Essay:I don't understand pedophiles

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Why would a man prefer to enjoy intimacy with his giggly, playful, sweet, adorable little daughter, and experience her fresh, youthful tightness and bright-eyed, energetic, carefree happiness, and her sense of curiosity and wonder at exploring her own body and that of the father who loves her; when instead he could get between the enormous, cellulite-riddled haunches of his obese wife, bouncing on top of her stretch-marked, flabby torso for the 10,000th time, as her saggy, wrinkly breasts flop to and fro to the rhythm of the deep-voiced, gutturally hippopotamus-like grunts emanating from her menopausally hairy face, while he struggles to make enough physical contact with the walls of her loose pussy to keep his dick hard long enough to reach an orgasm that's so weak from lack of stimulation as to leave his balls still three-quarters full?

That shit makes no sense to me. That would be like preferring the taste of fresh cookie batter to the dried-up, three-week-old crumbs at the bottom of the cookie jar.