Just Because I Let My Daughter Dress like a Slut Doesn't Give You the Right to Look at Her
By: Janet Marsh

Hey, you. Yeah you, Mr. Shifty Eyes. I saw that little furtive glance you made over your shoulder at my daughter as we walked by. What, were you checking to see if you’d left your headlights on and my pre-teen’s barely covered buttocks got in the way? Or maybe you were struck by a sudden urge to check the price of a gallon of unleaded gas at the Chevron across the street, only to have your line of vision temporarily obstructed by the profile of my daughter’s perky, freshly blossomed, scantily clad breasts?

What are you, some kind of sick weirdo? Just because I let my twelve year-old daughter dress like a complete slut doesn’t give you the right to look at her. Sure, the swell of her tanned butt cheeks protruding from beneath the short-short gym shorts she shortened further with a pair of my sewing scissors might warrant that sort of lecherous, chin lapping response if they belonged to some 20 year-old floozy, but just remember this creep-o, I was still putting that bottom in diapers after Seinfeld went off the air.

Seriously, there should be a sign in front of your house. You shouldn’t be able to live within half a mile of a grammar school or day care center. Freak.

Boy, do you pedophile types make me sick. If it were up to me, my daughter wouldn’t be wearing a quarter pound of makeup and half a lacy camisole with her pink bra straps intentionally showing for the sake of your existence alone, but her self-esteem and identity are wrapped up entirely in her nascent superficial sexuality at the moment, and though I’d love to see her find a way to express herself that was a bit more, I don’t know, original than strutting around like the future backstage semen receptacle for Motley Crue’s third reunion tour from now, if I were to tell her to dress more modestly, she wouldn’t like that and might not be my friend anymore, and that’s very important to me.

Tell me sir, do you have a child? Probably not, but just for the sake of argument, let’s say you had a teenage son. Now make that son semi-retarded. Now put him in a Bat-Man outfit licking an ice cream cone by your side in the food court at the mall. How would you like it if I stared and snickered at him as I walked by? I bet you wouldn’t like it one bit.

Now go on. Get. Continue on the filthy path you’re on. Go on and do whatever it is the depraved minds of slimeballs like you do with the mental images of nearly naked adolescent girls like my daughter behind closed doors. Just get out of my sight.

Ugh, I think I’m going to be ill.