F.W.F. Newsletter, Fall 2012
by Cristina Prince
5. Lusted Lassos
Plenty of sister soldiers in my cause go from paintballing megachurches, to depressed and apathetic at the encroaching culture shift, to carnal and complacent baby factories. Some a lot slower and more tragic than others. Each time I learn of the downfall of one of my old colleagues, I find myself surprised and underwhelmed in equal measure.
St. Brittany’s is not about to apologize for any of this, now that they are the only way of life for too many. If they wanted to, they could easily escape, hide away from the frenzied fog they’ve draped over humanity. People would just carry on the new order all on their own, so sure of the righteous path that would land you in jail a decade ago.
Handjobs would handily maintain their place in usurpation of handshakes. (If it’s God’s way, it’s God’s way.) The church’s job is basically done. It could be absolved of all responsibility for what it wrought.
They just wouldn’t rake in millions of dollars per month if they did. As long as there’s continuous cash flow, they’ll dominate discourse and call their harm holiness, if not simply ignore the issue altogether.
This brings me to my case in point. The only time the church ever confessed to any wrongdoing was when they admitted to “hiding” a new 44 oz.—sized tube of Cherub Cream. The roll-out caused such a scandal that parishioners picked up cases of the stuff in droves, just to see what the big deal was, why they were keeping them under wraps.
By the time some of them realized it was just plain old (but nevertheless super-hormone infused) Cherub Cream, they had gotten used to the new size, and now, it’s not just a permanent option, but a big seller. On most shelves, you can’t even find a smaller tube. If you can, the price is as hugely inflated as your average bimbo-mommy’s queen-sized and quivering jugs.
Believe me. I wish I could make this shit up. It’s why I usually write fictional accounts, changing names and such, switching places and situations here and there. The truth can sometimes use a little trimming. Like the kind any bimbo-mommy’s wobbly, wide thighs beg for. (Okay. That’s enough with those silly similes.)
For example, the character I dubbed Sandy, in her own church country tale, actually did make it up that hill on her attempted bike escape. First, though, she spent around fifteen minutes masturbating herself with the end of the cycle’s seat cushion. Creaming, screaming out the names of each and every one of the Skanky Saintz, alphabetically, in a fevered frenzy.
I simply felt it would be better, for dramatic effect, if she was a little more resistant. Truth be told, the poor girl she was based on didn’t last more than a day or so before giving into her fully formed new existence. I generously gave “Sandy” about half a week, at least.
My stories are all cobbled together from a baker’s dozen actual cases, as told to me by ex-boyfriends and parents (who lived enough to tell their stories, risking “pretty bubble incarceration”, ValleyVoice, or Psalm 38GG punishments), of the earliest days and most formative victories of the villainous Cherub Church of St. Brittany.
It’s worth noting that the most sinister aspect of Our Family Way is its tendency to burrow the deepest nests within its most opposed and appalled dissenters. Now, I know it sounds like I’m advocating for shutting up and giving in, but I assure you that’s not what I ask. We just need to be a bit less vocal, that’s all, lest our paltry Family Way Fighter numbers disappear completely.
Refuse to buy from the laundry list of St. Brittany’s Lord’s Lifestyle products. Turn off your newly “Time For Tots”—infested pirate televisions. Abstain from any sexual act that doesn’t involve the patriarchy-bashing protection of ByeBabyBadge condoms.
(Regrettably, the apparent number of cases of these prophylactics currently circulated on the black market adds up to a measly thirty, since last summer’s Boob Lube Provisional Act outlawed the legal purchase of these. So, you’d better act fast.) All are good steps to take.
But please, please, I’m begging you, don’t dare to contest Cherub Cove or any of its Cowboy Candy media holdings in public, and Brittany help your sorry ass if you make the mistake of doing so on national TV. And a word to the wise: it’s not worth it whatsoever to appeal to logic with these people, even if you dumb down your language or appeal to their vapidity-boosting “values”.
All you’ll get is a stretched and shellacked mouth, fitted for the servicing of the top twenty finalists in the Country Cock / Animal Dick Size-Off. The worst of it being, part of the punishment process involves your guaranteed enjoyment.
Within two weeks, your body and brain will be overtaken by your mouth.
Your repurposed hole will, without fail, learn to want, crave, then need those horse-human hybrids. The only way you’ll be able to get off will be letting your face get brutally fucked by a cowpoke. And those proud, super-hung rodeo clowns will make you work, overtime, for it.
It’s bad enough being a woman and having to consider this fate. I don’t even want to imagine what that would be like for a hetero man. (That is, all two or three of you left who haven’t already been lured in by the newest recruitment method, or, well—lie—that tit-jobbing with a seasoned cherub won’t get you infected.
Bullshit. In actuality, it doesn’t even stop at turning you into a God-fearing breeding stud all at once, no! It lobs off fifty IQ points as a bonus. Enjoy those bigguns while y’can still form a dang-dob sent’nce! Losers.) So, don’t rock the damn boat.
Don’t believe me? Consult, then, the congresswomen and congressmen, pundits, college professors, musicians and movie stars, whose clarion calls to truth and humanity are now forever silenced, by the permanently disfiguring symptoms of Cockhole Syndrome.
Remember—with the exception of this listserv and a piddling amount of others, all internet text must pass the misogynistic and oppressive standards of Man Plan Monomedia. Encrypted video streams used to be the only avenue for the victims of this cruel and savage setback to speak out, but the babybumpers have gone and neutered those, too.
What else? Keep a surgical mask on you at all times. Mine is one of my most prized precautions. Avoid wearing mesh or any other breathable fabrics. Have some baby powder on hand, even.
Because if you sweat within half a mile of a Family Way freak, brand new (as of last week), patent-pending “missionary molecules” will zero in on your poor little pores like homing beacons, and you’re toast. Say goodbye to words with more than two syllables, and breathing with your nose.
Say “boy, howdy” to treating furniture fucking like a good full-body workout. Cry in religious rapture (not because you realize your dongward slide, but because you’ve found a neat slab of salvation in an autotuned, hot country song).
A lot of top pastors and pop stars from the church have taken out half-hour infomercial blocks, and gone on prominent late night talk shows, to espouse the merits of this conversion choice. The pet name it’s been given in the media is “Final Heathen Annihilation”.
Seriously, this is super shitty stuff! I couldn’t be any more of an optimist, and usually maintain that this planet has seen worse and can only get better, but these toads got my mom with “M”—molecules! At least, I’m pretty sure they did.
I’d trained her to be cautious about this mess. She was always a trooper. Mom even bought some of my coalition’s merch, wore our t-shirt all over the place. Until, that is, it went defunct a few months ago. I made her promise to not wear it out, as I was ashamed that Angel Abolitionists could no longer be directed to our homepage if they were curious. It doesn’t exist anymore.
Nobody’s really been inquiring recently, regardless. She got more dirty looks of dismissal, as of late, than any real questions.
Lack of funds and a dwindling staff forced me to pull the plug. Within a year and a half of its inception, it bit the bullet. It had to. When over forty dedicated troopers succumb to this pox and leave you the sole operator, too, it’s just way too much of a burden, emotionally and work-wise, for one Family Way Fighter.
I figured something was up on Monday, when I was on the phone with her and she couldn’t stop laughing at nothing. She mentioned going back to church, and how she was “dating” again. Her voice dropped when she said it, like it was a swear word, like she wanted to let out a squeal.
My fear only intensified when the conversation kept elliptically returning to babies. And not how there was getting to be way too many as of late. She started “droppin’” her G’s. On Wednesday, while we skyped, I had an enormous crisis of conscience when I had to compliment a pink and green neon halter.
I allowed this, only because it looked like she was about to burst into tears when I tried to change the subject, after she asked if I “totally loved” it. When I asked what else was new, she enthusiastically reported that she was chewing watermelon Bubblicious, “y’knooow, to match (her) top.”
I mentioned how sickened I was by the imminent congressional proposal to ban all contraception, and her eyes glazed over. She clearly fell into her own reflection, ignoring me to better focus on applying lip gloss, going so far as to hum over me.
Mom is definitely... firmer, up there. She looks unmistakably more youthful. Not quite as “forever teenage” as your typical yokel totter-bot, but easily fifteen to twenty years shy of her 52.
I dread the day when she’ll look younger than me. Unfortunately, it will most likely happen. That’s just how this works.
The worst part for me, ironically, is that the wrinkles and bags around her eyes have vanished. It’s sad that this is what it took to make her happy. It just has to be this new airborne method. She’s way too careful for Family Way Flu to ravage her otherwise. (I’m still not ready to say was too careful.)
Part of me can’t help but dwell, either, on the probability of her having another baby before I can even have my first. It’s just about the only time I ever think about having kids. It’s dastardly how Cherub Cove can fold their influence into a tight-knit parental bond.
My mind drifts, and a vision settles, not unlike that tangible transformation nightmare whenever I have anal sex. It’s my mother and I, huddled over a kitchen island, each cradling and breastfeeding an infant of our own. A mixing bowl in her free hand, a whisk in mine. We’re like a mirror image of eternal youth and dripping fertility. We’re giggling out of love, more than anything. It’s gross.
She tried to call a few hours ago, and I deflected. I’m trying to conjure a painless way to tell her that I’m not going to make the annual cross country trip for her birthday. I’m an only child, and Dad died two years ago. She’s all I have at the moment, and offered to pay for my ticket this year.
I consider relenting and just going, bringing extra preparation, but the cynical, realistic side of me assumes she’ll find tons of bimbos to act stupid around soon enough. Poor Mom... I don’t want to think about it...
I know at least some of you have already lost family members to Our Family Way. I’m getting a first taste of the heartache and frustration you must feel, and my mother’s case isn’t half as bad as what happened to F.W.F. subscriber NHancD11’s. (I’ll respect her privacy and not explicate exactly how bad. But trust me, it’s worse than you can imagine.)
Not yet, anyway. You just want to scream at them, “Stop it! You can beat this!” Though you know, deep down, they can’t. So, sorry if all that stuff about my mom was too personal, too close to home.
Oh! If you can, grow your own fruits and vegetables. If you live away from an urban area or are without a homegrown stand close to your neighborhood, set aside a little indoor nook where you can raise a little garden under fluorescent.
It’s funny. Secret grow operations usually used to mean marijuana. Now, as long as it’s a strain approved by St. Brittany’s Chronic Council, you can plant, have, or smoke as much pot as you want. Bubblebutt Kush, in particular, sprouts high between sidewalk cracks all over Brooklyn.
I kid you not. You can’t walk down certain streets in Bushwick without being pummeled by its skunky-sweet smell. Before my friend Nella went wifey, I had to bring a change of underwear whenever I visited her, just in case I had to wait on her stoop more than a minute or two for her to come down.
Summer was atrocious for that: one sizzling afternoon, her train was running late and I was driven to squirming at the front of her building for an hour. The stuffy scent of all that free-range weed was revving me up relentlessly. The sculpted Appalaichan Adonises and basically nude cherub cunts colonized my attention. Their various fattened body parts, and fatly rolled joints they got so grabby with, weren’t exactly cooling me off.
By the time Nella actually showed up, and we sweatily climbed the eight flights to her apartment, I had to covertly burn off some insatiable hornies in her bathroom. I felt so drained and sluggish. It must have taken me twenty-five minutes.
I managed to flick the fan on just before I came, languidly moaning like a stoned cow. I lied to her afterwards, when I picked myself up and ambled back to the living room. I told her I was cramping something fierce. It totally passed. Anyway.
It’s impossible to find any produce in your local supermarket that isn’t coated in Pappy brand “safe and fortified” pesticides. I’ll let you take a guess as to who makes that stuff. Depressing enough, even in the city, they’re making it awfully difficult by jacking up the prices of organics, right on down to pushcart vendors. ($45 for a single untainted tangerine?! I think not.)
I can’t stress this next one enough! Do not hold eye contact with a Gobblin’ Gal or Horsey Hoss for more than five seconds. You may wonder why someone who probably already has a lot of, well, supernaturally capable partners would have any interest in eye-fucking you. Curiosity is the number one turner of a happy heathen!
I’m aware this might just make you look awkward and antisocial, giving us Rebel Rosies and even more despised rep than we have, but that’s a small price to pay. The good lot of these folks are mind-warped to the point where they can’t even comprehend the notion of a married woman going childless by choice. They’d probably get just as weirded out by a girl with short hair, or a guy with long.
There are entire courses offered at Cud College, and no less than three instructional videos, that teach these drones how to “Lasso With The Look Of Looks!” It only takes one glance for them to notice the “lack of the Lord’s light” in your eyes. If you let them keep you in their gaze, you’re doomed to chronic, unmanageable masturbation that will overtake your whole life.
This unending hunger for rutting can only be calmed if you have intercourse with one of them, but of course, this will convert you. I wear sunglasses pretty much 24/7 if I go out. Don’t give in, whatever you do. Looks can’t kill you, but the Look of Looks can absolutely slaughter your career goals. No one is immune!