One Whipped Mother

Comforted by the Knowledge That Each Little Annoyance Will Lead To My Canonization

Wondering if I should contact the editor of a certain magazine concerning the blank e-mail I received yesterday…Nah, probably just a “yeah, yeah, we got your submission, so please wait your ass for the next five months” auto-response. But I received one the day after I submitted my story, like, last week. Dear me.

Boy, that pisses me off, the not knowing.

My son keeps crapping in his SpongeBob underwear, too. That pisses me off. I mean, really pisses me off. I’ve been quite patient all week, what with the peeing and pooping in the underwear several times a day, but folks, I simply have no more patience to spare. I may resort to diapers once again. Hate to do it, but the SpongeBob resources are all but depleted as I throw out the crapped up ones. There are three pair left, and I am down to my last nerve.

I’m pissed off at many people this week as well. Her and him, and her and her. I can’t stomach insensitivity, nonreciprocal caring or outright asshole behavior for very long. They can all go perform fellatio on the anatomically correct Ronald McDonald statue that sits on the park bench inside Wal-Mart for all I care.

Actually, I would care, as that would be pretty damn funny.

I’m pissed off at Michael Jackson’s defense team -- why those buncha loons. Blaming the victim is so nineteen eighties. I’d like to see them kneeling alongside her and him, and her and her, mouths open in anticipation of receiving Ronald’s brightly painted plaster monster, really I would.

And the list continues, yet I shall refrain from elaborating further.

Aw, I appear to be in a mood today. I'm allowed a mood once in a while, though, aren’t I? I have a right to occasionally be as nasty as I want to be (within reason) considering I’m a freaking saint most days. Why, I’m so saint-like, I expect that I will be beatified upon my death, great monuments will be erected in my name, marble images of my likeness placed beside lounge chairs or atop kitchen counters, and wondrous miracles will shower those who pray to me -- thus my imminent canonization.

I even envision the prayer that David Draiman of Disturbed will write specifically for me, a tidy package of praise and glory titled “The Lor’s Prayer.” It will most likely go something like this:

Thy head, ego-swollen, thy heart full of love
Bless me, O Lor, with thine absolute grace
Get up, come on, get down with the sickness
***insert monkey sounds***
Mother, thou art Queen, how great thou art
***insert charging rhino sounds***
Amen

Hey, it could happen.

posted by Ms. Lori @ 10:03 AM