The Horrible Message:
No, seriously, he will always be her little baby. Until death itself comes to claim his husk from her viselike arms ...
Mommy won't ask what that brown stuff is, even though she knows it hasn't rained in days.
For example, here: We're past the hugging stage now, right? We're pretty sure the tape in his Walkman cassette player is Run-DMC's Raising Hell, and we're almost positive he's going to masturbate into that catcher's mitt later (he's a 13-year-old boy; he's pretty much going to masturbate into everything at least once). So maybe he's getting a little bit old for this stealth coddling stuff, right?
She washes out that catcher's mitt and lovingly places it on her face at night.
No? OK, that's cool. He might start associating his mother's perfume with his wet dreams about Samantha Fox, but it's not like a few mommy issues will turn every kid into Ed Grimley or anyth--
That shirt has "fat Elvis" all over it.
Huh. Well, he's not off to a galloping start, is he? Your high school age son is wearing loafers and doing a Sha-Na-Na fantasy number in front of the cat and his almost certainly deceased friend (human beings do not bend like that, nor do they possess terrifying visages that lifeless). Maybe it's time to lay off the covert cuddles.
At school, he finds himself licking girls' faces. He's been suspended twice.