Below is a re-post that was originally done by Robert Stanford of the airport district In Modesto. I feel it shows the true emotions of the trials of everyday life in America, or even the world. If you look at the raw emotion and feeling put into this writing you can feel the hurt and pain of losing something precious to him and his family. Also of note are the dynamics in play of other stressors and extreme feelings.
I have met this man once in person and many times on line and knew there were some interesting components to him but this goes beyond all that. Take your time and please read between the lines a bit too, and feel his pain. Feel free to go to Roberts page and let him know what you think, the link is below.
I Ain’t Goin’ Out Like No Punk, Bitch
A few days ago, I attended another child’s funeral. This time it was my own grandson. So please, I beg your pardon if I might offend thee, yet I am a bit pissed off as it were. Now that I have been there, I understand. And I also understand that there is a certain amount of freedom when you have nothing left to lose. I intend to exercise some of that freedom in this article now.
Before I begin, in the interest of posterity and hopefully avoiding a lot of explanation to the few intelligent people I may or may not know that will inevitable approach me and inform me, as though they were a parent or school counselor of my inappropriate diction, let me make this disclaimer. First, my use of the word faggot has nothing to do with gays or the gay community in any way – it is just easier to type then cock sucker. Secondly, I really don’t intend to injure or kill anyone, I will leave that to their own karma and pray that I am not there to bear witness because I would have no choice to do anything I could to prevent such a thing. Other than that, Fuck You.
I stood at the graveside and spoke. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but it was certainly not what I meant to say. What I meant to say was that this whole situation has brought me to ask no more than one question, simply this – “Why can’t I catch a fuckin’ break?”.
Of course the misery did not start with the death of my grandchild. It really started with my daughter’s faggot junky old man. A real piece of work. One that prefers to inject a Drano derivative into his veins and thinks this defines manhood.
Check it. Not to mention that he actually goes so far as to blame my daughter for the death of her child without any substantial evidence of any kind and much worse sins that I just really don’t need to go into, since anyone that’s been around the block more than a time or two already knows that this is the same old Fucking story with the same fucking subplots ending and fucking pulp in the middle of it all.
Sitting in opposite pews as though my daughter was some sort of a fucking baby killer, he sauntered over there with his pants hanging off his ass like he was one of the little kids I had not wanted to bury in my recent past. Sporting gangster gear and eliciting the word “Nigga” as though he had the fucking right, he would not even show enough respect to take off sunglasses he obviously was too stupid to realize were women’s glasses when he lifted them from whatever nodded junky there was to lift them from.
Seeing the sides of the earth in which my grandson’s casket would be lowered down, I thought of someone much more deserving to be buried alive in there. If I had only known my thoughts were shared by the boy my daughter should have been with that was there with us that day, I would probably be a lot poorer after having paid off Lakewood Memorial for their cooperation, groundskeeper services and silence. But life is long. For me anyway. And what this faggot can’t possibly realize is that I am one fucking vindictive mother fucker.
Before all of that shit, it was the hardest thing I ever did, to watch my daughter stand before the casket of her child sobbing as though her world had just come to a tragic and abrupt end. Oh, fuck. I guess it had. Something broke inside of me and the priestly austerity went to hell along with my respect for a faith which was never really my own. It was only days before that I had spelled it all out for her. You know, my daughter, Whitney Stanford. That was when Deegan Stanford was still alive. Still the prince of our heritage. I explained to her why I do what I do and have done what I have done. That we must stand up against the NAZI scum bag pigs and others that would destroy us for the gold fillings in her teeth. (Like her old man, that faggot I was telling you about. Mr. Hepstall)
Something snapped. Something gave way. No longer did I feel like it was ok to be polite and hold my tongue when I knew what the reality was. When I knew what the truth was. That all of these faggot mother fuckers that think they got something on me can go fuck themselves. Deegan Stanford was here. Deegan Stanford was mine and now he is gone. Therefore my fucking dues are paid bitches. I can say whatever the fuck I want. What the fuck can you do to me now? That’s right faggots. How do you like me now?
To see his original post click here: http://stanford4modesto.blogspot.com/2015/05/i-aint-goin-out-like-no-punk-bitch.html