Mrs “I Leash my Child”

Brenda is the smug embodiment of a “Baby on Board” sign and as easygoing as a nurse with a rear windscreen full of nursing bumper stickers. She has the personality of a German birdwatcher: serious, efficient and unbearably overprotective of her family nest. She is fully prepared for the rough and tumble world of grocery shopping and precautionary doctors appointment for her beloved Tommykins.

She attaches the child to one of those leashes that masquerades as a monkey backpack. She is smug in her belief that she is an elite breed of parent, but embarrassed enough to try and disguise the deed. In this regard, she is more like the Nazi war criminal of leash orientated child rearing. A bubblewrap-cunt that will undoubtedly pop off if you apply pressure to her airtight philosophy of overprotective ludicrousness.

Brenda seems unduly flustered by the hustle and bustle of the suburban footpath. Her face contorts and goes full Michael Gardiner as she navigates her leashed loved-one through the Subiaco lunch crowd. Little Tommykins pumps his little legs and charges an unwitting pigeon. Thank fucking Christ he was leashed, or Rokeby Road may have been treated to a neurotic mother going more apeshit than the pigeon trying to escape the raspberry roll-up stained fingers of a small child. The child avoids interaction with the featured creature only by the grace of tethering.

A lad with tight ankle-exposing jeans and an Aku-brah hat indiscreetly scoffs at Brenda’s leash. Brenda stares at the Aku-brah like Gordon Ramsay looks at a woman who has undercooked chicken. Aku-brah has fucked up worse than using the wrong variation of “your” in a vaccination debate on Facebook. “How I raise MY child is MY business, so frigg off you smart Alek”. The Aku-brah senses that he has ruffled the feathers of an angry mother hen and his best course of action would be flying the coop. Brenda pats her child on the head and gives him a little marshmallow for being so good during the ordeal.

Later in the day, Brenda’s spineless dickworm of a husband returns from work. Brenda suggests the family unit take the child for a walk. The dickworm is forced to carry the parenting backpack while they take a stroll around the local park. The pack is full of the usual shit: first aid kit, extra water and of course his own set of emasculated balls. If you catch his face in the right light, you can see his tortured realisation that his son will never be the urban free-wheeler he dreamed off. Nah, his son is going to be the balding, spectacle-wearing deviant that pays prostitutes to leash and spank him in the den of a seedy brothel.

Good boy Tommy, good boy.

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