The middle-class republican biography

22 10 2008


Please note that the words in the following tale, while completely fictional, are still a little graphic and include some foul language. If this offends you, don’t read it… or do, it might be good for you.
A self-portrait of the author writing the story.

A self-portrait of the author writing the story.


They say I came out of my dad’s ass.

This is because I wasn’t born like normal people. They told me the only way someone like me could be conceived was by violently repressed man-sex. And there’s only one way to give birth to a child conceived like that.

Nothing with a vagina could create someone like me.

I started life growing up in a rural town in America somewhere. I couldn’t tell you a specific state or region, because we moved around a lot. My dad was a factory worker, and we had to move every once in a  while to find a factory that was still working.

I must have moved around half a dozen different times, and even though the towns were different, there were still some things about them that were the same.

Church was the same no matter where we went. There were always people that were a little too old, too young or too dumb to figure out something to do on their day off. And when you can’t figure out what to do on your own, you do what others tell you. Apparently someone was telling all of these old and dumb people to doing nothing, except go to church.

Violently repressed man-sex also showed up in the church. I don’t know why the priests always wanted to have babies with me, but it worked out in the end. I never got pregnant.

It would have sucked if I did get knocked up. I would’ve had to keep the baby, of course. Keeping a non-consensual repressed man-sex baby is still better than going to Hell, right?

And they tell me gay sex is a sin, but I think I’ve figured that one out. It must only be a sin if the feelings aren’t repressed first. It’s still okay to commit the acts if you want to badly enough, just try to repress them first. Only the ones who embrace their homosexual tenancies will go to Hell.

That must be why we had camps I could go to if I was feeling too gay. They could teach me how to repress it.

For most of my life growing up, I also had to repress regular, you know, one-man-one-woman-type sex. This was also a sin, or at least until I got married.

Knowing that didn’t make me want to have sex less, it just made me want to get married more. At that point, I just wanted sex.

Sex is a great tool to use when you’re trying to teach someone repression. The thought process must have been that, if I could repress sex completely until marriage, I would be able to repress anything.

It seems like the most logical answer to why they made me suffer like that. They would show me a lot of other things in life that I would need to repress, and this was great practice.

In school, I was always in sports. I don’t know if it was because I wanted to be in them, or if it was because I was forced. I think it was a little of both, since I like to do what people force me to. This is one of the reasons I don’t understand why I didn’t do well in school.

I wanted to do well in school, people told me I should try to do well in school, but I just couldn’t. There was always something else on my mind. I had to practice, or go to church, or think about not having sex.

And I had to hang out with the others guys like me.

Our parents told us we had to hang out. We didn’t mind, we got along, but we didn’t understand why. Why did our parents care so much about who we hung out with?

Sure, they wanted  me to play sports, so they could live through me. They wanted me to go to church and repress any natural feelings I had, because if God was watching me, then they didn’t have to. But why group us together? Why couldn’t I talk to someone who wasn’t like me?

Eventually, I started asking my mom why I couldn’t be friends with anyone I wanted to. Specifically this cute black girl that sat in back of me in class, her name was Gia.

When I asked my mom why I couldn’t talk to Gia, she said, “Why does curiosity kill the cat?”

Whenever there was something I wanted to do and didn’t understand why I couldn’t, that’s what my mom would say.

Why can’t I talk to Gia? Why do I have to believe what you tell me? Why do I have to believe what the Bible says? The answers is: Why does curiosity kill the cat?

I kept talking to Gia anyway. I liked how she was different. There weren’t a lot of black people in any of the places I lived, and I guess I kind of saw her as exotic. She was something different, when all of my life was filled with was the same. The same stuff everyday, every lifetime, every generation.

Plus, I liked her curves. Repression was tough.

We hung out for a while, but after realizing both of us were the kind of Christian that makes sex a bad thing, we kind of drifted apart. I guess we were both hoping that the other was someone who could talk us into doing something bad. We couldn’t go through with it on our own, but if someone were to tell us to, we could have probably been persuaded.

It was too bad we were both so good.

My parents got their wish after all, and I wasn’t hanging out with cat killers. At least this was of my own choosing. Even though it didn’t work out, deciding to keep talking to Gia was the first decision I ever made without being told what to do.

I kept hanging out with the crowd of people who were like me, the kids whose fathers gave birth them instead of their mothers. All these children from parents who make their kids believe the stories they did when they were younger.

Parents make sure each child hangs out with the kids whose parents are teaching their children the same values.

Our group didn’t get variety, it didn’t get new ideas, or different view points. There was never a time where our group did something, and one of us said, “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

None of us knew what a good or a bad idea was. We would have had to ask our parents before we could form our opinion on idea quality.

So how could we have determined a bad idea when the content of the idea was too risque to ask our parents about? When something in life came up that we were afraid to talk to our parents about, we had to figure it out for ourselves.

The problem was, how could we figure out something that we knew nothing about?

How could we figure something out for ourselves, when our parents didn’t give us the tools to do so?

But I guess we did okay.

Our whole group was repressed, what were we supposed to do? We had to find some sort of outlet. Some sort of relief for all of the pressure building up inside.

We needed something to relieve all of the pressure. All of the anger at not knowing why we did the things we did. All of those curiosities that obviously never killed us cats. All of those things I didn’t have control over, and thought I didn’t want control over. We all needed to take all of it out on something.

One day, we took it out on Gia.

Gia and I hadn’t talked for over a year, but I still wanted her. Our whole group wanted her. We wanted what our parents didn’t want us to have. We had to rebel. We needed sex, sure, but we also needed control. Not control over Gia, but control over our parents’ control.

If they wanted to make me repress my feelings, then I was going to make sure to do the opposite. I was going to super-not-repress. We all were.

There were five of us walking home after school, and we just decided to follow Gia while she went the couple of blocks to her place. When she started crossing a small bridge about a block from the school, I said, “Hey.”

She turned around, saw all of us, and got scared. Not scared enough to run, maybe because we knew each other a little bit.

She tried to put on a smile, but it was hard to tell if she was successful, because she was looking at the ground when she replied, “Hi.”

Nothing more was said.

One of the guys in the group ran up and put his hand over her mouth, and two others help drag her under the bridge. We were able to keep her really quite, because her mouth was always plugged up with a hand or something. She struggled at first, but at one point she stopped. She just stared at me and let it happen. All five of us had our turn to do whatever we needed to.

All of that repression was no longer repressed. Everything I ever thought of doing I did. Everything that I was told not to do, was something I had to try.

It’s tough to tell the bad things from the really bad things when your parents make it all seem like the same severity. When everything lands you in Hell, you might as well go all out once you know you’re going there.

When we were done, she was crying, and so were three out of the five of us. It’s not like we wanted to do it to her. We just had to do something to someone, since so much had been done to us.

She was the first one to get up and run away. I think one of us said something to her while she was running. Something about not telling anyone about what happened, but she didn’t listen.

She ended up squealing a few weeks later. When the cops asked her why she waited so long to come forward, the incident report stated she said, “I was going to try to forget about it, but I can’t do that now. I’m late.”

A couple of months later you could see the bulge in her belly.

We never got in trouble with the cops. They said she was just trying to cover-up for sleeping around and finally getting knocked up. Unless one of the perpetrators comes forward, they were afraid they didn’t have a case. Even if they tested the baby’s genes, if the father said the sex they had was consensual, there was nothing the cops could do.

Even though we were in the clear criminally, we still had to see Gia with that baby bulge every day at school. We still had to see her being made fun of for being pregnant.

And the only thing our group could think was, “Please, Gia, get an abortion.”

But I knew abortions were out of the question, Gia was too good of a person.

That made me learn one of life’s most valuable lessons, the lesson my parents we trying to teach me: Just repress everything. Repress your sexual urges, and if that makes something bad happen, then repress what happened. For every action you believe is right, but turns out wrong, just repress it.

You can’t just repress urges, you also have to repress facts and truth.

If you don’t repress the truth, then you’re biting the apple of knowledge. Nothing good ever came from knowing things.

I’ve been thinking about becoming a politician, so I can prevent others from knowing things as well.



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