Dear Soccer Mom


(I’m posting this again because I have to pick my kids up today and this will surely happen again.)

Hi there, you don’t know me, but you cut me off today while speeding through a 20 MPH school zone in your extended Chevy Suburban with the stickers on the back window that shows how many children you have.

I’m sure there was a good reason for you endangering the lives of young, innocent school children by blatantly ignoring the speed limit.

Maybe you broke a nail and had a “salon-emergency.”

Maybe one of your fake, silicone tits popped and you had to race to your plastic surgeon’s office before the other 20 soulless insecure women beat you there.

Maybe you just found out that your husband was banging his much younger than you, much hotter than you, much tighter than you secretary and you were speeding to your lawyer’s office to draw up the divorce papers.

Silly me, that couldn’t be true because there is no way in hell you would divorce your meal ticket, the provider of your country club lifestyle. 

You would never divorce the rich businessman who makes it possible for you to drive the $60K gas-guzzler, who gave you the three-carrot diamond, who bought you the obscenely large purse that midgets could wrestle in.

So what if your husband likes to slide his 4-inch dick into a piece of ass that he normally would never have a chance in hell of fucking. 

But, 25 year-old secretaries love a man in power regardless of a baby-dick.  They love to fuck a man to entertain the fantasy of actually trying to be you.

Don’t you remember when you were that hot 25 year-old piece of ass?  You will never admit it, but you remember.  Don’t you remember sitting at that same desk, answering that same phone and wishing that rich businessman’s shaft was tickling you?

Don’t you remember closing your eyes while sucking his little dick under his desk, dreaming about Louis Vuitton, weekly manicures, ski trips to Colorado and whether or not you could put aside true love in exchange for money?

Mrs. Soccer Mom, what’s it like to be old now?  What’s it like to finally realize that love for money exchange wasn’t really worth it?  What’s it like to not have a SOUL?  Please, for the love of all humanity, teach your children to not be like you.

And by the way, don’t ever cut me off again, that really pissed me off.

Take care,

A true person with a real soul.


5 thoughts on “Dear Soccer Mom

  1. being an actual 25 year old secretary, I don’t like men in power, or mustaches, personally I prefer men with little intelligence and financial security, as everyone likes a fixer-upper. But I suppose I contradict myself as I consider homeless people too much of a fixer upper, and more of a toss hamburgers to. I would also toss hamburgers to soccer moms, as either they are starving themselves, and would really like one, or they are overeating, in which case they would also really like a hamburger. I think the solution to most problems is hamburgers.

    • Thanks for commenting, I appreciate it. When I see these vacant souls (soccer moms), it actually saddens me. They all seem to be reaching for something they never can actually touch. They try so hard and make life so difficult.

      • Well if we’re speaking moderately philosophically than I’ll have to retract my hamburger solution.
        Twice a week I have to sit amongst a sea of Dance moms, (who double as soccer moms) and I have to listen to them go on and on to each other about the most mindless nonsense as they try to hide the bragging about their vacations, or how all of their friends turn to them for advice on meaningless things, or wacky weddings with animal print. Then occasionally their husbands come in, and damned if they don’t do the same thing. All barely watching their little girls dancing in class through the window.
        So when I’m not battling the urge to box my own ears, all I can think is “this is what your life is like?” I just can’t imagine all of my conversations being so mindless, day in and day out. Is their thought process and ridiculous? It can’t be.
        It’s an hour of pure torture as you listen to these people prattle on and on, chasing a stupid capitalistic dream of being the ideal materialistic person for everyone to envy. All the while they’re missing their kids clumsily do ballet spins and their faces light up when they finally get a move down. It is sad. They’re looking the wrong way to find contentment, and because of that their shallowness will prevent them from ever being truly happy, and enjoying those moments that you get to think of years later and smile.
        In addition, because they are chasing capitalistic and physical perfection, they’ll also never be content with what they have, or with themselves. They’ll give the cold shoulder to the 25 year old in the room (who is me) not because she is exceedingly pretty, or because they are so desperate to get fucked as you implied, but because they have more youth, and that’s not something that you can obtain in your quest for status or perfection, they completely overlook that youth is momentary for everyone, they just know they don’t have it and can’t get it. So they go back to pointless jabber about the caterer they hired, and fill up the gap in their lives by building debt to build conversations.
        Ta-da, philosophy.

      • You sum it all up pretty accurately. My wife and I have 4 kids and we hear those same conversations at volleyball, soccer, and whatever other sport we are in at that moment. What cracks me up the most are the moms showing off their fake boobs. Nothing better for a child’s self esteem than watching their mom flit around the gym with her tits hanging out. Must be a 12 year-old girl’s dream. As Bill Hicks once said, “people suck and I can prove it.”

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