It's not that I hate my sonBy Jimmie Walton
I saw a bumper sticker the other day on some young lady's car that said "Hate is not a family value." Now, many people including my co-workers, friends, and my ex-wife have accused me of hating my own son. But it's not that I hate my son, it's that he's a goddamn faggot.
I didn't raise my son to be a homo, no way. All those years of Football -- a true man's sport -- should have demonstrated men's values to my son. Now let me explain what he was supposed to be learning and how he failed, time and time again, so your son -- or, God forbid, you -- don't make the same mistakes he did.
Did my son learn the true, manly value of teamwork when all the guys got in a huddle, put their arms around one another and whispered in each other's ears about strategy? No! Instead he lubes his huge cock and slowly penetrates "Stevie," his boyfriend of two years. Where's the teamwork in that, you lousy queer?
What about male aggression, such as when he jumped on a pile of other guys just to wrestle the damn ball away? Where's the aggression in two guys sitting on a bench, staring affectionately into one another's eyes and then passionately French-kissing each other, huh?
Or what about a good ol' fashion workout? You've got to spend hours at the gym, working out in your Speedos lifting weights with the other guys, bodies glistening with sweat. Now my son bends down and takes it like a fucking woman in the ass. That's not a workout, you fag!
Most importantly though, Football teaches boys to have fun, and to not take things so seriously; after all, it's just a game. Where is the fun in spending all eternity in Hell?
Boy, I taught you right, but you just didn't listen. Lord knows I've tried to teach you to be a man, Lord knows.
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