When Will That Woman Die?

“Hello, mother.”

“Mother? My mother’s dead. And a woman. Look, who is this?”

“It’s your son. Oswald.”

“Who?”

“Oswald. Oswald Carver. Your son.”

“Oh, Oswald. What do you want?”

“It… it’s Mother’s Day, mother. Just wanted to call to wish you a happy one.”

“Well you shouldn’t have bothered, you ungrateful bastard.”

“Hmm. Did you get the flowers?”

“Yes, and I threw them right out! You have your nerve.”

“Mmm-hmm. And how is everything at Golden Oaks, hmm?”

“How do you think it is, you sniveling twit?! Orderlies always rummaging through your personal goods, roughing you up if you complain — it’s a nightmare!”

“Okay, mother.”

“You don’t understand! Poor old Mrs. Lipschitz shat herself last week, and no one cleaned her up for three days!”

“Yes, well, I really must be going. Until next year, hmm?”

“You can go f–,” she said as I ended the call. What a bitch. No wonder father left her for a Hungarian trapeze artist. Even with that handlebar mustache, his new lover was still more feminine than mom. Better looking vagina, too.

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Categories: Culture, Dating

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