Saturday, May 13, 2006

this mum's for you

This is Female Offspring #4. I read what my brothers had to say about Mom and it makes me want to puke.
My mom is the best mom in the whole wide world. Say my birthday was coming up in 3 weeks, 2 days, 15 hours and 42 minutes.
If I said, "Mommy, I want a purple Schwinn 24" girls Ranger bike with SRAM grip shifters, Shimano front and rear derailleurs
and Pro Max alloy brake levers and front and rear linear brakes for my birthday," she would scream at my daddy day and night until he bought it for me because she's a GOOD MOM.
Now I'm going to ask my sisters why they love mom.
Female Sibling #3 said, "Get. Out. Of. My. Room. Maggot." I didn't ask Female Sibling #5 because she hates everything, her parents, her face, her hair, and her existence. (She said she hates it here so much some day she's going to go live with her daddy but her daddy's in jail.
I hope she goes and they put her in jail and she never comes back cuz I get her room.)
Female Sibling #2 said, "Well, we haven't seen Child Social Services out here in a month.
I guess that's one thing in her favor." My little sister Female Sibling #7 said she loves Mommy
because "Mommy eats cookies and candy bars" with her.
See? She's a good mom! And Female Sibling#7 said "Mommy takes me on long walks and plays with me all the time".
Oh, right there, she's referring to the neighbor kids mom. My mom doesn't walk. She said it's for poor people and children who don't have Hoverounds.
I asked Female Sibling #8 what she loves about mommy, but she just puked up all over the dog.
We love you Mom! If they don't have purple, I want a blue bike.

Hi, this is Male Offspring #5. I offered to write my mother’s column today so she could spend her time doing nothing, like she does the other six days of the week.
Sure, I could talk about how “splendiferous” my mother is. How “conversant,” “tenacious” and what a “supermom” (huh?) she is, but I’d like to talk about Someone more important: Jesus Christ.
REPENT, SINNERS!! THE TIME IS UPON US!! Accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior or suffer the fires of eternal damnation! Stop debasing yourself by fornicating and reading pornography, like my mother’s site. REPENT, I SAY UNTO YOU!!

It’s my turn. This is Male Offspring #4 and on this special Mother’s day, I’d like to talk about something that is very special to me: twine. My heart leaps for joy when I see bits of twine. The feel of it, the coarseness of it, the utter strength. One time my grandma sent me a package that was tied with twine. I was so happy! Last summer I went to see the biggest ball of twine ever and it was a magical experience. My brothers say I’m in love with twine and want to marry twine. They’re stupid. I have pictures of the ball of twine under my mattress, and when no one is around, I take the pictures out and look at them. I daydream about what it would be like to own a ball of twine like that. My brothers don’t know this but I started a ball of twine myself. I keep it next to my ball of aluminum foil and my ball of toothpicks. The ball of toothpicks isn’t working out so well. The ball keeps falling apart. Some day I hope to open a Ball of Twine, Toothpicks and Aluminum Foil museum and forever leave my white trash past behind.

Male Offspring #1 here. Ignore those other two idiots, Jebus Jones and Conway Twiney. This is Mother’s Day and I’m going to talk about our Mom. I’m 22 years old, so, along with Female Offspring #1, we’ve had the most exposure to Mom’s (lack of ) mothering skills. Mom is what we in the trailer court call a “certified loon on a Hoveround.” Her hobbies are eating, cops, cops, and eating. She truly puts the “span” in spandex. She’s hella lazy, too. When my dad called from the state pen the other day, she wouldn’t even drive over to the phone to take his call. And she wouldn’t even applaud after he sang his Mother‘s Day tribute, “you had my baby what a lovely way of showing how much I screwed you.” (Makes me cry every time I hear it. Dad sounds just like Tim McGraw. Too bad he looks like Tim Conway.)
Mom doesn’t respect our privacy either. She’s forever raiding our cigarette and booze stash because she “spent all her money on porn.” Blah, blah. Why can’t she rent porn like other mom’s do? When the young’uns came along, things went from worse to worser. There was this one time my little 3 yr old brother was missing for five days. She didn’t even look for him. She said he was “out trying to find himself.” He found himself all right. Sleeping in the neighbor’s dog pen and scaring the bejebers out of their incontinent Beagle, WeeWee Running. Then there was the time she sent us outside to play with kerosene and matches left over from Y2K. When we accidentally torched three trailers--it was totally bitchin’ man!--she blamed us. She said, “Oh, I can see you accidentally torching ONE trailer, and maybe TWO, but THREE?” Any good mother would have gone to jail for her kids, but not our mom. She not only took us out to the police station, she flirted openly with the cops while they were booking us.
One time she saw Jesus’ face in her Dove chocolate ice cream bar. Did she save it, sell it on eBay and make us all filthy rich? No! She ate it. When we asked her why, she said, “Eh, it wasn‘t the first time I saw Jesus in my food and I‘m sure it won‘t be the last.”
And let’s not even talk about the “games” she’s taught us throughout the years. Games like “Quick! Hide! The Jehovah Witnesses Are At the Door!” or “Quick! Hide! Grandma and Grandpap are at the Door!” or “Quick! Hide! I Told My New BoyFriend I Don’t Have Kids!“
By the time we were five, we all had the bill collector’s phone script memorized. “Mommy can‘t come to the phone. She‘s out selling a kidney for grocery money.” or “My mommy can’t come to the phone right now. She’s in bed...dying of tuberculosis” at which point, she’d cough heavily in the background. When they stopped believing that one we had to say, “My mommy can’t come to the phone right now. She died…..from tuberculosis. No, daddy can’t come to the phone either. He’s picking out her coffin. Maybe when he comes back from burying her in Potter’s Field, he’ll call you.”
Every year at Halloween we have to hand our candy over to her so she can “test it” for razor blades or poison. My mom is the only one who tests for razor blades and poison by eating the candy. One year she bought us each three Halloween costumes. We’d go around the trailer court, fill up a bucket of candy, hand it over to mom, change costumes and do the whole thing over again.
The only thing she cleans is that small space on the mantel where she’s hoping to put her “Mother of the Year” trophy. It ain’t happening!! Besides, she'd probably sell it for cigarettes or booze.

1 comment:

Danny Haszard said...

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