the mother of all moonbats
I was all ready to write a heartfelt tribute to mothers everywhere, complete with sentimental statements and words that sprung from the page like so many flowers and rainbows and bunnies.
I made the mistake of reading Jeff Jarvis first. I actually thought he was speaking to me when he wrote:
Happy Mother's Day, you greedy capitalist, SUV-driving, eco-destroying, child-enslaving, bomb-dropping, heartless bitch, you.
Forgive my cynicism about Mother's Day. After all, what kind of ungrateful mother wouldn't want to be honored with pesticide-laced flowers, chocolate that depends on children in slavery for its production and cards that deplete our forests and litter Mother Earth? Truly, it is the ultimate insult to honor life-giving with such toxic offerings.
The moonbats have managed to suck the joy out of every single thing on this earth now, including Mother's Day. Lucinda Marshall, author of this story and obvious feminazi, thinks mothers should refuse such gifts today.
In the United States on May 11, as we celebrate Mother's Day, let us refuse the false offerings. There is an urgent need to protest U.S. duplicity/complicity in this sorry web of atrocities that endangers the lives of our children.
So listen up, moms. When your five year old son hands you the wilted daisies that he bought at the school plant sale, refuse it. Don't worry if he cries or is hurt or insulted, you have a responsibility to not make your children complicit in the armageddon that is coming upon us.
And when your daughter hands you the sweet, heartfelt card she made for you with her own little hands, give it back to her. Don't worry if she cries. She will thank you later on in life when she realizes you were just worrying about the rainforest.
It seems quite unbelievable to me that there are people so consumed with the idea of making themselves out to be the be-all and end-all of the Save the World movement that they forget how to be human. They are so wrapped up in making themselves feel virtuous that they eschew all the necessary ingredients needed to be a feeling, thinking person. They become the movement. They become a walking, breathing placard.
It's Mother's Day. Let the pulpit stand empty for a day. Let your cynicism and joy-breaking go for a little while.
Jeff also links to this statement by Anita Roddick:
Forget squishy chocolates, flowers, and breakfast in bed. Mother's Day was established as a radical feminist statement against war and aggression.
So forget going out to brunch or dinner. Forget family gatherings. Go out and protest the war instead. Tuck the family into your hybrid car and go stand in front of the White House and protest. What a great way to say thank you to your mother!
I don't consider Mother's Day to be about me. It's about my own mother, and thanking her for putting up with the adolecscent me and the petulant young adult me. It's a day to say all the things I am sometimes in too much of a rush to say during the year; how I appreciate the things she passed on to me, like a love of reading and music.
It's about my own kids, who have taught me more about myself than I have taught them, who have made my life richer if not crazier, who have given me the gift of unconditional love.
I buy presents. I give my mother not flowers or candy, but the presents I do buy her were in all probability made with the use of oil and trees. I give me kids presents, because I would not be a mother without them. I bought DJ the hugest Supersoaker ever made and I'm sure I would be hung from the nearest endangered tree if a femnazi joy-sucker caught me giving my son a gun as a present. I buy gifts for my sisters, for acting like mothers to my kids, for stepping in when I have to step out. Their gifts are not environmentally friendly and probably not recycleable. And I don't care.
My family will gather today at my parents house. We will eat lots of meat and exchange cards made with the souls of a thousand trees and maybe we will even have a discussion about the war and we'll toast to our troops and our president . After dinner we will have coffee and pass around a box of chocolates that were probably boxed by some oppressed people in a third-world country.
And even though my parents only live across the street, I will send a message to Lucinda Marshall and her cohorts by driving my SUV over there. Maybe I'll drive around the block a few times just for the hell of it.
Happy Mother's Day you joyless, soulless, bitter women.
And Happy Mother's Day to the rest of you, who appreciate a good holiday when you see one.