Norm
MalFear
Humans are full of fears from birth. There are infant fears which humans outgrow, like fear of the dark, fear of parental absence, and Freudian fears, such as having nothing more substantial to cling to during the weaning process than a plastic dummy with a huge, substitute plastic nipple, yet a strange-coloured plastic ring where the rest of the breast should be. Bite-proof, scratch-and-bleed resistant plastic. For those who are breastfed. On real breasts. Common, acceptable infant fears. For bottle-fed infants of mothers with plastic breasts, who are weaned onto dummies, there are other common and acceptable fears for the child. And plenty for the parents. Fears the child wont know what a real breast is, and what one isn’t, never having been attached to a real breast or felt one in its mouth. The fear it may not want to know. Especially if the child is male. Or born the wrong gender. A male trapped inside a female body. Put there by a confused creator. And it might fear to have a sex-change operation. When it should. During puberty. When the “lumps” first appear. Fears that the bottle-fed infant will have to be weaned off dummies and bottles by placing the infant onto the mother’s plastic breasts. Fears this will be self-defeating due to their plasticity. And the fear that because plastic breasts are incapable of producing milk, they will burst at the invisible surgical seams if the baby sucks or grabs too hard, and clog the baby up with exploding implant matter, and it will choke to death. Fears the mother will have to have the surgery done again. Fears the surgery might have to be delayed until after the baby’s funeral, and that the breasts will never be the same as they never were again. Fears they will be similar to the original breasts she wanted to rid herself of. Only with scars. Or fears surviving children will grow up not liking real breasts at all, and develop a Freudian, post-infancy plastic fetish, for all things plastic. And want to marry a plastic milk bottle. An empty one. One without milk in it. Or a plastic toy. Or live with either. Or both. Then divorce them. Or recognise they have a problem, because they live on a diet of freezer-hardened jelly. And go off to a psychiatrist in an attempt to correct the problem. And take the psych’s advice and go off to become a dairy farmer or specialist cow vet. And fall in love with a cow during the training period or with a picture of a cow during the interview. And elope with the first real cow he or she meets. And get retrenched. And lose a good stable job as a dairy hand or vet. And be jailed for cattle rustling. Or fornicating with billboards advertising milk cartons but featuring cows. In public. And not be around for the human-cow’s childhood. And be labelled a bad parent. By both humans and cows. Of both genders. And be unemployable due to having a criminal record. Two criminal records. One for cattle rustling and one for buggery. A third even. For fornicating in a public place with a billboard. Fears that the male child will not turn gay, or the female child will be turned off becoming a lesbian, or both will want to marry mannequins or blow-up dolls, or visit adult sex shops just to window-shop, never marry, and die as elderly bachelors or spinsters with no love of real pets like cats and dogs and other animals without visible udders like cows, but want to live with a collection of human dummies. Or that both genders will want to pursue psychology or psychiatry as careers. In honour of Freud. Or his successor, Doof, the famed German homosexual psychiatrist who coined the phrase Oedipus’ Husband Complex, along with many others. Common, acceptable parental fears. Acceptable fears and non-acceptable fears? Equals.
For the Sake of Argument
My Apologetics
You left off one.
The fear of being psychoanalized through your essays.
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power
Not to mention pilots.
Norm
Killer Beats
Ramble On
Hipnotherapy
Okay so I read this at work and spit out my sprite. Thanks for the "Sex Saturday" laugh!
Mis
When have you ever known me to take the classy option?
Not to mention a horse-vet/pilot starting up a blog as a sexless female in Brisbane.
You should know not to read with your mouth full.
Killer Beats
Ramble On
Hipnotherapy
Mis