You sat across from me as we discussed your disabled son's employment prospects. Because your son will soon be considered an adult, funding options for his employment training were an issue that we needed to sort out. In the course of our discussion, you repeatedly made reference to the "paltry" thousands of dollars the government—we taxpayers—has given you every month for the last 20 years in the form of Social Security benefits and the like. You rolled your eyes as a sarcastic cue to the rest of us in attendance to sympathize with you, as you blurted something about Washington being "so cheap." Dear Mrs. Fuckface: Fuck you. The havoc your egg and Mr. Fuckface's sperm has visited upon you does not entitle you to more of my money and resources, does not entitle you to feel victimized because the tens of thousands of dollars you have already received are less than the thousands more you think you deserve for nothing more than piously squeezing out an autistic child two decades ago. By fucking, you and Mr. Fuckface took a gamble. By carrying your disabled child to term, you lost your gamble. Now you would have me and the state and our world believe that you are entitled to even more of our money and resources, and that we should feel sorry for you because the legislature won't allocate ever more funds for your disabled child. And don't get me started on all the homes, boats, and vacations you can't stop talking about every time we meet, as your sweet but emotionally arrested son recites Dora the Explorer verbatim in the corner while his laptop babysits him. Your son is a good person with a disability who has great challenges ahead of him. You two, Mr. and Mrs. Fuckface, are totally fucking retarded.

—Anonymous