Come November, San Fransisco-ans (Fransiscans? Fransisco-ites?) may have to sneak their babies across the border (to another state, not Mexico. Eesh, could you imagine?) to cut off a bit of their willies.
Deeming it unnecessary and likening it to tattoos, those lobbying for this movement claim parents are guardians, not owners.
Wait, what? Next you’re going to tell me I can’t pick out their outfits, pierce their ears, or inject them with Botox to win beauty pageants. I suppose I won’t be able to even lovingly shake my baby to sleep when he won’t shut the hell up stop crying. Isn’t that the point of having kids? You get a dog because you want to own it and dress it up in stupid outfits, crop its ears, or pull its tail so having a kid is like having the ultimate dog. The possibilities are endless; like trading in Skipper for Barbie. Skipper is cool and all until you realize she has flat feet so she can’t wear Barbie’s heels and no one makes clothes for her anyway. For all you young jezebels out there scratching your heads about who Skipper is, picture a much less slutty Bratz doll.
Aw heck, I’ll do it for you. Dang, look at that cell phone, made to scale and everything. Man, the nineties were a good time. Nobody gave you crap for smacking your kid upside the head and they damn sure didn’t tell you not to cut off your son’s pee shooter.
Or maybe they did. Heck, I don’t know, I was between the ages of three and twelve, give me a break. Geez.