Internet Meme Demolition Derby: An Application To Date My Son(s)
As the chill bony hands of Old Man Winter settle onto your holiday weary shoulders… as the snow drifts pile and the Christmas credit card bills accumulate… escape with us for a moment. Let your mind wander back to the halcyon days of summer. Friendly smells tempt you, cotton candy, funnel cakes and the incinerated remains of what was once a hot dog. Or maybe a mettwurst. But you don’t care! You cover it with mustard and relish and eat it no matter what it is likely doing to your arteries. Delightful sounds surround you… the calliope of an ancient carousel… the nervous giggle of teenage girls in line for the chance to drop the star quarterback into the stale beer scented dunking booth. In the distance you here the rumble of engines, the shattering of glass, the tortured scream of twisting metal. Open your eyes… its time for…
Internet Meme Demolition Derby!
When last we left the mud spattered confines of the Derby we were shown a list of 10 Rules for Dating My Daughter. A list that did not, in our humble opinion, reflect well on the outdated patriarchal notions of the t-shirt bearer. We hoped mothers would be better. We hoped that at least our sons might escape such ridiculous overprotective scrutiny of their dating choices. That hope, dear readers, was in vain. Whilst discussing the List on our super secret Facebook Group, our own J.G. Hovey came across this delightful example of Mom’s Gone Fascist… an Application to Date My Son. This gem was posted to Facebook (and easily accessible by the Google), by a lovely mom who goes by the handle Goodwill Librarian (there are actually many variations on this meme, we’ll be picking on this one because it is the first result on the Google search. If you feel the need to respond to the original post after visiting here, please be civil. If you want to be a snarky jerk about it, well that’s what we’re here for).
So the conceit of this particular meme is that of the fake job application. Want to date this Mom’s son? Just fill out this simple form. Let’s take a look.
NOTE: This application will be incomplete and rejected unless accompanied by a complete financial statement, job history, lineage, and current medical report from your doctor.
Ooh… official sounding! Except for the part about “lineage”. Are we expecting our potential suitor to come with some sort of landed title or dowry? What sort of genealogical records are acceptable? Is there a pea involved in this application? She’s a girl asking to date your son, not a broodmare for your purebred stallion OK?
NAME_______________________________________ ALIASES ______________
DATE OF BIRTH_____________ HEIGHT___________ WEIGHT____________
IQ__________ GPA______________ SOCIAL SECURITY#________________
DRIVERS LICENSE #________________ IQ _________ BLOOD TYPE _____
GIRL SCOUT RANK AND BADGES________________________________________
HOME ADDRESS_______________________ CITY/STATE___________ ZIP______
Do you have parents? ___Yes ___No
#of years they have been married ______
If less than your age, explain why ______________________________________
If not explain why ___________________________________________________
Here we have all the information one might need if you were perhaps the I.R.S. Note to my daughters, don’t give out your Social Security number to just anyone. Get a ring first. Also, Only vampires want to know your blood type before a date.Step away from the sparkly teenager sweetheart.
But the really fucking creepy part is the last bit. Do you have parents? Or where you grown on the clone farms? Number of years they have been married? If less than your age explain why? If not explain why? I’m assuming that these questions are looking for one or two things. Either children of divorced (and perhaps remarried) parents, who are of course infected by their parents SIN. Or orphans , who are immediately suspect I suppose because that makes it harder to guarantee their “lineage”. Added creepy bonus… “Girl Scout Badges”. Aren’t the Girls Scouts a Liberal Atheist Plot to turn little girls into Lesbian Witches or something?
A. Do you have any children? __Yes __No
B. Do you own or have access to a van? __Yes __No
C. A waterbed? __Yes __No
D. A pickup with a mattress in the back? __Yes __No
E. A tattoo? __Yes __No
F. Do you have a nose ring, pierced tongue, pierced cheek or a belly button ring? __Yes __No
(IF YOU ANSWERED ‘YES’ TO ANY OF THE ABOVE, DISCONTINUE APPLICATION AND LEAVE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY. I HIGHLY SUGGEST RUNNING AS I AM A DAMNED GOOD SHOT.)
I think that we can sum this section up as “Skanks will be Shot on Sight”.
In 50 words or less, what does ‘LATE’ mean to you ______________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________
In 50 words or less, what does ‘DON’T TOUCH MY SON’ mean to you? ______________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________
In 50 words or less, what does ‘ABSTINENCE’ mean to you? ______________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________
“Don’t Touch My Son”, “Abstinence”… MOM, I’M TRYING TO LOSE MY VIRGINITY HERE BEFORE IT GETS STALE! Seriously, do we have to go over the “Your kids are not your property” ground again? Of course, the misogyny begins to really shine through in these two sections. Our boys are good boys. They wouldn’t do anything to make Baby Jesus cry unless some trollop leads them astray. Jezebels need not apply.
Church you attend _______________________________________________
How often you attend ____________________________________________
When would be the best time to interview your:
father? __________ mother? _________ pastor? __________
Well first of all, who the fuck attends more than one church? And of course the pastor in this scenario has been elevated to some sort of Co-Parent. This is attitude more appropriate for a medieval village or sepia toned small town than a modern industrialized society.
Are we all sufficiently creep-ed out yet? No? well it gets worse… much much worse.
Answer by filling in the blank. Please answer freely, all answers are confidential.
A. If I were shot, the last place I would want shot would be: ______________________________________________________________
B. If I were beaten, the last bone I would want broken is my: ______________________________________________________________
C. A woman’s place is in the: ______________________________________
D. The one thing I hope this application does not ask me about is: ______________________________________________________________
E. What do you want to do IF you grow up?__________________________ ______________________________________________________________ ______________________________________________________________
F. When I meet a boy, the thing I always notice about him first is: ______________________________________________________________
G. What is the current going rate of a hotel room? ______________________
Ah, like our fathers list, the threat of vigilante violence lurks ever present over the proceedings. Also, only sluts go to hotels evidently.
What follows is a list of rules much like our previous example. Except even more fucked up.
Rule One: If you talk with foul words and dress like a tramp in shirts that are too small and pants low with thong showing, I will treat you like one. You are only allowed to wear granny panties super glued to your hind quarters
OK, we get it… no skanks. Or anyone with any modern fashion sense whatsoever.
Rule Two: If you date my son you date only him. He has a kind heart and I will not have you make my son cry; if he does, I will make you cry. You may only date ONE of my sons. EVER.
Once again the threat of reciprocation. Also, don’t get any ideas about the #2 son. Sure, #1 one son is a jerk who goes through girlfriends like Kleenex, leaving very few available dates for #2. That’s too bad. I suppose he might meet a nice girl through the musical theater he adores so much.
Rule Three: You must know how to cook as well as I have taught my son(s) to cook. He is a big eater. Frozen dinners do not count.
MAKE MY BOY A SAMMICH WENCH!
Rule Four: Do not be hurt when my son chooses sports or gaming over time with you. Join in and learn the game. Shopping is not a sport.
“I’ve raised my boys to be cold and distant to the opposite sex, just like their father. I learned to like guzzling cheap chardonnay in the bathroom on Sunday afternoons and so can you.”
Rule Five: Do not date my son for his money because I am his bank. Do not expect expensive gifts, he has been taught to be a savvy shopper.
Wait, she’s expected to have a job, but doesn’t your boy have a job? His own financial independence? Any independence whatsoever? He’s starting to sound like a real catch.
Rule Six: Don’t sleep with my son; the only rubber he should be concerned about is out in the driveway and has Goodyear stamped on it.
MOM! MY VIRGINITY? C’MON, MY BALLS HAVE SHADED FROM BLUE TO CHARTREUSE!!!
Rule Seven: Do not lie to me. I may appear to be a pudgy, baggy-eyed, last-season, has-been. But on issues relating to my son, I am the queen of his universe. If I ask you where you are going and with whom, you have one chance to tell me the truth. If you do not I will ask him. Do not trifle with me.
“I’ve also raised my boys to be good snitches.”
Rule Eight: My son has been raised not to hit a lady, so act like one and I will not have to hit you for him.
This is definitely starting to edge into “not worth the trouble of dating your son territory”.
Rule Nine: Do not be hurt when my son chooses spending time with me over spending time with you. He was raised that family comes first and until there is a ring on his finger, I am his family, not you.
Okay, definitely starting to get a serious “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” vibe off of this family.
Rule Ten: My son is not a toy. He does not have Hasbro, Mattel or any other toy company tattooed on his person. Hence, he is not an object for you to play with, manipulate, and discard at your leisure. I suffered through 42 hours of labor to have him, and will unleash an unimaginable amount of anger such that the movie 300 will look like an episode of the Little House on the Prairie should you cross me.
Got that you worthless little Jezebel? He’s MINE you here me MINE ALL MINE! HE’LL ALWAYS BE MY LITTLE BOY!!!! BWAHAHAHAHAA!
I SWEAR THAT ALL INFORMATION SUPPLIED ABOVE IS TRUE AND CORRECT TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH, DISMEMBERMENT, NATIVE AMERICAN ANT TORTURE, CRUCIFIXION, ELECTROC UTION, CHINESE WATER TORTURE, RED HOT POKERS, AND HILLARY CLINTON KISS TORTURE.
And it wouldn’t be complete without a sexist little Red State style stab at Hillary Clinton, who will soon be the nations first Lesbian Witch Vampire President.
Whew… that one was long! So what have we learned today. Well we have learned that Moms can be just as sexist as Dads when it comes to young women. We’ve learned that young women can’t be trusted with control of their own dirty dirty lady bits, so we must protect our noble and pure young men from skanks and sluts. We’ve learned that son #1 will have a leg up on treating his eventual bride like “helpmeet”, ignoring her when convenient but holding exclusive rights to her time when he needs her. We’ve learned that some people still think breeding, comportment and rigid gender roles are more important than what their own children might think of their relationship choices. We’ve learned that the dating game will be no walk in the park for the boys. They will be expected to conform to the model imposed by their authoritarian parents, no matter what might make them happy, (we’re rooting for son #2 to move to the coast and find a nice young man and with bungalow and a garden).
Yes, we see the humor in things like this (versions of this application for dating daughters are also floating around, they are just as, if not more, creepy). But one glance at the comments below one of these applications will show a ready audience of parents for whom this is deadly serious business. There runs through many ordinary people an authoritarian streak to rival Stalin. And the most likely outlet for our fascist impulses will always be those close to us.
Boys can have it tough enough in the teen dating world. Testosterone is a helluva drug, and puberty will flood their young bodies with Barry Bonds level doses of it for a couple of years, making every life decision fraught with out of control emotions. The girls will get there about a year earlier, sprouting new curves in front of our eyes… literally. Every guy remembers the year that many of the girls grew breasts, and thanks to growth spurts many of those breasts were at eye level! No one is suggesting that you send them out into the world unprotected. I suppose what we are suggesting is that, instead of forcing your sons into masculine straitjackets whilst at the same time standing vigil against the hordes of Jezebel’s swarming the halls of middle schools across the land, maybe try raising them to understand things like consent, boundaries, and perhaps some self respect. We suggest you teach your sons to treat women as individuals, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Just as your son’s have their own particular strengths and weaknesses (yes, yes they do). If you raise them well, hopefully your sons and daughters will eventually find someone to love who compliments their own unique person-hood. Together they might just make a whole that is more than the sum of it’s parts. Set them free and they might just be happy.
We can speak here form personal experience. When The Boy met The Girl, he was an unemployed photography student who had just dyed his hair Smurf Blue (I oddly enough don’t have any pictures of that guy). She was a college graduate with a nose ring, her own apartment in a city far from home and some “experience” (if you know what I mean, wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more). If our parents had followed the rules laid out in our two examples, I’m fairly certain one of us would be dead. Probably me.
A plastic cup of cold American Light Lager in your hand, you wander away from the mud spattered arena. Smoldering chunks of twisted metal are all that remains of the days combat. In the distance a bluegrass band strikes up and the pretty young girls look for handsome young boys to dance with. The bills and the wrapping paper and the half inch sheet of ice covering the road to work tomorrow are forgotten for a time… if only for a brief and brilliant moment. You will return to this place again, you say to yourself as you slowly wake, refreshed and ready to face the cold.
Have you come across an Internet Meme about parenting that you think needs to be demolished? Share it in the comments or tweet a link to @blotzphoto or @GroundedParents and we’ll see if we can give it the smoking mass of twisted metal treatment
Featured Image Credit: Fredericksburg Agricultural Fair
Sammich Image Credit: Flickr Commons