Groomed in the Womb
Isabella Riley-whatever and the Josef Fritzl school of parenting techniques.
Some trash opinions have crossed my desk.
Our players are Isabella Riley-Moody, who’s a married/pregnant something-or-other with Censored.tv and flat earther and unironic Zeitgeist-enjoyer Zherka.
Strap in!
Do you know the story of Margaret of France, Queen of England and Hungary? She was betrothed to Henry the Young King at the tender age of only two.
Call me humourless. A raggedy, used-up hag who’s gone soft on her conservativism. Fuelled by jealousy, externally processing her bundled rage by finger-pointing at younger, hotter, more successful women; and worst of all — rejecting the kind of trad values only dreamed of by 12th century European nobility.
It’s a risky opinion, but I’ll come right out and say it: Promising to maintain your fetal daughter’s virginity with cult tactics for Zherka’s pleasure is objectionable at best.
For Sale: Baby Hymen, Never Torn
27:05
“…my husband's texting me and he said that he wanted me to tell you that we will have our daughter ready for you as a virgin.”
It’s not myyyyyy opinion, it’s my husband’s, duhhhh.
I Ain’t Saying She’s a Gold Digger
28:02
She's a woman though, she doesn't need to be rich, we're just gonna be training her to be a good wife I mean she'll still get the proper education.
Did the rest of us receive “bad wife” training? Fuck. So that’s why I hate doing the dishes.
Helen Keller Uno Reverse
28:25
“I don't want her exposed to TV because how cool would it be if she gets married one day and she's never seen… a TV show but her husband gets to show her, like, all of his favourite movies and she just loves it and because, you know, men want an unexperienced woman…”
Yeah, men — they’re a united whole, not individuals or even human beings — love having to explain who the fuck Conan O’Brien is to their feral Blast from the Past wives like a gender swapped Tarzan and Jane.
Don’t stop there. Ban music, too. Even Christian hymns. Full iconoclasm. No singing at the seventh inning stretch, no Happy Birthday To You. In this house, it’s 1954.
Can’t wait to see the tenor of children’s books that’ll be produced by the right wing in the coming years.
Probably pop-ups. So their daughters don’t get too frightened when they’re finally shipped off to their preselected mate.
Gross weirdos, all of you.
I have never, IRL, encountered this tradwife thing. Traditional people, yes; orthodox, even. But informed and educated, not ideological.
This might amuse you: Dr. rushed into the waiting room today to ask me "Who's the patron saint of eyes?" Easy: St. Lucy. His staff then dug up an image and posted a prayer. Not one of the cool ones I suggested though, with the eyes upon a plate or -better- stuck on a skewer . . .