I was in first grade.
Our teacher was out and some substitute bitch lady was filling in.
During the class a girl asked to use the bathroom. Her pass was granted without pause. About a minute later, I realized I had to take a massive diarrhea shit. I asked if I could go to the bathroom and she flatly rejected me, not giving me any reason. I asked again and was rejected. I was young and I knew I should have just said, “Fuck it!” and gone without permission. But the blue pill school system pull was too strong so I didn’t. She finally let me go, and BOY did I, right in my pants as I was going to put the lid down to the toilet in the boy’s bathroom. An explosion of soft, mushy shit in my pants ensued.
I had to shuffle back, with clinched butt-cheeks and tears streaming, to the classroom and whisper to the teach that I had an accident. I had to wait on the principal’s couch for 45 minutes until my mother came and got me. Do you know how fucked up sitting down with a load of shit in your draws is? Shit was everywhere inside my pants, and I’ll never forget the hottest girl in the class coming up to me and giving me my school work.
Fathers, if you have young boys, tell them that if they have to take a shit, don’t take any shit from any teacher and go with or without permission and get your business done.
I’m still about 4.5 years old at the time and it’s Halloween.
My mother took the Shirley Temple concept to the extreme and made me wear the outfit she planned for me for the community center’s Halloween costume contest. Guess what she dressed me as?
That’s right! A fuckin’ girl, with a dress, wig, and makeup. I believe I cried and messed up the mascara, but I digress.
I didn’t win and I got some laughs from my neighborhood buddies. I ripped that costume off after the judging and told her I’d never again dress like a damn girl.
My mother never did dress me as a girl again, but she did still have enough pull to make me wear a costume she made me wear to my school for Halloween.
Guess what it was? A fuckin bumble-bee! Not a vicious mud dogger. Not a wasp. A bumble-bee.
I’ll give her credit about one thing though. She made that costume with her sewing machine. She had some skills that today’s women could surely use, but still, a bumble bee ain’t much better, definitely not as cool as the other costumes. That was the last costume I would wear without picking it myself.
Fathers, dress your kids as pirates, soldiers, or big penises penetrating vaginas or something. They won’t win, and will probably be sent home, but they’ll never forget the laughs they had with dear ol’ dad making the costumes.
I was about 4.5 years old, or whatever in the hell age head-start students are.
I had long curly hair that looked like a version of the young Shirley Temple everyone knows. Why? Cause 4-year-old kids didn’t have their own fuckin’ clippers in the ’70s, that’s why, and my mom thought it was “fun” to grow my hair out (I remember her frequently saying she wished she had daughters because they’re so much easier).
I remember a few people saying, “Aww so cute. How old is she?” I may have been four, but I knew I didn’t like hearin’ that shit. I give myself credit for complaining about this and eventually her cutting it, but I wish my dad would have been around to hear that comment and cut my hair promptly.
Fathers, if you want your sons to grow up and drop their nutsacks to full size, don’t let your women try to dress them in anything other than mud, cuts, and bruises.
The next story piggybacks on this, as the last straw to this “I wish I had daughter’s” shit comes to an end when I finally squash this girl shit for good.
I was three or four years old. I was out with my mother at a large social gathering during the summer. People played softball, horseshoes, and grilled out. Every person who approached my mother was a potential child abductor in my eyes. I’d grab my mother’s leg and hide my eyes from the person talking to my mother and me. “Oh, he’s just shy,” my mother would say.
Looking back, F that excuse. She gave me a social crutch to stand on and I did. Deep down I knew I should try to talk to people, but once I got my get-out-of-jail-free shy card, I ran with it. Wish my dad was there to tell me, “Son, I don’t care how scared you are. You be a big boy, crush your fears, and look people in the eyes and talk to them, OK son?” That shit would have put me on a path to being much less shy, much quicker. And it’s a pity too, because later in life I had to do public speaking for a job and I ended up being good at that shite!
Fathers, don’t ever give your children the shy excuse, and if your wife is doing it, have the balls to call her out for doing it (if you still have balls). Consider it the same as your child shitting their pants and you telling them it’s okay to continue shitting their pants. Correct this beta shit today.
I’m looking back into my life for all the beta memories I can recall and posting them here.