We used to feel shame in America. See, shame is a powerful force. It means the painful feeling of of something dishonorable, improper, or ridiculous. It used to be an emotion we possessed as a culture. It kept us from doing shit like publicizing our adulterous affairs with big booty tramps on the cover of US Weekly.
I have a neighbor who drives a 1993 Ford with duct tape on the rear bumper. It has a cassette deck and a broken antenna. He lives with two other men and he sleeps in a converted closet. He wears construction boots nearly everywhere. He has dirt under his fingernails and he smells like a coffee pot. He lives like this because his ex-wife took him for everything and he saves all his money so he can see his two kids on the weekend. There’s no shame in that. None. He should feel no shame. He’s taught that he should, but he’s a working man doing the right thing. The end.
No, the motherfucker who should feel shame, that jerkface, ass clown, shit bag, lives down the street. He rocks a Lexus SUV and is always yelling at his three shitty kids in the back. Well, maybe they’re not so shitty. Why? Because this Emmy-Award winning phlegm hole basically force feeds them McDonalds Happy Meals. He essentially straps the boxes to their tiny heads like you would a feed bag for a horse. They fucking drown in MSG and other saturated garbage. So, they’re all pumped up on unnatural chemicals and low and fucking behold the chemicals actually work. So… the kids are, unruly at best. When I say unruly what I really mean is a damned heavy metal backstage party in the ’80s with cocaine on every horizontal surface. Our Emmy-Award winner then tells them to “shut up!,” “sit down,” “quit acting that way.” Oh yeah. Classics. Then naturally, when they start to cry because their asshole dad who weighs in easily at a comfortable three bills starts to threaten them with nonsense like “Do you want something to cry about?”
First, let’s examine the question. Do you want something to cry about?
Yes, yes I fucking would. It’s been awhile since I’ve had a really good, fear-induced cry, dad. Please, make me bawl until I can’t feel my insides anymore. And since I’m already loaded on a McRib and other fine Mickey D’s products I could really stand to actually have the shit beaten out of me, since I haven’t had a proper dump in the better part of a half decade.
Secondly, let’s examine the idea of a 300-pound-man threatening a toddler.
What sort of mental anguish is this Sasquatch in? What, he’s pissed off that Foot Locker doesn’t carry shirts larger than XXXXL? A fair concern, to be sure…
Shame. Shame would prevent all that shit. Feeling genuine shame would keep spent pieces of duck-face trash like Snooki off my societal radar. Shame would send fist-pumping bros back to their text books instead of raiding tanning salons like the Jersey Shore is 10th Century Scotland and the fucking Vikings have arrived.
Shame would keep the SVU-driving shitty dad from bludgeoning his kids into eating foul gut-rot and then badgering them for acting like they’re freaking out on chemicals designed to make them freak out.
Shame. Get some.