Crippled Fembots and Your Mom in the Bone Zone: The Daily Nooner (EST)!
Ask A Cracked Blogger When my father left my mother for another woman, I was there for her as much as I could be, and I told her again and again that she was - and is - a fit, attractive, intelligent, delightful lady, totally capable of getting a way better dude than Mr. Loser. It took two years, but she finally met somebody. He sounds pretty promising, and he seems to really like her. Except then I got an email from her that said, " came over for dinner last night and he stayed over. We had a really great time!" I couldn't read the rest of the email because my ears were bleeding and my eyes were bleeding and my whole face was bleeding and I was choking on my own blood. BLECH! MY MOM IN EL ZONE DEL BONE?!?!? Maybe I'm a baby and maybe I'm a prude (yes and yes) but what I had in mind for Moms was a nice gentleman to play Scrabble with! Not fucking on the first date! Did I make this happen with all my meddlesome confidence-building??? Can I undo it? Or, barring that, is there at least a way to permanently excise the email and the resulting mental images from my memory? Because ever since I read that, every time somebody says, "We had a really great time!" my face bleeds, stigmata-style. Bummed Out On Humped Out mOm While it could very well be that your mother "had a really great time" simply eating dinner with , chances are she also got caught up in the "Bone Zone" (for our readers who don't habla Español). Horrifying? Maybe so, BOOHOO, but it's also almost certainly your fault. If you want to run around encouraging middle-aged people to go out there and find Mr. (or Mrs.) Right, then you need to accept the fact that it's not all gonna be Scrabble and balanced, heart-healthy meals. Sometimes middle-aged people need to dust off their genitals and give the ol' Posturepedic® a workout, BOOHOO, and yes, sometimes those middle-aged people are going to end up being your mother and some guy who isn't your dad. Old folks boning is no different than gravity, winter or rotten vegetables in your crisper: an unfortunate but inevitable fact of life that you're just going to have to learn to live with. Either that or you can nip this problem in the bud before it goes any further. Call your mother and find out when her beau is coming over next, then park your car a few doors down and wait for him. When he goes inside, break into his car and fill his backseat with heroin, foreign child slave laborers or anything else you happen to have on hand that's illegal, then call the cops. If you don't want to involve the authorities, simply send your mother some flowers with a card that says "Dear BOOHOO's Mom: It turns out I actually hate you. Signed, " That should send a clear message: You are my mother, and as such, you are not entitled to a fulfilling sexual relationship. As for the blood shooting out of your face, you might want to see a doctor about that. Got problems? Send your letters here.
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