Only someone who worships that death cult we know as "liberalism" could equate the creation, carrying, nurturing, and delivering of life onto this planet with a disease that amounts to rotting from the inside-out. It's very illuminating to read her thoughts on the matter, and I nominate her to the "Posts that stand alone" sticky.
The mopinko primitive is an "artist" who lives in an affluent suburb of Chicago; her husband brings home the bacon, while she makes the home. Later middle-aged.
The mopinko primitive is obsessed with colonic-intestinal problems, many of which are probably just in her head, and used as a means to garner attention and to play the victim of society; a society that hasn't turned out the way the mopinko primitive thinks it should have. After all, the world was made for the mopinko primitive, not the mopinko primitive for the world.
The mopinko primitive is notoriously sharp, or thinks she is, always on guard against being cheated. She once hired some low-paid guys to hang a new front door--this, during the "lousy" Bush economy, and the old front door had nothing wrong with it--and was sorely disappointed that she didn't get Old World Craftsmanship paying illegal-alien-under-the-table wages.
The mopinko primitive wants to divorce her husand, but self-admittedly can't give up the standard of living he so generously and magnanimously bestows upon her.
It's sort of the same case with the racist babbling sister primitive.
I guess the rule here is that if one's wife is a primitive, men, don't cater to them, because all one gets is ingratitude and mockery on Skins's island.
