I was enjoying a mini-marathon of obscure German erotic cinema in the media room when my butler Montgomery entered with a pained expression on his face.
“Pardon the intrusion, m’lord,” he said, “but there’s an extremely foul-tempered woman here to see you. She claims she’s your mother, wot wot.”
“Great Nixon’s Ghost!” I gasped, pausing the movie. “Is she a withered old shrew, about four-foot-ten, with a towering cone of snow-white hair and a metric shit-ton of gaudy jewelry?”
“Indeed sir. And I must say—”
“Well if it isn’t Mr. Bigshot!” said my mother, waltzing into the room with a scowl three times larger than her head. “Oh, so you’re always too busy to call me, but you have plenty of time for watching — Sweet Christ, what are you watching?”
I glanced at the 84” plasma screen, which currently featured a grainy image from one of my favorites, Die Schöne Frau Genießt Kot Auf ihrem Gesicht.
“Nothing,” I said, clicking the television off. “It’s an art film. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand perfectly — my son’s a pervert in addition to being a cheap, ungrateful bastard. A disgustingly fat pervert at that!”
I turned to my butler and coughed. “Thank you, Monty. Why don’t you bring us some refreshments?” Then, to my mother: “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you at the retirement home?”
“Retirement home? More like a prison camp!” she said, plopping down on the sofa. I joined her. She procured a pack of Pall Malls from her pocketbook, shook one out, and lit it. “Anyhow, Mrs. Lipschitz and I blew that pop stand last night. Now we’re on the lam.”
“On the—? Mother, we’ve been through this before. Golden Oaks is a perfectly lovely community, and given your advanced age and medical needs you’re far better off there than you would be—”
“Ha! If you weren’t so preposterously obese I’d have no idea how you could fit so much bullshit inside of you.”
“You’re what? Sorry for being such a disappointment? It’s a good thing your brother Roderick grew up to be such a fine young man, or I’d have to assume I was an utter failure as a parent. As it is, I put the blame for you solely on your father, may he continue to rot in hell for all eternity!”
“Roderick is a pot-head who ekes out a living by selling surfboards to loafers and halfwits. And speaking of Dad, I’m sure the fact that he left you for a transsexual Hungarian trapeze artist had nothing to do with your sparkling personality.”
“No it did not! It had to do with his sickening love of ladyboys with mustaches. And it wouldn’t surprise me if you have a few ‘films’ of that sort queued up for once you’re done with the scat flick you were watching when I arrived. Seriously Oswald, what is wrong with you?”
“Nothing one less living relation wouldn’t solve,” I muttered under my breath, albeit apparently not under enough. Mother slapped me across the face with one ring-encrusted hand, then stubbed her cigarette out on my knee.
“You have your nerve!” she said while rising from the sofa, which now had a large wet spot on it. “Fine, I know when I’m not wanted. Come on Mrs. Lipschitz, we’ll go see my good son Roderick. He lives in California and the weather’s much nicer there anyhow.”
“Oh no, don’t ‘Mother’ me! It’s too late for that! Call your father’s ladyboy mistress if you want a mother!”
“Where is this Mrs. Lipschitz?”
“Oh, so now you’re blind on top of being fat, perverted, disappointing, ungrateful, fat, useless, disgusting, creepy, fat, dishonest, unattractive, and stupid? Not to mention fat? She’s right there, you oaf!” Mother pointed to thin air and rolled her eyes.
“OK then. Well, I hope you and Mrs. Lipschitz have a good time at Roderick’s. I’ll be sure to let him know you’re coming. Lovely to have met you, Mrs. Lipschitz.”
“Christ, you are as obtuse as you are obese! Mrs. Lipschitz is obviously a figment of my imagination. There’s no need to humor me by pretending to talk to her, you asshole!”
With that, Mother snapped her fingers under my nose and strolled out of the media room. Fortunately, she then became hopelessly lost in my palatial mansion, providing me ample time to call the staff at Golden Oaks and have them come retrieve her.
And believe it or not, this was one of her more pleasant visits. Better still, it was so close to Mother’s Day that I can probably use it as an excuse to not call her next month. For that matter, she’s so old that she may very well die before Mother’s Day. What? A guy can dream, can’t he?
Front page photo source: Stock.xchng