Mattiesko Investigates: 100% Guaranteed Ways to FUCK UP Your Future Children Beyond Rehabilitation

19 12 2009

I plan on having a lot of kids. A lot of kids. I’m talking a Mormon-on-ecstasy lot of kids, and why? Is it to ensure that the next generation of Americans will have enough competent, responsible, and well-to-do men and women to handle the nation’s many debts and obligations?

God no.

It’s because I want to traumatize each and every one of them in a manor unforgivable even by Brazilian standards. You may wonder why I would do this with my own flesh and blood and not with, like, orphans or something. But I mean come on dude, they’re orphans.


Below is an ongoing list of different methods of horrible parenting that I hope will NOT inspire anyone to try this shit. Seriously don’t worry, this is my cross to bear, I know what I was put on this earth to do and God help me, I’m going to fucking do it. Much like in my Encyclopedia of Homestyle Sex Acrobatics and Variegated Palpables: Grandma’s Down-South Favorites from A to Z, I’ve included names for reference if someone were to want to, say, transcribe all this shit to Urban Dictionary and credit me up the ass for it. Also much like… whatever I just said, I’ve written the body of this post in imperative verb form, but I’d once again like to remind you that I am not telling you to do this to your children. It’s all just for clarification and to help me avoid lawsuits.

my original, unsolicited prototype for the definitive sex almanac.


The Little Bronco

Named after Helen “Little Bronco” Keller. You’re going to raise your kid in a completely sterile and isolated environment, giving it no contact with the outside world whatsoever.

why can't helen keller drive? because she's a woman.

Keep it locked up, locked up tighter than your junk in a pair of spandex, and when it reaches about 4-6 months of age, it should start making noises and shit. Whatever the fuck babies do, I don’t know. So at this point, you should bring in a tape recorder, and start showing the baby miscellaneous objects, perhaps an apple or a spoon. Document whatever noise your baby makes in response to the new stimuli as his own word for those objects, and continue this process throughout its entire childhood until you’ve developed your own language that only you and your child can speak. Once he is old enough to understand how bad he got trolled, tell him in your bastard mongrel tongue exactly what you did and how his life is completely ruined because of it. Chalk yourself up a point because you just completely fucked up your child beyond rehabilitation.


The Lovecraft

Admittedly, I’m completely stealing this idea from a post I saw on… you guessed it… none other than the asshole of the internet. But anyway, for this one you’re going to need to get promiscuous. I’m going to ask of you a Gene Simmons level of promiscuity, with at least a Marilyn Manson level of sexual deviance. First, find and impregnate many partners, or the same partner over and over again. Though keep in mind that this takes a lot of time, and time is money and I need more pictures of Spiderman so be wary of the consequences of you spreading your seed into the gene pool like I spread my seed into the public pool. Once all of them hoes have been pregnant for about three (3) months, treat them to an abortion “on the house” (assuming they haven’t already done so- stupid women with their free will!), and keep the potato-sized fetus for yourself. Store all of your fetuses in jars filled with preservative liquid, and stack the walls of a secret room in your house with them. By the time you have all four walls stacked to the ceiling with fetus jars, you should be fathering your for-keepsies child; if at any point when you are raising him, he shows the slightest sign of disobedience you make him sleep in the fucking fetus room for the night so he has time to think about how grateful he should feel that he was the one you kept.


The Secret Santa

do i even need to say anything?

Dressing up like Santa and beating your children mercilessly. Simple, yet effective. Imagine the fucked up the lives your kids will have when they spend what should be the happiest day of the year in perpetual fear, knowing a potential ass-beating could be right around the corner.


The Towel Drop

one day, all of this will be yours.

This one is all about the positive externalities. Let’s say you just got out of the shower, and you’re heading out of the bathroom, with nothing but a towel on. And let’s say your son happens to be walking down the hallways and your towel happens to fall off in front of him. Then you would have to slyly pick it back up and throw him a wink.

Why go through such trouble? There is now a young child running around school telling all of his friends how fucking massive massive his dad’s cock is, and these friends are all coming home and telling their MILFy-ass moms. And their husbands are catching word, now green with envy. And now you’re the king of the whole damn world.


The Rusty Cavalier

This one requires some creativity on your part. Your mission as the father is to take one room in your house and make it a “study” just like a pimp would have. Imagine the whole shebang: a personal library where you can just go to every day after work and sit at your desk, decked out in a purple robe with a pipe and a bottle of bourbon, chilling the fuck out in front of the fireplace. You don’t have to do any of that fancy stuff (although I highly recommend it if you want to be a badass gentleman like myself), but you do have to come home from work every day and stay in your study for the majority of the day. Let your kid catch many a glimpses of you walking through those elegant double-doors with your newspaper and pipe in hand, probably with a pimp-ass fez hat or something, and make sure he sees you leave every night. Then make sure you’ve taken care to tell him “son you are never to enter Daddy’s study” enough times for it to constantly haunt his soul.

like this but with burlier furniture, and way more musty old books and mounted animal heads.

So anyway, on one particularly eerie night, start making moaning noises as to lure your child into coming near the forbidden portal to your study. This is where you get theatrical. From inside your study, get a fog machine going next to the door so fog starts seeping out to the hallway. Now start up a light show that should also be making your kid trip balls on the other side of the door. Play a tape recording of a circus tent catching fire and scream in agony, whilst shouting scarring phrases like “THIS WASN’T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!” or “SO MUCH BLOOD!” Then sell the act: create a sudden, sobering silence and open the door softly. Your son should see you in your torn up robe, breathing heavily with a black eye or some other visible injury. Cough up some blood at his feet, and look him straight in the eyes for three seconds. Just stare into his eyes without saying a word for three whole seconds. Then say in a soft, but shaken voice, “Son, never ever go into Daddy’s study.”

mission accomplished.

After something that fucking cool happens to you, you start to loose your grip on reality. So naturally, what you do to your child will fester in the back of his mind for a lifetime, until appearing out of the blue one day as an uncompromising case of schizophrenia/paranoia. For added effect, be sure to have him wake up to you eating breakfast in the morning like nothing ever happened. Scarred. For. Life.


The Reconciliator

Here’s one for you horrible parents who like to get your hands dirty. It’s child’s birthday, and you’re celebrating another anniversary of him having escaped his mother’s treacherous womb and him being forced out of her putrid vagina with a gift. Imagine the shining look on his face when you come home with the cutest puppy money could buy, and the most adorable kitten on the planet. Let glee completely overwhelm his brain; make sure he remembers this moment forever. Now you tell him the truth. Only one of these pets is his birthday present. He must choose between the two. The one he picks becomes his beloved sidekick for the days of frolicking and fun in the sun to come, and the other, you kill on the spot. And if he fails to choose, they both die.

what's it gonna be?

An additional note, if your child makes a decision within the first 3 seconds of being asked it, he is either already fucked up or a cat-lover. Good job raising such a fucked up kid, you doucher.


The Mr. Universe

This is one is not so much fucking up your child, but rather making your child amazing.  At the time your child hits puberty–hell maybe even sooner, he’s a big boy–you wait until a special occasion like his birthday or Easter to get him a miniature set of weights.  It it now your parental responsibility to explain to your proud son that he has to be able to lift the next-highest weight with his dick at the coming of each new week or else he doesn’t get food.  Use euphemisms; it will help greatly.

son... if your "happy stick" doesn't match the rest of this package by the time you're 14, you starve to death.




One response

6 01 2010

holy hell matt. this was seriously one of the funniest things i have ever read in my whole life.
lets have children together. :)

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