Not Your Real Mother
- MySister: "Oh, come on *SON*, you know I'm your real mother."
- HerKid: "I'm seriously beginning to question it."
- MySister: "I guess that's what 19 years of telling your child you aren't his real mother does to you..."
My Sister is Afraid of Intimacy
It’s been snowing lately and my sister, humanitarian that she is, was shoveling her elderly neighbor’s sidewalk when this guy pulls up in his guidomobile and blocks the guy’s driveway totally ignoring all established protocols for decent manners. My sister waits until the guy comes out of the 4-wheel-drive-penile-compensator and tells the ponytailed balding man that he simply cannot park there since it is an active driveway. He snort-laughs and then says something to the effect of “That’s ok. I’m fine parking here” and puts his hand on his hip, pushing his jacket out of the way to show off his gun.
My sister, in shock says “Oh. Nice piece! :)” and continues to shovel out the neighbor’s driveway. The guy responds by asking her out for coffee, an offer she quickly turned down. I can only assume that it’s because she’s afraid of intimacy since the guy:
- Has a good enough job where he can afford a guidomobile in this economy,
- Has enough self esteem to wear brown jeans, loafers with no socks in the winter, a checkered shirt tucked into his pants to show off his gut
- Has a gun so she can feel safe!
She needs a man! She’s a single mom and is getting too old to poledance for dollars!
An Apology
To the “Family Dollar” store on Main street:
I’m sorry for stealing half a bag of off-brand Mexican Cheeze-Kurls last Friday when my sister and I were shopping for school supplies that only your bargain-basement prices can put into my unemployable price-range. It is not in my nature to steal, or commit any crimes, especially when I know that the 99c jumbo bag’s sale would have pushed your margins into the black. I do not offer any excuses for my behaviour other than an explanation.
There was this old woman. Who was wearing every article of clothing that she owned. And has probably been wearing them non-stop since she had her be-mulleted grandson tip over one of those “clothe the homeless” boxes that seem to be at every Home Depot and Christmastree Shop location in my home town. There was an aura about this woman that prevented myself and all but the most seasoned and gnarly sanitation workers from being being within four yards from her centre of mass.
This woman, in short, stunk.
Like rancid piss, death and Jagermeister.
She smelled worse than the overflowed septic systems I used to clean out when I was in high school. Worse than the mattress after a Rosie O’Donel/Oprah Winfrey/John Goodman 3-way sex party.
My sister and I made every attempt within human reason to avoid being overwhelmed by her death-blossom bouquet, however after several minutes not one square foot of the store remained viable and uncontaminated. Without any words, the decision was made to cut our shopping trip short, get on line, purchase the items in our cart and return at some future date, hoping that this was an incident rather than a common occurrence. Unfortunately the odoriferous woman got in line immediately before us. And I could cue myself up behind her.
In direct line of fire from her farts.
Which actually melted a pair of glasses.
My sister and I then walked into the snack aisle and debated our plan of action. At this point I must say that it is wholly my fault and responsibility for the theft of the half-bag of fake-cheese “flavoured” Styrofoam puff balls. She had nothing to do with it. Whatsoever. I left the store and she chased me out to force me to pay.
She should not bear any of the of the legal repercussions. She’s wracked with guilt about it as it is. She thought that the police that were chasing around the projects that your store is located in were actually after her. She’s a woman, so the logic of cost/risk/benefit relations escapes her and does not realise that the police would not even bother with that level of petty crime. Since we’re white, I mean.
In closing, please accept this as an apology as well as my redemption since it has taken me over twice as long to write this than the community service sentence would have taken. If I even went to trial.
Since I’d resist arrest. ‘Cause I ain’t goin’ back to jail. I’m too pretty in there. And prison-rape is not fun.
