Suspicious Minds

I accompany my wife occasionally to what I call UFC stores. (Useless eFfing Crap).

Nothing in these stores has any utilitarian value. If I’m not the only man there, I’m not the only one sitting on a chair reading his phone.

It’s all knick-knack decorative crap, emblazoned with stupid rich white middle-aged girl slogans. Eat/Pray/Love jejune idiocy that only an estrogen-poisoned retard takes seriously.

Most of these slogans are about the virtue of drinking too much wine and guzzling chocolate and to hell with your demanding husband and kids who are harshing your mel.

Greeting cards, napkins, all kinds of snotty stuff catering to snide women who are goddamn lucky their husband makes a lot more money than they do.

Everything in the store is propaganda aimed at housewives who think they’re feminists. You are the most mystical, whimsical, wise, put-upon creatures Gaea ever baked. Or half-baked.

In reality, you are the most pampered, self-overrated gaggle of traditionalist jackasses ever. You live June Cleaver lives, except with lots of alcohol.  You are in book clubs where you masturbate each other to keep believing you’re smart.

I used to consider this harmless.

 

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