Matt Cale is infuriated...

Under normal circumstances, Cindy Sheehan's extended vigil in Crawford, Texas (click here) near the "Western White House" would excite my liberal sensibilities. Her push for "one more chat" with the President would speak to me as something out of a Frank Capra movie; that small, humble voice helping to bring about a movement of such righteous power that the callous hypocrites inhabiting their smoke filled rooms would be forced to retreat with their withered, broken cocks between their legs. Alas, I am not inspired, and what's more, I am in no mood to throw my weight behind her so-called "cause" to force a defiant administration to admit error, if not outright deception. Oh I believe her words speak to a mendacity unseen since the brighter days of Stalinism, but as is usually the case, I would be remiss if I attempted to separate the message from the messenger. In short, this is a crusade not by an innocent, or a purveyor of democracy's stronger shades, but rather the most beastly, unholy creation in a land already teeming with disastrous designs of the human animal. She is, at bottom, a mom. The word in itself is benign, perhaps even warm and inviting, but when coupled with purpose and political pretensions, she becomes savagery itself unleashed; a rabid dog so vile and so dangerous that had I a choice in the matter, I would rather face an army of illiterate fundamentalists, as redundant as that might be. Moms, when imbued with a self-imposed sense of duty, do more harm than any other group in the history of mankind. How do you think prohibition came about? Mom's must be stopped, even if they oppose America's most prominent retard.

If there is anything worthwhile, or pleasant, or fun, or even challenging in American life, you can rest assured that a mom has opposed it. Notice how I say "mom" as opposed to "mother" or "momma." While all three can hurt you if you aren't looking, only "mom" holds any currency in the current cultural debate. From soccer moms to the Million Mom March, they use the informality to lull us into a state of security and nostalgia, all the while working diligently to strip the country of everything worth living for. And even when their great push falls on the left side of the aisle, the appeals to "innocence" and "decency" far outweigh any political alignment with yours truly. Because in the end, everything they do is "for the children." All of life becomes filtered through that most heinous lens, that which brings everything back to how it might impact the brood back at the old homestead.

One example comes to mind here, and while the story is specific to Denver, Colorado, it is no doubt familiar to all. The city of Centennial is facing a zoning crisis because a strip club wants to move in (and can, legally) but "no one" wants it in their area [Ed Note: Yeah right]. Arguments are numerous, but above all, what one hears on the news reports contain some form of the statement: "Not in a neighborhood, where MY SON might see it." They cite the presence of churches, schools, and parks, as if strip clubs by their very nature should only be built in back alleys or poverty-stricken hellholes. One mom even suggested that she should not be put in the position of having to explain the strip club to her young one, who is all of FIFTEEN! Needless to say, the deluded hausfrau failed to notice the cum-soaked stacks of skin rags that threatened to overtake little Timmy's closet the last time she cleaned. Hypocrisy aside, she also believes that women taking off their clothes for money is a direct threat to her hearth and home. It might be, but not in the way that she thinks. Perhaps the suburban-cow fears the extended absence of her already bored and overly-nagged and irritated husband who, heretofore, had used "work" as an excuse to stay away from the unrelenting hell that is family life, but now has a dark, smoky joint with alluring babes possessing skin wifey poo hasn't seen on her own haggard frame in a decade to keep him away nights. Mom knows the old man can't stand the fucking sight of her, and she's trying to keep the faster, younger, exceedingly more interesting competition at bay.

Returning to Ms. Sheehan, we have a woman who was more than willing to send her ugly pug of a child to the battlefield, so long as the explanation given was one of "liberation" and the catch-all "defense of freedom." But now, betrayed, she seeks an answer, as if she too does not hold some complicity in the matter. One can imagine this bellowing broad driving her gas-guzzling SUV around town while her "Support the Troops" stickers shine in the sun. She'd get all teary at her Army son, and even pause occasionally to remember those who "gave all" for world peace, or some such nonsense. She was a true believer, and would have remained so had her lummox of a boy not seen fit to get himself killed. Suddenly, and in a turn more shamelessly scripted than the average summer popcorn flick, she turned on her heel and saw that all was not right with the world; again, ONLY because the fruit of her loins received a shrapnel shower in the desert. Where was this creature before the fall? Had she stepped from her idyllic existence for any cause greater than herself until it got personal? At bottom, she was (and is) the vintage American mom. The world may burn and families be torn asunder, but when my front porch feels the sting, I'm strapping on the gear and getting involved. Too little, too late.

As such, moms are all about insignificant, hollow gestures that carry symbolic weight for a time, but in the end do little but satisfy a mom-ish sense of social change. Such change is, for a mom, only enough to get the wee ones through their lives without controversy, challenge, or -- perish the thought -- an individual viewpoint; a viewpoint that even partially undermines the usually god-filled, illusion-based house of cards they have so carefully constructed. Moms are about order and routine, hence the obsessive scheduling for their kids, which amounts to little more than the complete abandonment of imagination and spontaneity. And everything is "practice" with these moms -- soccer, football, baseball, track -- anything that involves the triumph of physical prowess over the "wasteful" indulgences of the intellect. Moms would never pack screaming snots into a van in order to hit the art gallery, or even the library, and when was the last time your fellow employee -- a mom -- needed to leave early because her beautiful baby was giving a speech? No, it's always a mind-numbing "play," where we feign interest in the wooden Indian-ness of non-talents as they butcher even the most unchallenging prose for a packed house of digital cameras and shit-eating grins. Again, if this were about the arts, then moms would be on the road to redemption, but it is about "the boy" being on stage, because moms have long ago mastered their most insidious talent -- believing with every fiber of their being that the comings and goings of their children are, by design, the first thing you want to hear about in any given conversation.

So let the final word on the subject be heard without fear of misunderstanding. Moms, we do not care that your child was able to gurgle or spew forth something that resembled a word. Unless that young one is severely brain damaged or locked away in a closet with only the flesh of rodents on which to subsist, he or she will eventually speak. It's not a miracle, or an "event," or even something worth mentioning in passing! But let's backtrack to the time before they infect the world with their unending needs. Pregnant moms-to-be: you are not sexy, nor is the event about to take place something bordering on the divine. I know you abhor the sound of the word evolution, but your belly? It's why we're here. That said, in this world that has moved beyond mere survival to embrace culture, it's just a function; no different than taking a shit or vomiting. In other words, I'm not interested in dilation, or number of weeks, or how you will bring forth your gross spawn. I can see that you forgot to take your birth control, so no further explanation is necessary. For me, your insidious bump is simply a reminder that you didn't have an abortion -- I have little interest in the rest of the story.

Perhaps moms are simply evil because, by definition, they are always paired with children. But outside of that fact, their behavior makes our world that much less livable. They hate taxes, but demand better schools. They blast the existence of music, film, and literature that contain graphic imagery, yet claim to support the very supply and demand that ensures those images' popularity and prevalence. They rant, scream, whine, and march, usually clad in bad clothes and always sporting jaw-droppingly bad hair. Their lives are endless rounds of shit, toys, sandwiches sans crust, and tantrums, so they project their inner scars onto the rest of us who just might be having more fun because we demand a world for adults. Kids are for the factories, the mines, or the city dump wrapped in bloody rugs, not my private time. Moms, you fucked up your lives and now must suffer through tortures no North Vietnamese prison could replicate. Them's the breaks. But stay the fuck away from mine.