Arthritic, Arthurian and Archie BunkeresqueMy boy (upon seeing a picture of a withered crone on some stupid high fantasy site I was visiting): Mommy, is that you?
Me: Why, yes, sweetheart! It certainly is!
My boy: You look ugly and mean on there.
Me: Go to your room, boy.
Okay, that exchange didn’t really happen, but damned if I don’t feel like an ugly old witch. Freaking, frigging rheumatoid arthritis hurts! Makes me very mean indeed. As an example, I’ve been having vivid daydreams in which I take the podium at one of those rally thingies going on lately -- you know, the rally thingies that are laughably being compared by some to the civil rights rallies and marches of the sixties? -- and I look out onto the sea of waving Mexican flags, raise a bullhorn to my curled lip, and say this: In the phrase “illegal immigrant,” what part of “illegal” do you not understand? Ah, that’s right -- you don’t speak English, do you? My bad.
***click-click-click-click-click-click*** (the sound of One Whipped Mother being deleted from bookmarks and blogrolls all over the world)