Welcome to Father and Son Ratings!

Please don't flush! Call a plumber.

This is Father and Son Ratings. We might rate stuff on here. Or show off some sick images, stories and music we might create. We might do whatever we want. It's none of your business.

Poem time!

Once there was a man. His name was Larry. And his brother was named Larry. And they had a third brother named the Big Cheese. And the Big cheese was a man who liked burgers. And their Father was named the Small Cheese. And Small Cheese's Father was named P00PY PANTS. And P00PY PANTS had poopy pants and those pants were very VERY poopy. And be cause of his poopy pants he STANK like actually and he loved the band P00P.

Another one!

In those days I talked a lot about weapons. There was Alex, the lone soldier who lived with the old lady. It was unclear whether they were related. On Friday afternoons Alex was always out on the balcony in boxer shorts and no shirt, cleaning his short barrel M-16 in the sun, smoking and sweating for an hour or two, and I would watch him from our balcony and say, Mommy thats my food.

At this point I have no life.

I’ve always enjoyed everyday violence. I remember one incident in particular: broken glass in the dark. I’m not certain that it’s a real memory but when I relive the scene, I find it hard to contain my pleasure: the object falling, shattering to pieces. The crash happened and then the whirlwind of voices in the middle of the night. My mother turning on the light to reveal the glinting shards of glass. Her open palm swooping through the air. The sound of the slap, which was very different from the sound of the glass hitting the ground, and the feeling that came with realizing that this was all part of the ceremony. A form of violence that begins with glass and ends with pain inflicted by a mother upon her child.