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May 10, 2015
On Mother's Day, I don't have melodic, sentimental words about my miniature mama. I'm won't rave about her kasha with bowties or apple cake or roll my eyes over how self-righteous she gets when I tell her that I dig slicing potatoes with a mandolin and she says huffily that she uses nothing more than a paring knife. I'll just say that, above all, I thank her for the superb terms "twat awning" and "crotch foliage", a laugh that puts hyenas to shame, and for still, at age 78, having the ability to embarrass the motherless fuck outta me. Ahoy!