What will they try to ban next?
August 22nd, 2008There’s one in every group. The “holier than thou, my kids can do no wrong and your kids are demons” mother. You know her. You’ve dealt with her. You try to avoid her.
Unfortunately, those numbers add up because it’s such a large group. And they vote.
What will they try to ban next? In the 80s, it was Heavy Metal, Dungeons and Dragons, and Rap music. They even had a political voice - Tipper Gore. Gore wanted to ban it all. Heavy Metal was causing your children to kill themselves. Rap was making kids have sex (because we all know teenagers NEVER thought about sex before Rap music was invented). And Dungeons and Dragons, that was “a pathway to Satanism.” The scary thing is, I’m not making this up. She even wanted labeling for homosexuality. I love how today’s Democrats try to slip that one under the rug.
In the 90s, it was guns. Yes, the Million Mom March. Ban guns. Never mind that pesky little thing called the Constitution. That was written by men with wigs. If it can save just one child. Of course, they were exposed making up statistics, but never mind facts when you can have emotion.
In the 00s? It may be a long shot, but I’m guessing the Nintendo Wii.
I’m waiting for it to happen. A kid is playing his Wii, standing up and doing maneuvers, then slips and hits his head on the glass table and dies.
Never mind the fact that this particular mother never spent ANY time with that kid, fed him nothing but junk food while she told him to shut up and leave her alone because he was disturbing her reality tv show so that’s why she bought him the Wii in the first place.
Soon, you get the lawyers in. Lawyers see dollar signs whenever an accident happens, no matter how bizarre or unlikely it is. The lawyers contact the press. The press makes mountains out of molehills. Soon, another wife of a Senator makes it her pet cause and we get Congressional Hearings. Another “Mothers Against” group forms, because there are always those mothers out there who think they’re not only smarter and more experienced than everyone else, they speak for ALL parents, and anyone who disagrees be damned.
Who cares about Freedom? Who cares about Individual Choice? Who cares about Fact? If it can save just one child…
She also went after that sinister folk singer, John Denver, who was corrupting the minds of the youth. And I feel a lot safer because of it. Could you imagine the harm John Denver could have caused if it wasn’t for her?
Yeah. He was talking about climbing the Rocky Mountains and getting high. How horrible! The madness!
Ban everything!!!!!
First, like Bill Shakespeare said, kill all the lawyers. But I’m waiting for the push to restart to sue the hamburger joints for making kids fat. I’ve heard several moms complain about the Burger clown or some other joint needs to do something about their menu. Of course they say this at a burger joint they took their kids to. Personally, and I hate to write this, but I think in the short term the country is screwed until some sort of societal circuit breaker is tripped and people shake off this lifestyle we have become addicted to.
well i MUST be someone else’s fault. it couldn’t possibly be that people are responsible for their own actions!
Geez I just read a post over at Monkey M’s that was about another sickness ‘down there’ that we share, and here you’re posting about another one that the GWN has too.
Guess stupidity is multinational, huh?
How about this–we get all the dummies onto one big island, then build the biggest fence possible around it and let them go at each other!
This makes me think of the ban on those walker things that had wheels. Babies everywhere loved scooting around in them… until… dun.. dun.. dun… it was discovered that tiny children on wheels don’t survive falling down stairs.
Nevermind the mothers who left their babies unsupervised on wheels near those stairs.
BAN WHEELS ALTOGETHER!!!
Have you ever heard of Patricia Pulling? She was the major force behind the effort to demonize role-playing games. She actually founded a group called BADD: Bothered About Dungeons and Dragons. She believed that her son Bink killed himself over the game and was totally normal until he started playing it. Never mind that he also thought he was a dog and used to run around his backyard howling…
I’m very disturbed by a movement of such women that’s happening in Texas right now. There’s something called the Mothers Act that, if passed, will provide free screening and support to women with post-partum depression. Since Texas has the highest worldwide incidence of whacked-out religious mothers murdering their children because they’re suffering postpartum psychosis, this seems like rather a good idea. But a coalition of people who had averse reactions to anti-depressant drugs believe the Mothers Act will force anti-depressants on women and are fighting it tooth and nail, calling for all anti-depressants to be pulled off the market. In reality, severe side effects from these drugs are rare and can be detected easily with proper monitoring. I tried to discuss this with a Texas woman who had a bad reaction to Paxil and leapt on the anti-Mother’s Act bandwagon, but she visited my blog and decided that since I am not opposed to the occult I must be a devil worshipper - hence not worthy to discuss anything with anyone, ever.
Sigh.
Beach - That’s coming right around the corner. No fast food place is putting a gun to parents’ heads and making them eat there. Maybe learn how to cook?
Yeah. We need the zombie plague to start already. Bring people back to the real world.
Lime - Exactly.
Bridget - Sounds good to me.
Clothosfate - Those things are cool. I always thought it was cute how babies would have the biggest smiles walking around with those things. Yeah, if their parents would actually watch them…
SME - Heh. I used to live there. My God. Some serious loonies. The sad thing is, no matter what your Denomination is, it’s wrong to someone else. Wish folks would mind their own business about their religion sometimes.
And yeah, what’s with Texas mothers going crazy and killing their kids?
A recent bakers strike in Sydney created hell for the culinary services like sandwich shops etc, small independant bakers not involved baked a lot of bread and made lots of dough. The strikers on the streets carried banners with slogans like ‘We Knead more dough’ or ‘We want more bread’ and ‘Ban The Bun’. They were asking for a fifteen dollar a week pay increase not the $12.00 offered, but eventually agreed on a bakers dozen $13.00.
Lime nailed it! We don’t need more laws. We need people to start taking responsibility for their actions!
Remember, In order to be walked on you have to be lying down. The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, worry about the future, or anticipate troubles but to live in the present moment wisely and earnestly, and
prepare your mind to recieve the best that life has to offer. One of the most tragic things I know about human nature is that all of us tend to put off living, we are dreaming of that magical rose garden over the horizen - instead of enjoying the roses blooming outside our windows today.
Wow well said Zombie. I dont know what to add today. I see everything you are saying clearly. You just never know what parents are trying to get rid of. Why didnt they try getting rid of the regular Nintendo when it first came out too while they were at it. I mean schools talk about obese children why not try and get rid of some of these video game systems for those children instead of guns and music.
Was normality, back in the 30’s when I was a kid?. Where I dwelled in ye ancient thatched cottage in Brit land, none of these weight distributions were as evident as now. There was no electricity or plumbing or cars to corrupt us, no guns except for the local nobs to shoot Bunnies, there was no processed food and only the one tubby and one tall skinny guy in the classroom. When it came to girlys; each village had their local bike.
Fun was never contrived and the truth prevailed. and friendship was in most cases genuine.
Best of all, parents were blessed with workable parenting skills, and most families stayed families where the word love was heard and never the word hate.
What will they try to ban next? How about a good Little League pitcher. There’s an 8-year-old who’s dominating his league with a 40-mph fastball (which isn’t that great for his age). But in a league of spazzes, no one can hit him. The parents started to complain, refused to let him pitch, and now his team is disbanded. The overprotective, mediocrity-loving soccer moms are now unfortunately infiltrating baseball.
Skeletor - What do you expect from soccer moms? They’re trying to pussify boys.
Vest - And people in my skin color weren’t welcome. Not a very perfect world to me.
Tweety - Yeah, really.
Tshsmom - Yup. But then again, Lime’s awesome.
ZOM: Thanks for the put down, B….s. No it was not a perfect world, short on info, and present day necessities, didn’t see a non caucasian until I was about Seventeen. I am of the opinion we should not press our ideals on other races and create dissension, help should be given when asked for or needed. Those dominant Neo fascist western bloc warlords, should spend more time and money on correcting their own domestic issues, instead of blatentlly killing all and sundry who stand in their way. History reminds us of past mistakes, even recent mistakes vietnam, Russo invasion of Afghanistan, the Balkans to mention a few , we have no need to kill these dissident loonies , they are quit capable of doing it themselves.
If you are so confident about that twit Beckham why not try a 5, 10 or a 50 grand bet, you would not get near him, ever.
BTW, Its not my effing fault I was born a good looking caucasion horny hunk with generous dimensions .
Ts and Zom: I bet Lime really enjoyed being buttered up.
What color zom If I may ask politely, there should be no concern on your part, apart from being related to Homer or Kermit. I get the piss taken by a few Abo Friends, cant do a sodding thing, They are exempt from our race relations act. Some of the things I have been called would frighten a robbers dog.
Have a thoughtful day.
Vest - Mixed heritage, three races, seven ethnicities. That happens frequently out here. I know people who are a lot more mixed than I.
You described the past as if it was utopia. I did not intend to cut you down, merely to show that it was far from it. I’d rather live in today even with the processed food and I happen to enjoy my guns, thank you very much.
I can walk down the street and not be called racial slurs. I can date and marry whomever I want. And I get a raise not on how I look, but how I perform.
Also, if you think imperialism didn’t happen back then, you gotta be kidding. ‘Twas much, much worse.
And I took down the Beckham thing because it made me look immature. True, but immature.
Zom: I was far too young to understand about imperialism or guns, and it probably wasn’t Utopia to many people but for me it mean’t happiness.
Excerpt from memoirs. I could see the neon lights of the Roxy through the window of the dormitory. I remember wondering if it was a cinema or dance hall. It fascinated me. I remember hearing the football results announced on the radio and thinking, “What is this Arsenal team?” and “Who is Ted Drake?” I found out later. However, Wally Hammond, the cricketer, was my favourite sportsman. He scored more runs than Ted Drake scored goals.
Nonetheless, I still missed my mother and home (wherever that was) and often cried myself to sleep. I was now a very bewildered five-and-a-half- year-old.
The early months of 1932 passed. Without ceremony and unbeknown to us, my sister Beth, then four years of age, was taken to Saint Bernard’s Girls’ Home. I don’t recall any emotion about her departure, but then most children seem to take these things in their stride.
CHAPTER 3
Charlham
I was now six years of age. My seven-and-a-half year-old brother, Christopher and I were taken by train with two other boys to Oxford and then by bus to Charlham, a small village in Oxfordshire. Upon our arrival, we went to the Finden’s home, which was near the war memorial, the village shop, and two pubs – The Kings Head and White Lion. The two other boys were left with the Findens, but were sent back to Saint Bernard’s a few months later.
My brother, Christopher and I went to a Mrs E. B. Parker who lived with her son, Adam, then eighteen, and her daughters, Norma and Elsie, who were away nursing most of the time. Mrs Parker, a former postmistress, or ‘Auntie’ as we called her, was strict but affectionate. Mrs Parker was separated from her husband, who lived in Wellington, New Zealand, wherever that was. Adam’s brother, Edward, who lived with his father and was eighty years old in 1990, visited his mother several times until her death in 1950 at the age of sixty-four. Her husband left their children ‘well off.’
The cottage where we lived, 27 High Street, Charlham, was known then as ‘Winter’s Farm Cottage.’ Despite the fact that there was no electricity or inside plumbing and running water came from a pump outside, I was very comfortable and happy with my circumstances. The cottage came with a farmyard, barn, and hayloft, as well as bees, chooks (chickens), geese, ducks and goats. What really fascinated me was the brook, which was never more than two feet deep. The front brook ran through the entire length of the village starting at the back brook by the floodgates, which serviced the working mill about a mile downstream. I had to stay near home, so the front brook was my favourite ‘play station.’ This brook contained small trout, sticklebacks, gudgeon, and crayfish, mainly near the floodgate. I loved to catch the sticklebacks by hand, but I had to move upstream; otherwise they would disappear in the mud.
I held the record of being the only boy to go under every bridge along the brook. The village girls were very capable, but they wouldn’t do it. The most difficult bridge or tunnel was at the post office or ‘Baker’s general store.’ This very dark tunnel was over fifty feet long and very foreboding, with only about two feet of space above the water. I managed to achieve this when I was about eight years of age.
The Parker family had a dog – a mongrel called ‘Blazer’ because of his unusual markings. He died of distemper in 1934, which was about the same time Auntie started breeding Scotties, Pekinese, and Sealyhams. She started a business, but it was unprofitable and took up too much time and money. It ceased when Auntie passed away in 1950.
Although my life as a small country bumpkin seemed idyllic to me, it was not to be forever. It was a hands-on learning experience where I taught myself respect for the little things in life, in which the bullying political masters of our world seem to have little interest. I also learned to respect my fellow beings and all other living creatures, some of which were part of the food chain that maintained my existence.
During my early years, my endeavours to return to my beloved Charlham were thwarted. This made me more determined than ever, even though it had ceased being my home in 1947. I became a regular visitor to Charlham from my bona fide home in London. Although I knew my visits would never recapture the past, from which my travels and swag full of experiences had separated me, it felt good to feel its familiar warmth.
My foster brother, Adam was a young father figure to me. Always helpful, Adam would take Christopher and me fishing in the river Thame, which ran into the Thames at Dorchester near Oxford. Adam would also take us for rides on his motorcycles. Adam’s first motorcycle was an old Levis Spring Front with carbide lights.
Christmas 1932 was the best ever! I received a pillowcase full of little presents, but unfortunately nothing from my mother, whom I still missed. During our separation, my mother had remarried and I had a half sibling, who apparently died later, and another named Delia, who arrived soon after.
One evening in 1933, I was supposedly seen and heard talking to someone in the main living room. I believe it was Norma who asked me who I was talking to. I replied, “An old man with whiskers, a large wide hat, funny shoes, and unusual clothing,” They figured I was too young to have conjured up that story, especially since I had seen him more than once. The cottage was dated early 1600 and probably housed a surviving ghost from the 1643 Battle of Charlham, which had been fought just a mile away during the English Civil War. On that particular occasion, the Royalists defeated the Parliamentarians. The monolith commemorating this battle is no longer visible from the main road, probably because no one cares any more.
My brother, Christopher and I attended school in Charlham, with teachers Miss Dibble and Miss Wallington. The school is still in use today.
Our next-door neighbour, Mrs James, had three daughters, one of whom I still send cards to. Her husband was Adam’s wartime friend in Italy where Adam was wounded. Lara, Mrs James’ younger daughter, swapped comics with us. We had ‘Tiger Tim’s Weekly’ and Lara had the ‘Rainbow.’
In 1933, we had flooding in the village. The whole street was like a river, but what fun! Sadly, the fish in the brook thinned out for a while.
Widower Mr Turner (Senior) on the adjacent farm was a frequent visitor to the cottage. Auntie always seemed pleased when he arrived. It was shortly after the flood in the street that he called to tell Auntie that we could help ourselves to the fruit on the pear tree across the road on the other side of the brook. Picking the pears kept us busy. Those that had fallen we fed to the goats. Mr Turner left the cottage after about an hour. Both he and Auntie looked very pleased that we had picked so many pears. Mr Turner said he would call again soon when the rest of the pears were ready for picking. As I placed my bag of pears on the kitchen table, I saw through the reflection of the window Mr Turner and Auntie kissing.
My mother arrived unexpectedly while we were still living at Winter’s Farm Cottage. I was so excited because I thought she had come to live with us. My brother, Christopher hid because he thought we were going to leave. After we found him, we had our photograph taken in the back garden.
I was very upset when my mother left. It was another two and a half years before I would see her again. I was seven years old.
CHAPTER 4
11 Monolith Road, Charlham
The summer of 1933 taught me so much that it’s difficult to recall everything, but there is one incident I remember quite well. While walking home from school one day, I saw a local boy throw an object at a swarm of bees in a tree by the brook. The bees then proceeded to attack me. They delivered their stings and then died. The Rev. Brewer, who had recently baptised Christopher and me at St. Mark’s church, was walking nearby at the time. He made no move to help me but instead put up his umbrella and hurried away. Thankfully, two women who lived in nearby cottages rescued me. I screamed with pain as they put me into a bath of water and dabbed the stings with Blue Drummer Boy wash whitener. I arrived home later looking like a junior; ancient Druid priest. The Rev Brewer became unpopular and some of the village people, quoting the Good Samaritan, boycotted the church and went to the local chapel for a few weeks.
During the last few days at the cottage, I caught chickenpox and had to stay away from school. The lady next door attended to my needs, as Auntie Parker had taken the bus into town. I had been told she was staying overnight with Uncle Robert in Oxford. From my bedroom window, I had seen Auntie sitting on the bus, but why was she sitting next to farmer Turner?
While I was resting, I heard two distinct voices through the wall of my bedroom. It sounded like they were coming from the hayloft. After awhile, I crept downstairs and out of the back door. Standing on the rain tank, I could see through the crack in the timber siding. Big Ernie Bellman was making love to horse-faced Maggie Sherbrook! Being only seven years of age, I was unaware of the significance of this tomfoolery. I went around the front and quietly squeezed through the barn door. I moved the ladder to the loft and put the bar down on the door, closing it tightly with the pin. My sitter, Mrs, James, saw me near the front door and scolded me for being out of bed. I told her what had happened. Shortly afterwards, a large number of villagers gathered around the barn door and a cheer went up. Maggie and Ernie appeared rather sheepishly, making all manner of excuses. I had begun to earn quite a reputation around the village. The following day, I also got a smack from Auntie Parker when I told her they were only doing what the Billy goat does to the Nanny goat.
Watching the binder in the harvest time was a great blood sport. Usually near the end of the day when the binder or ’harvester’ was more than halfway through the field of wheat, oats, or barley, the rabbits, having nowhere else to hide, would run from the centre. Even at my tender age, I tried to catch a few with a large stick, but it was mostly the older boys who succeeded. What infuriated the farmer was our letting the ‘milky’ ones go. To us, there was nothing more obscene than skinning a rabbit full of wriggling little ones. We were paid three pence a skin at old Mickey Elder’s vardo (caravan) for the ones we did catch.
During the summer of 1933, our local farmers, Ted Bob and Jim Turner, ceased using their transport. We moved all of our goods and chattels to Number 11 Monolith Road in Charlham, a modern house with no electricity or running water – just lamp or candle and pump. The horse-drawn wagons took their time and although the journey was less than a mile, it appeared to take all day.
At the time of the move, I noticed that several bottles of wine such as Elderberry, Parsnip, Dandelion, etc. had been put into the loft. It was when I was on leave from the navy twelve or so years later that I recalled that the wine was stored there. Adam, Christopher, some local friends, and I had one terrific time until Auntie found out. Some of the wine was twenty years old, but as Auntie did not drink, forgiveness was soon forthcoming.
The new house at Number 11 Monolith Road had three bedrooms with a landing, as well as a lounge, kitchen, scullery, and a room for storing coal. Close to the back door was a bucket toilet. This new toilet was a much nicer toilet than our previous one at the farm cottage, where a twenty-yard walk was necessary. The bucket was accessible from underneath, but the removal of its contents was an unpleasant and arduous task. A great deal of local wisdom was applied when disposing of this effluent. A line of trenches was dug a foot deep for its disposal and then the effluent was covered with earth. An old shovel was always there for this purpose. Frosty days made it impossible to cover, so grass or straw was used instead. But by then, the flies had departed for winter and the large garden kept any aroma at a safe distance. There was a mandatory two-year period before being allowed to grow above ground vegetables in that area, and another year for root vegetables.
Auntie Parker always kept a toilet roll for guests, which was removed from the toilet upon their departure. The whiter pages of the newspaper were used for the finishing job on the dunny ’lavatory.’ Telephone directories were not available in those days and the village phone was at the post office. The more sophisticated paper, however, came from the pages of the trade directory, which crumpled more easily, for softer application. The rule of thumb (or was it bum?) was that a new directory was acquired when you reached the ‘horse and saddle’ advertising pages
I truly loved this house; it was a place of comfort to me. The interior of Number 11 started at the panelled front door with its brass letterbox, the letters of which would fall onto the reddish brown tiles of the hall floor and be put on the oak table beneath the carpeted staircase leading to the bedrooms. The pungent odour of wet coats hanging in the hall; or the smell of cooking would occasionally greet you when you opened the front door. The stuffed fox head above a full-length mirror grinned down at you as you entered the hall. On the first landing of the stairs was a portrait of Lord Kitchener with an inscription informing you that he died when the HMS Hampshire sank in 1916.
The bedroom I shared with my brother, Christopher was the first on the left on the top landing. It was a large, beautiful, sunny room with a small window facing the east and a larger one facing south. There was a small hole in the wall plaster, which got larger with our constant picking. Underneath the eaves of the house, the swallows would nest in the summer. Their droppings would fertilize the hollyhocks and the bright array of summer flowers growing below. The wonderful fragrance would waft upwards to our bedroom, hiding the smell from the chamber pot under the bed, which we frequently forgot to empty.
The spacious, eat-in kitchen with blue walls contained a large black cast iron stove and oven that was fuelled by coal or wood and cleaned with ‘Zebo’ brand black lead polish. (Primus kerosene stoves were the other cooking alternative.) Above, on the high mantelpiece, were the candlesticks used to guide our ascent to the bedrooms as well as the jars of silver paper from empty cigarette packets that were saved for charity. Hanging on the walls were the tools to administer the working of the fire and the lucky rabbit’s foot, which had belonged to an unlucky rabbit that was bludgeoned to death by my elder brother and then eaten by the family.
Two kerosene-powered Aladdin lamps with their distinctive white fragile mantles formed the centrepiece of the lounge room. There was also an open-hearth fireplace. Close to a window nearby, our radio, powered by an accumulator and high-tension battery, entertained us with shows, the news, and music from the BBC.
The hallway of Number 11 held great significance for me. It was the spot from where I would leave in torment and later return feeling joyful. Although the reasonably new house was lacking in facilities, it was a place where I would always feel welcome, loved and happy. So far in my travels, there had been nothing to better it.
good heavens, I just dropped by to say hi and look at the length/number of comments.
There was something in the Ottawa Citizen today about raising a generation of sissies as a consequence of over protecting children.
Am not sure where I stand on that, but since I’m childless it doesn’t matter much. We do tend to wrap everything in cotton batton way too much for my tastes, but then government lies down on its protection/service role also.
This is a complicated one, Zombieslayer. When it comes to situations like the one you describe, comparable to the warnings on coffee cups, we’re certainly in accord.
Zombieslayer, I was just re-reading some of hte comments above….according to National Lampoon, there was a group called DAMM–Drunks Against MAd Mothers…..rofl.
Hey m here in Maastricht. So good to read ur post.
You know there are lots of things banned back home (i have to say ‘back home’ because i am so far now), like smoking for instance. I can’t really say if its good or bad cause the people who do smoke are still smoking (only that they are paying lots more cause they have to buy it under table).
But on a positive note, i think younger generation don’t pick up the habit.
Groan weep scratches head and goes to bed as this post falls asleep snorrrree zzzzzz burp glop fart
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I have a friend who is a rabid Democrat (and you know I’m a Democrat), who actually thinks they should lower the speed limit to 55 mph and was asking my opinion. I told her that if she wants to drive 55 mph, go right ahead - in the right freaking lane, but I do no wish to drive 55 and I don’t need to be told how to save gas. Dear God, am I becoming you?
NOT - dammit, forgot a “t”