Prisster Parents

The only thing I hate more than Hipster parents is PRISSter parents. You know who you are...naming your daughters after dead white presidents, monogramming the shit out of everything, torching it to Don't Stop Believing at weddings while your husband nails the junior bridesmaid in the portajohn. I just got the shit treatment at one of those fancy kiddie boutiques that sells bedazzled pillowcase dresses and Vera Bradley diaper bags. I brought my brood in there after a harried grocery trip--we were hunting soft shoes because there's no way I'm putting Nike's on my baby and fucking up their knees. The way that bitchy saleslady treated us, you'd think we'd crawled out from under a train trestle. I mean, sure, it had been a long day, and my sons aren't dressed like little faggots in gay-ass gingham jumpers, but I thought I could buy some overpriced shoes and call it a day. Hey, at least my house is paid for, bitch. You'll be living in a tent while some fools buy your McMansion for 100 grand.