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The Terrifying Tale of…the Oblivimums



(Assume Laurence Fishburne is narrating)



Once, before their reign of terror started, the Oblivimums were normal people. They walked amongst us, blending in. They fit the system. They did ordinary things, like watched television, and enjoyed music. They had jobs. They had hopes and dreams and a bigger purpose. They could converse on a multitude of subjects. People may have even liked their company.


But one by one, they get converted, as is the way of this universe. It starts with a ring. It does not matter what material this ring is made of, it may be silver, gold or platinum. What is important, is that there is a big fucking diamond in the middle of it. This then leads to a wedding.


First Level Transformation: Crazy Bitch

The wedding is the first level of transformation. Women go from being rational humans to caffeine dependent narcissists. Flowers, linens and cutlery take on an unholy importance. When the bride has thrown a hissyfit and declared that no-one understands the importance of her wedding and that everyone who thinks daisies are acceptable wedding flowers can go fuck themselves, Level One is complete.


There are various minimal changes in between Level One and Complete Transformation. Home improvements shall be made, boring dinner parties full of idle gossip and prepared statements on politics shall be held. All enjoyable substances will be removed from the diet. There is also, we assume, a lot of sex.


The Dominant Race

It is once the woman is with child that the Oblivimum transformation is complete. She shall wonder about at leisure during her pregnancy, alternately glowing with hormones, or looking like shit. It is at this time that it is easiest to connect with the Oblivimum. She has no idea she has been infected, of course. She believes she will be like any other animal mother- protect and love her child above all else. She does not realise this first child will signal her undoing. She shall, on occasion, seem rational and hopeful. This is her subconscious fighting the transformation. It will make no difference. As we all know, the only way to pause Oblivimum transformation is to show them film footage of children in Third World countries. And this can only pause the transformation minimally. By the time the footage ends, a true Oblivimum can convince herself those children in the Third World will be improved if her baby has a golden rattle shaking in it’s fat little hand. Irrationality is another symptom.


It is here, in the coffee shop, where Oblivimums gather to make their evil plans. They travel in groups, of course, and one cannot approach as a loner, especially one without a child. The group forcefield created when they move all the fucking chairs and sofas into a circle keeps out anyone who either does not own, or has not made proper use of, a uterus.

Their prams are double sized for absolute power, able to cripple a man or knock over a shelf of coffee beans with minimum effort. They talk in hushed tones, glaring with laser death beams at any human in the vicinity who talks at a normal level to another adult. Coffee shops are for talking to babies who cannot understand you. And to other mothers. This is the rule of the Oblivimum.


Other signifiers include:

-Blocking any available pathway or exit route with a hoard of prams

  • Putting a baby on unexpected surfaces, such as the coffee counter, or at the cash register (these babies often have huge eyes, large heads and small faces, giving you the impression that they already recognise you are the enemy)
  • They tend to order skimmed milk or soya with a half shot of something decaf. This leads us to gather intelligence that Oblivimums really want warm milk, but feel obligated to drink coffee in a coffee shop.
  • A lot of cooing, crying and whining, not always from the infant.
  • Ordering a beverage, spending a long time paying for it, and then insisting that it be brought to them, because they have to feed their child at a specific time. Independence is not a trait attributed to Oblivimums.


You can often tell when an Oblivimum gathering has occurred. Low fat muffin crumbs shall be liberally spread everywhere, trampled into every surface. Spillages, scuffs and an empty gathered circle of chairs THAT DO NOT BELONG THERE shall be left as a testament.

Also, sometimes, they leave a gift to their baristas. It is custom amongst the Oblivimum people to leave a paper napkin soiled by their child as a gesture of thanks to their hosts. The baristas bray with joy at having to clean up an infant’s shit that has been left on a coffee table.


In the later stages, Oblivimums dress their younglings in strange garments to make them look like other baby animals

Oblivimums perhaps get a lot of criticism from other cultures throughout the galaxy, mostly because almost all of them have some regard for other lifeforms. However, we cannot judge them too harshly, for they always offer amusement. For example, they name their children things like Paisley, Byron, Bennedict (Cumberbatch excluded) and Barnabus (We assume this is in reverence to the highly esteemed Great Purple Dinosaur in their culture).

Oblivimums are not dangerous unless provoked, or unless you work in the customer service industry. When in doubt, serve decaf and ask for the child’s name.


We hope this fact sheet will allow you to identify and avoid Oblivimums. Please be aware that it is not their fault. They are merely products of their environment, having too much time and money, and not enough empathy. If you fear you are in danger of becoming an Oblivimum, donate all your worldly possessions to charity, and read Simone De Beauvoir.


Mother (Tonka) Truckers

This title is not inferring that I’m ranting about mothers who drive trucks. I hope you get that. Good luck to those women, whoever they are. This is about mothers who think their darling angel children can do no wrong. So basically, any mother with a child under five years old.

See, kids make no sense

Now, I understand these poor harrowed women probably come to a coffee shop to get out the house, to escape the monotony of ‘brekkie doodle’, ‘twinkle twinkle la la’ time, followed by ‘tinkles’ and ‘beddie byes’ but seriously. Just because you love your child, doesn’t mean I have to.


And just because you’ve decided to procreate and bring another child into this overpopulated universe, doesn’t mean I have to clean up after them.


So there’s this lady, and she’s pretty and softly spoken, and has two little kids that she dresses in pink so people will know they’re girls. And they’re cute. She sits there for about an hour, not doing much except looking around at this strange ‘outside’ world that other people are inhabiting. And I kind of feel for her. Except she never cleans up after her kids.


They take coffee beans from the side, smush cake into the sofas, pour drinks on each other, pull out all the straws/sugar packets/napkins and shred everything like eager little guinea pigs. And then they leave.


You know what cleaning up the mess of someone else’s inability to correctly use contraception feels like when it happens every day? It feels like you’re now not only a barista/therapist/waitress/emotional punching bag but you’re also a nanny.


There are others, like the women who spend fifteen minutes standing at the till saying to a child who CANNOT TALK YET, ‘Sweetie, tell Mummy what you want. Tell Mummy! Do you want this one? No, what about this? Do you like this? What do you want darling, tell Mummy!’

Well, hey there, four-month-year-old, would you like me to tell Mummy what you want? What’s that? You want Mummy to stop expecting you to be a child-genius and order what she wants so the other paying customers can get served sometime today? Oh, how surprising, me too!


There’s then the mothers who make a big deal of getting their child to ‘tell the nice lady what you want’ and then spend the next five minutes telling them why they can’t have it. There’s the mothers who are so used to shouting ‘THEEEO NOOO! PUT THAT DOWN! DOWN, I SAID! DOOOOOOWN!’ that they have no qualms about doing this whilst ordering, and thus automatically screaming in my face. I usually give these women decaf. Just to protect the eardrums of their younglings.


There are mothers who are so excited to see other mothers that they spend ten minutes arguing who should pay for whose lunch, both waving cards at me whilst cooing over each other’s children. The baby-talk automatically overlaps into ordering. And ‘I’ll have a Latte-wattee, yes I will!’ is just terrifying.
And occasionally, there are the mothers who come in with cute, quiet babies, order a coffee, sit and enjoy it, and when they leave, the only proof they were there is an empty coffee cup with a bunch of baby wipes they’ve used to clear the table with. These mothers are angels. Please, come again. And tell your friends…how to behave in an environment that is not focused solely around your sweet little bundle of DNA.