Don’t Blame Me for My Six-Year-Old School Shooter Child
These surprise survival drills were performed with the kind of pure love only a mother and father taking a short intermission from a threesome can ever really comprehend.
Your Honor and members of the jury, thank you for this opportunity before sentencing to offer my side of this tragic story. I am not proud to be the parent of a six-year-old school shooter. In fact, to be perfectly honest, Johnny is an asshole. He always has been. It was not my idea to have him go in to school one day and open fire on his teacher and classmates. It was all his idea. Like I said, he’s an asshole.
Before we go any further, Your Honor, I would like to say the account we have heard in this very courtroom of his father and I failing to lock up firearms in our household is entirely fictitious. In fact, not only did we lock up Johnny’s AR-15, we locked it up in Johnny’s room, along with Johnny. It was in that very room Johnny was supposed to learn the rules of gun safety. We gave him several years to do so and even threw in a really well written gun safety manual. But he didn’t listen. What can you do with a brat like that? The kid’s out of control.
Those were rough years for me and Johnny’s father, what with all of the bullet holes in the drywall. We told him many times to keep it the fuck down in there, but he kept on shooting anyway. Night and day. You never knew when the next round was coming. Like I said, the kid’s a real jerk. Even when I told him repeatedly via iPhone, look, your father has to get up at the crack of dawn to cook meth, the boy kept firing defiantly. Other than birthdays, Christmas, Easter, Memorial Day, Veterans Day, and all those gift certificates from Cabela’s, I’m not even sure where he got all that ammo.
I remember one time at three in the morning a bullet passed right through our bedroom wall and grazed my husband’s left ear. Can you imagine? There we were, high as a couple of jaybirds on bath salts trying to get laid on a Saturday night, and this shit happens. So my husband feels the blood running from his earlobe and just literally goes apeshit. This wasn’t the usual go in there and slap Johnny around for a while then smoke a joint. My husband worked him over for hours and fired off a couple of warning shots. We take parenting seriously.
With all due respect, the court has no right to blame either me or my husband for this whole school shooter thing, because we weren’t even around half the time. Tuesday was bowling night for me, and my husband worked late, so Tuesdays I banged my bowling partner, Clem. Wednesdays and Thursdays my husband usually had some skank over while I had group sex at the Laundromat. Weekends we rented out the place to some kind of S&M cult who were actually very nice and usually shampooed the carpets without even being asked. So to say the body count at Mitch McConnell Elementary is somehow our fault just shows the court is shooting first and asking questions later.
In fact, nothing was more important in our happy, all-American home than gun safety. We homeschooled Johnny to “stand your ground.” During his short but highly educational six years on this planet Johnny has witnessed firsthand his father and me defending ourselves dozens of times right on the front lawn from a series of aggressive UPS delivery dudes, census workers, folks asking for “directions,” Jehovah’s Witnesses, and various black persons in distress. Values should be taught at home, not by a bunch of woke drag queens trying to groom my kid in a school library.
Plus we trained Johnny. Once a week or so we storm-trooped his room in the middle of the night. There is nothing in the world better for a young child’s readiness than staring down the barrel of a shotgun at two in the morning knowing his very life depends on his levelheadedness and quick response time. These surprise survival drills were performed with the kind of pure love only a mother and father taking a short intermission from a threesome can ever really comprehend. And for those members of the jury who might think it was all too much too soon for our precious son, please know this—Johnny always slept in the Kevlar body suit we gave him for his fourth birthday. Which is why all those bullets never made it to his heart, lungs, liver, pancreas, and spleen. Just deep bruises. You’re welcome.
So the kid starts the first grade and right off the bat we get a call that Johnny has “anger issues.” Well, yeah, why the fuck not? Johnny is angry the ATF took away his father’s bump stock collection. He’s angry about the new statewide background check and the mandatory five-day waiting period. Five days? That’s a little long to wait when people of color are clearly jogging in your neighborhood. Johnny is angry The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison will be on his reading list ten years from now. He’s angry the 2020 election was stolen. He’s angry the white race will no longer be the majority by 2038. He’s angry he’s being replaced by a Jew. I mean, duh. So he went and shot a bunch of kids. What did you think all that woke shit would do to the poor boy?
In closing, Your Honor, our son Johnny’s in-class assassination of eleven fellow students, his teacher, the student teacher, the lunch lady, and a few kids and administrators down the hall who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time is the fault of Hillary Clinton, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Taylor Swift, George Soros, Rachel Maddow, Michael Cohen, Rosie O’Donnell, and a vast leftwing conspiracy.
However, we do recognize that the court must seek justice on behalf of the people. So please let Johnny do our time. My husband has cirrhosis of the liver and chlamydia, and the two years in the can will kill him. As for me, I am a sex addict and a recovering QVC fan. I make my living whining about immigrants on TikTok, and I’ve only recently gone viral. We’re both in our forties and don’t have much time left. Johnny, on the other hand, is young, guilty as hell, and has all the time in the world. And as I said earlier, he’s an asshole.