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This Isn't a Title, But I'm Fingering Your Mother, While You're Sitting at the Computer, Reading This.


by Smiley McGrouchpants



               "O.K., asshole . . . Let's see what you have to say! . . . You think this shit is funny?  How do you know my mother is even alive, you inconsiderate, heartless asshole . . . You post-modern fiction writers are all alike: post-modernity, so the whole idea of a stable family structure hoes right out the window . . . I grew up squirming, you know that?  Lacking a crucial layer of 'emotional epidermis,' if you want to call it that . . . Chances are pretty good that my father, in one of his drunken, frat-boy-eque binges, tried to clear my poop chute and fingered me! . . . Yeah, tragic stuff happens, Mr. McMock-you-all, but how'm I supposed to remember?  I didn't have an ego yet, that happens, psychologists say, right about age 2, with the formation of the 'I' vs. 'you,' and the sexual orientation, fixed for life . . . Who told you anything about my goddamned mother?  She was so shattered & ruined, we couldn't flush the toilet when I was little without waking her up, and her shooting us accusatory glances . . . That's why I always go to church!  'Praise the Lord, and Pass the Ammunition,' that's what I always (also) say . . . Been spending time at the firing range, you bet your ass . . . You're one of those Obama supporters, aren't you?  Well, I'm comin' to get you!"

                                                            THE END

               "Was she good?  My mother, I mean . . . she was never any good, to us kids!"

                                                            FUCK YES!

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