Matricide Isn’t So Bad When You Think About It

Against my better judgment, I called my mother earlier today. You know, for Mother’s Day. It went about as well as it does on any given year.

“Hello, mother,” I said to start the conversation.

“Maybe,” she said. “Depends on who this is.”

I sighed. “It’s me, Oswald.”

“My husband? Not likely. He’s been dead since ’81.”

“Not Oswald your husband, Oswald your oldest son. Just calling to wish you a happy Mother’s Day.”

“Well now. Isn’t this a surprise. Not a pleasant one, mind you, just surprising that you remembered to call at all.”

“Of course I remembered! How could I forget after last week’s call?”

“What call? What are you babbling on about now? I think all those drugs you take have finally destroyed your mind.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” I said, trying desperately to avoid any unnecessary unpleasantries. “Anyhow, I trust your day is going well?”

“It was until you called, you ungrateful son of a bitch.”

“Yes, well, I can’t argue with that assessment.”

“What? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Jesus, nothing. Did you get the card and flowers?”

“Yeah, I got them. And what did they set you back, twenty bucks? How on earth are you going to be able to afford your mortgage when you’re throwing around money like that?”

“I’m sure I’ll find some way to survive.”

“Don’t get cheeky with me, you cheap bastard. Your brother Roderick and his wife are sending me on a cruise, and all you can come up with is some dime store card and a clump of ragweed? What the hell is wrong with you? What kind of man treats his mother this way?”

“I truly have no idea. But look, I must be going; until next year?”

“Shove it up your ass, you fat piece of shit!” she screamed, and I ended the call. Oh well. I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from her at this point. After all, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. If you could, perhaps my father wouldn’t have left her for that transsexual Hungarian trapeze artist.

Either way, I don’t like to waste time pondering hypotheticals; I’m more of a here-and-now kind of guy. And right now, it’s time for my weekly enema. So until tomorrow — toot toot.

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Categories: Culture, Dating, Leisure

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