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The boys (and girls) are lining up, ready to seize the moment.
All of this would be irrelevant if:
a.) contraception was flawless and available from the moment you become capable of making babies, and:
b.) if we lived in a society as safe as Japan.
All of this would be irrelevant if:
a.) contraception was flawless and available from the moment you become capable of making babies, and:
b.) if we lived in a society as safe as Japan.
Category Artwork (Digital) / All
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 988 x 1280px
File Size 259.3 kB
Well, I'm just referring to the level of safety they have over there, where you don't have to worry about your precious catgirl getting shot on the way to school or in the mall parking lot, or getting in a car wreck on her 50-mile-a-day commute to school or work.
That safety may come at the price of being a lockstep, totally conforming society, where everybody suppresses their individualism, while feeling superior as a group. My friend who used to live there for 5 years or so called it the "Secret Decoder Ring Society."
Yep, there's a LOT to Japanese life not to be envied...as there is to ours.
Yeah, and HIV still isn't funny, even though the youths on 4chan laugh about it since they've heard about it all their short lives.
That safety may come at the price of being a lockstep, totally conforming society, where everybody suppresses their individualism, while feeling superior as a group. My friend who used to live there for 5 years or so called it the "Secret Decoder Ring Society."
Yep, there's a LOT to Japanese life not to be envied...as there is to ours.
Yeah, and HIV still isn't funny, even though the youths on 4chan laugh about it since they've heard about it all their short lives.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sasebo_slashing
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saseb.....oolgirl_murder
There is also a case where a boy had his head hacked off by a classmate.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saseb.....oolgirl_murder
There is also a case where a boy had his head hacked off by a classmate.
The idea is, you could let your teen-aged daughters go anywhere and do anything if they weren't going to get pregnant (as nature intends) or get killed/damaged by violence or disease. In the meantime, people try to keep their daughters enclosed in a see-through cage that the boys are trying to get into and she's trying to get out of. Usually a lot of shouting and bad feeling is involved.
I dunno what I'd do, but I don't have larvae to take care of, so I'm in good shape.
I dunno what I'd do, but I don't have larvae to take care of, so I'm in good shape.
Well, she's dressed in normal American girl clothes (various epochs represented). And, she may think she's alone rather than being in a clear box. But the inspiration comes from the underage girls who appear at anime conventions in their hundreds and thousands, wearing anything they think will attract their PRINCE.
I'm told this works:
Daughter brings The Boy #1 to meet you. He is chaotic evil, shoots heroin under his fingernails, and is one of those suicidally bold motorcyclists. Your daughter says "this is Ace, and I am his property now."
You: (warmly putting your arm around The Boy) “Come in! Hey, you look thirsty, here, have a cold beer! You like the Spurs? Come in this house and set yourself down right here. Say, nice tattoo of Manson you got on your stomach.”
The VERY next weekend, you take The Boy fishing with your buddies at aunt Nancy and uncle Carl’s place out in Maypearl. The Boy will be surrounded by admiring, apparently inbred rednecks (who are all in on the joke). Hairy, overweight men in no shirts and overalls greet The Boy like a long-lost brother, their pig-like eyes resting on him with approbation.
“Thet’s a niiice tattoo of Manson yew got on yer stummick there” says Uncle Carl. “I wuz in the Navy. We-uns got screws [Note: meaning, ship’s propellers] on each butt cheek.” (Uncle Carl turns around, drops pants, revealing matched propeller tattoos on his freckled, hairy backside). “Keeps yew from drowndin.’ Works, too—I wuz on the Stark (U.S.S. Stark, hit by an Iraqi missile in the Persian Gulf, 1987).”
“We-ns [are] goin’ to catch some big cat fish today” says Uncle Carl. “When you put your worm on the hook, you got to spit on it and holler “JESUS CHRIST.”
(rednecks guffaw heartily, exchanging meaningful looks.)
Aunt Nancy: “Yew boys stop that blasphemy and come eat.” (leers meaningfully and whispers to The Boy, tobacco juice running down her wattled chins) “Young feller like you needs fat meat. Makes you vir-ile.” Behind her head, The Boy sees a larger-than-life photo of MEE-MAW, who makes Jabba the Hutt look like Little Boy Blue in a sailor suit.
(Later, down at the pond. Everyone has been forced to eat ten times the amount of crispy, salty, country-fried food that could possibly be crammed into their dangerously overstretched abdominal cavities. A pickup truck comes grinding down the gravel path and creaks to a stop in the red dirt near the dock.) Aunt Nancy lurches out, supporting a mighty basket on one side of her prodigious pelvis. “Ketch anything?” she crows, waddling toward the doomed men. “I brought some pies fer ye. ” She unveils a mountain of glistening pastries—pecan, rhubarb, peach, sweet potato—covered in rich, light crusts made possible by the use of unprecedented amounts of lard.
“Now yew boys don’t be late for dinner (meaning, lunch). “If you ain’t there when the watermelon’s cut, you don’t git any.”
Inexorably, the rednecks force The Boy to eat a heapin’ helpin’ of every pie, following this uncivilized torment with gushing torrents of fresh, clear corn liquor that Cousin Jean has brought from “up in the Parish.”
At some point The Boy’s eyes open. The savage incinerating sun lances into the back of his skull. The pool of barf, live bait, and flapping, croaking catfish sloshes gently into his earholes. Two huge, bearded men clutching bloody knives throw live fish one to the other, arguing in French.
“Le plus gros poisson!”
“Va-t'à la merde”
“Vous reek de poissons!”
“Couillon! Embrasse mon tcheue!”
“Yew doin’ alright?” says Cousin Don, kicking him gently in the head. “Let’s go to the house. Hit’s time for dinner.”
Later, after interminable hours of suffering, The Boy is surrounded by admiring cousins out at the pond. The good stuff has been broken out—the entire surface of the picnic table, seats included, is covered with the largest possible containers of liquor. Around the edges of the dirt parking area are stacks of cases of warm Animal Beer, so called because their cases depict elk, deer, antelopes and bears cavorting in a synthetic Rocky Mountain-style background. Cousin Don puts down his sloshing 1.5 liter bottle of Clan MacGregor next to the Heckler & Koch machine gun that has provided hours of entertainment. “I like yew” he says, his sweaty arms draped on The Boy’s neck like muddy tires filled with concrete. Fat tears gush from his potato-like face. “Shee-It, boy, you gonna make a hones’ woman of lil’ Madison. I cain’t believe th’ luck. Ever since-t her Daddy and his cousin Krystal got hitch’t, I been watchin’ lil’ Maddie grow up t’ be a noobile lil’ thang. Hit jest broke my heart when she an’ Cousin Jake split, on account of him shootin’ Cousin Josh in the head and takin’ the plea bargain.
“Yew’re all right” Cousin Don’s small eyes glint in the fire-lit badlands of his wet, stubbly face. “Have a drink” he says, thrusting a 1.5 liter plastic jug of blue-tinted gin into The Boy’s face.
Repeat this process until The Boy finds a girl with a less frightening family.
Situation 2: The Boy is now a handsome, studious young man who sincerely loves your daughter. His backpack contains books that he reads for pleasure. His eyes are quietly proud, as a youth’s should be, but his manner is gentle and deferential to his elders.
You: “Don’t you EVER bring that punk here again. If I EVER see you with him again, I’m going to get a restraining order on him and home-school you ‘till you’re fifty. Now get in your room and stay there ‘till I get back. I’m going to get some 12-gauge solid shot and file grooves in ‘em so they’ll bust him wide open. Oh yeah, and I’ll put a bead of mercury in ‘em and seal ‘em with wax. (speaking distractedly to yourself) Now where’s my vial of mercury?”
Daughter brings The Boy #1 to meet you. He is chaotic evil, shoots heroin under his fingernails, and is one of those suicidally bold motorcyclists. Your daughter says "this is Ace, and I am his property now."
You: (warmly putting your arm around The Boy) “Come in! Hey, you look thirsty, here, have a cold beer! You like the Spurs? Come in this house and set yourself down right here. Say, nice tattoo of Manson you got on your stomach.”
The VERY next weekend, you take The Boy fishing with your buddies at aunt Nancy and uncle Carl’s place out in Maypearl. The Boy will be surrounded by admiring, apparently inbred rednecks (who are all in on the joke). Hairy, overweight men in no shirts and overalls greet The Boy like a long-lost brother, their pig-like eyes resting on him with approbation.
“Thet’s a niiice tattoo of Manson yew got on yer stummick there” says Uncle Carl. “I wuz in the Navy. We-uns got screws [Note: meaning, ship’s propellers] on each butt cheek.” (Uncle Carl turns around, drops pants, revealing matched propeller tattoos on his freckled, hairy backside). “Keeps yew from drowndin.’ Works, too—I wuz on the Stark (U.S.S. Stark, hit by an Iraqi missile in the Persian Gulf, 1987).”
“We-ns [are] goin’ to catch some big cat fish today” says Uncle Carl. “When you put your worm on the hook, you got to spit on it and holler “JESUS CHRIST.”
(rednecks guffaw heartily, exchanging meaningful looks.)
Aunt Nancy: “Yew boys stop that blasphemy and come eat.” (leers meaningfully and whispers to The Boy, tobacco juice running down her wattled chins) “Young feller like you needs fat meat. Makes you vir-ile.” Behind her head, The Boy sees a larger-than-life photo of MEE-MAW, who makes Jabba the Hutt look like Little Boy Blue in a sailor suit.
(Later, down at the pond. Everyone has been forced to eat ten times the amount of crispy, salty, country-fried food that could possibly be crammed into their dangerously overstretched abdominal cavities. A pickup truck comes grinding down the gravel path and creaks to a stop in the red dirt near the dock.) Aunt Nancy lurches out, supporting a mighty basket on one side of her prodigious pelvis. “Ketch anything?” she crows, waddling toward the doomed men. “I brought some pies fer ye. ” She unveils a mountain of glistening pastries—pecan, rhubarb, peach, sweet potato—covered in rich, light crusts made possible by the use of unprecedented amounts of lard.
“Now yew boys don’t be late for dinner (meaning, lunch). “If you ain’t there when the watermelon’s cut, you don’t git any.”
Inexorably, the rednecks force The Boy to eat a heapin’ helpin’ of every pie, following this uncivilized torment with gushing torrents of fresh, clear corn liquor that Cousin Jean has brought from “up in the Parish.”
At some point The Boy’s eyes open. The savage incinerating sun lances into the back of his skull. The pool of barf, live bait, and flapping, croaking catfish sloshes gently into his earholes. Two huge, bearded men clutching bloody knives throw live fish one to the other, arguing in French.
“Le plus gros poisson!”
“Va-t'à la merde”
“Vous reek de poissons!”
“Couillon! Embrasse mon tcheue!”
“Yew doin’ alright?” says Cousin Don, kicking him gently in the head. “Let’s go to the house. Hit’s time for dinner.”
Later, after interminable hours of suffering, The Boy is surrounded by admiring cousins out at the pond. The good stuff has been broken out—the entire surface of the picnic table, seats included, is covered with the largest possible containers of liquor. Around the edges of the dirt parking area are stacks of cases of warm Animal Beer, so called because their cases depict elk, deer, antelopes and bears cavorting in a synthetic Rocky Mountain-style background. Cousin Don puts down his sloshing 1.5 liter bottle of Clan MacGregor next to the Heckler & Koch machine gun that has provided hours of entertainment. “I like yew” he says, his sweaty arms draped on The Boy’s neck like muddy tires filled with concrete. Fat tears gush from his potato-like face. “Shee-It, boy, you gonna make a hones’ woman of lil’ Madison. I cain’t believe th’ luck. Ever since-t her Daddy and his cousin Krystal got hitch’t, I been watchin’ lil’ Maddie grow up t’ be a noobile lil’ thang. Hit jest broke my heart when she an’ Cousin Jake split, on account of him shootin’ Cousin Josh in the head and takin’ the plea bargain.
“Yew’re all right” Cousin Don’s small eyes glint in the fire-lit badlands of his wet, stubbly face. “Have a drink” he says, thrusting a 1.5 liter plastic jug of blue-tinted gin into The Boy’s face.
Repeat this process until The Boy finds a girl with a less frightening family.
Situation 2: The Boy is now a handsome, studious young man who sincerely loves your daughter. His backpack contains books that he reads for pleasure. His eyes are quietly proud, as a youth’s should be, but his manner is gentle and deferential to his elders.
You: “Don’t you EVER bring that punk here again. If I EVER see you with him again, I’m going to get a restraining order on him and home-school you ‘till you’re fifty. Now get in your room and stay there ‘till I get back. I’m going to get some 12-gauge solid shot and file grooves in ‘em so they’ll bust him wide open. Oh yeah, and I’ll put a bead of mercury in ‘em and seal ‘em with wax. (speaking distractedly to yourself) Now where’s my vial of mercury?”
Interesting p[icture, would be nice to see all the words written , just to see the full story.
I came across this because it is my "Birthday FA pic." ---> http://www.furaffinity.net/journal/1789561/
Keheheh.
I came across this because it is my "Birthday FA pic." ---> http://www.furaffinity.net/journal/1789561/
Keheheh.
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