Sprinkled throughout the cavalcade of slow and steady deaths playing out at the local fastfood hasteaurant, a noncustodial deadbeat hosts his manic, medicated ward’s weekly ritual of youthfully begging blood from a socially circumcised stone.
The sperm-donor, pouring from an empty cup, regales his dim, doomed progeny with tales about the importance of survival tactics — of cheerfully prending a moral foundation for acquiescing to the frantic, sterilized whims of the dickless, boring, child-murdering patriarch-pawn who birthed the bastard: the now-womb-less womyn forever crippled by her credulity and cowardice, whose sense of reality bends by the mandate that her kidnapping and extortion be presented as a matter of “Family Law;” and whose introspection and inner-light wholly pales to those of ordinary murderers, who, besides military mercenaries, never must juggle the cognitive dissonance of having their murders framed as socially useful and morally good.
Father and child again part ways.
Fortunately, only days later, the mother was beaten to death by the most predictable abuser of women: another woman, one who sublimates her penis-envy into an addiction to indulging in homosexuality as a way to feign autonomy from the patriarchy that trapped and trained her into being such a pitiful, helpless wretch.
And so the father and his reunited family, vindicated by the deadbeat mom’s karma of consequences with compounded interest, built a cultural utopia — where women’s responsibilies were to earn men, make babies, cook food, speak when spoken to, shun gossipers, develop worthwhile hobbies, and attend the execution of child-murderers and their enablers.