Life on Earth for Humans — & it would go like this:

One is born as a spastic whim of selfish bliss, and the enjoyment is beaten out of one by those who have had the enjoyment beaten out of them, until one becomes a larger, less spastic, but far more selfish whim, in imitation of entropy.

*

I’m bored with this topic. I just bored myself to death; and now I return with this bounty for you who remain awake:

CONCLUSION

Since children are smarter than parents, parents should allow their children to craft and mold them rather than the other way around.

Now I understand that a lot of parents believe that they do indeed value their own children’s creativity, and many swear that as parents they have learned more from their own children’s untamed wonder than they themselves have been able to impart to their protégés. But they are all false liars: Parents know nothing, and whatever they say is suspect. That is all I’m granting about this. There is no hope for children.

END OF CONCLUSION

Now I wanna imagine what it’s like to live in a zoo. If you were an animal in the jungle, and someone came and rang your doorbell and made you an offer to come & live for free in a fake environment, where you can have your own cage, just like jail, and evil gods will feed you and chart you, would you sign up? Would you make your mark on the dotted line and agree to join this experimental program of man-controlled life? I know I would. I’d be like: “Get me out of this jungle-scape FORTHWITH. I cannot stand it here. The monkeys are always stealing my bananas; and the horses are always stealing all my oats; and the tygers are so beautiful and I love their lifestyle but they want nothing to do with me, because I don’t know what species of creature I am — for no reflection appears when I gaze in the water-surface, when the swamp is calm.”

And I would accept this zoo offer doubly fast, if, while explaining its terms, the salesperson casually peed on my shin.

But there is one line of dialogue that I’d interject during the pitch about this arrangement, before finalizing the deal — and that is as follows. “Who, may I ask, is the keeper?”

Because whether or not it’s better to suffer existence in the free-market wilderness, on the one hand, or to volunteer for animal jail, on the other, depends to a large extent on the quality of the zookeeper. If you’ve got a compassionate keeper, zoo-life easily proves superior to freedom; but if your keeper’s an asshole, you’re probably better off toughing it out in the jungle.

With my luck, the zoo service that I join will have a keeper who hates to clean up after us animals; so he’ll always be mumbling foul words under his breath when he enters each cage. And then when you try to strike up a pleasant conversation with him, he barely makes an effort to say anything of interest. He’s always fussing about his tax burden, and how every show he watches on the television fails to entertain him, and how last night he missed achieving the top score in his favorite video game by just one point, so he was forced to enter his initials into the second-place slot, which was a disgrace.

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There’s probably some way that I could juxtapose these ideas so as to highlight their finer traits — orphans with neglectful guardians versus animals tended by a stick-in-the-mud zookeeper — but I don’t feel like making obvious what is already obviously obvious. Plus it’s super obvious that all this is just a transparent confession of my own personal hang-ups (why hide under a facade of science when there’s currently a fire-sale on genuine pseudoscience?): for I never liked my own folks or any of the bosses I’ve had in any of the places I’ve worked, and I don’t have or want any kids of my own; so I dream up this thesis that presents ONLY ME in a flattering light.

And that animal who couldn’t see its reflection above is undoubtedly vampirical; tho I was unaware that vampirism could strike animalia (I presumed it was exclusive to mankind); but the virus that causes that state probably just morphed enough to get its foot in the door, so to speak; because reflectionlessness is a distinct symptom of vampiricism, and whatever that creature was was definitely not human.

But yeah, you end up either having a lucky time in life, or you draw the short lot. I myself drew the short lot, so I write these rambling letters of complaint and send them to my prayer-catcher on the far side of the looking-glass. And does she bother to lift a finger to address my Lament List? No: she does nothing. Apparently she thinks that these troubles are healthy for me; that they’re a learning experience, which shall improve my soul’s mettle and develop its character.

Yes, if you’re lucky in life, you side with God and his Son, as you are able to relate to their fate: You yourself were born to a rich dad who made you the heir to his kingdom. (Congrats on all your hard-earned success.) Yet if you’re unlucky, or if you’re resistant to luck, or luck-proof, as I am, then you naturally side with Satan, cuz you see in him an attitude that you can grasp: The heavenly kingdom should have been a democracy, where all the divinities have a right to vote; cuz then you know they would’ve elected YOU, cuz you boast much more talent and genius than God and his Son put together. There’s more imagination in a single crumb that falls from your round-table than Christ has in his entire bread.

But, alas, heaven is not a direct democracy. They always misname it “meritocracy” when merit is uninvolved or banned outright. It’s like equity, or sacredness: If you want justice, you should look anyplace other than the courtroom; and if you desire divinity, then go anywhere other than church. Tho I’m speaking celestially — perhaps the courts and churches on earth are better than what we have here. I can only write about what I know about.

That’s why I take great pains to acquire exotic experiences — I never travel around the world; I stay right here in my room. All the wisdom possible to be possessed, all the pleasures of heaven and the pains of hell, can be found in this jungle: in this one little studio. Just be patient and wait; things’ll eventually step forth and tell you all about themselves. Every blog post that a flower types into her computer is a secret condemnation of the seed that became her, as well as the plant whence it fell or the keeper who cast it.

For even the jungle has a keeper. As it is written (Genesis 2:15)

And the LORD God took the man, and put him into the jungle, to dress it and to keep it.

The jungle of Eden was, in fact, the very first zoo. And the LORD God was the first parent ever to hate his job, which is why he invented man to do all the work for him. And that’s why God got so angry when his children ate of the tree that he had forbidden them. Children should NOT seek liberté, égalité, fraternité; and only God should be the teacher — humankind should never dare to teach God. God is incapable of learning.

Anyway, so, as the story goes, God kicked the humans out of his zoo and made them wander in the cageless wonderland. That’s why the “outer darkness” gets such a bad rap. (I mean that last phrase in the sense of an undeserved reputation.) In Matthew 8:12, Jesus says

The children of the kingdom shall be cast into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.

But I’ve harped on all this repeatedly, in these pages. I don’t know why I always end up precisely here. I’m out of time now, so I’ll quit; but if there’s one thing that I’d like you, the reader, to take away from this revelation, it’s that we all identify either with God and his Christ or with Satan Trismegistus. I think that that passage above where I mention this idea is central to earthlings.

Then Moses stood in the gate of the camp, and said, “Who is on the LORD’s side? let him come unto me.” (Exodus 32:26)

And it came to pass, when Joshua the successor of Moses arrived in America, that he lifted up his eyes and looked, and, behold, there stood a divine being over against him with his sword drawn in his hand: and Joshua went unto him, and said unto him, “Art thou for us, or for our adversaries?” (Joshua 5:13)

I’d also like to know who you identify with, gentle reader: Who’s side are you on? You can send me your answer by typing it down (like the flower did, in that sentence a few paragraphs earlier), and sending it thru the glass. On my honor, I’ll make sure it reaches the proper department. I have access to all the mailboxes in the pyramid. The LORD’s password is “blood”.