There is only one rule in regards to Facebook-guided mothers: there are no rules. After the child is birthed the placenta of entitlement flops onto society’s clean sheets and there isn’t enough Napisan in the world to clean the stain.
When it comes to parenting you don’t know her, but you sure as hell know her story. As everyone from school headmasters to bar staff are treated with her royal decrees as to what her children are permitted to do. By the end of her reign, everyone will fear Queen Moanique.
If you don’t like it, then sit on the epidural she endured and spin on it, you childless pile of peasant-shit that plagues her royal kingdom.
It’s 11 am on a weekday so Moanique is guzzling Savvy B while telling the oblong-skulled masses about how dumb, incompetent and impotent her sperm-donor-hubby is. Queen level – Freddy Mercury singing “what about me” during a hotel room groupie train he was conducting.
Not quite drunk enough, she decides to catch up with some other full-time mummies at a local pub that she intends to treat as both a throne and a pig pen for her entitlings to smear shit all over. She updates her FB status with the obligatory queenery, “Yassssss vodka with my queens”.
She cares not for the meaningless policies of the venue and makes no effort to control her children. Suddenly, a staffer launches a coup d’etat on her authority as a queen. “Darling, your kids aren’t allowed to run into the kitchen area, it’s just not safe”.
WHAT? A private venue with nearly unfettered discretion to permit patrons on the premises trying to enforce a policy designed for the safety of said patrons? Nup. Not on her watch.
She gives the management a bigger mouthful than Clive Palmer on an unsuccessful litigation flavoured sausage roll. She is then told if she doesn’t get her kids under control they will have to cut short this queening session and ask her to leave.
She ponders: to queen or not to queen, that is the question. Whether tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of reasonable policy, or to take arms against a bar by taking them to the highest authority in the land?
She chooses the latter and threatens to take this all the way to A Current Affair – the judge, jury and executioner of the brainless masses. A bold threat but like Aus Post, she probably won’t deliver.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
