I don't much like enemas.
Don't get me wrong, I'm sure in certain parts of the internet the above might count as a controversial statement. Coming from my mother, though, midway through a social phone call? I suppose it was nice of her to try and set my mind at rest, but I've never really worried much about her being a closet klismaphile.*
It's been that sort of day, really. Spent most of the afternoon dealing with the unpleasant but unavoidable consequences of being a serial dole scrounger, and it wasn't an edifying experience. Finally making it home and having to deal with my mother's intestinal adventures was just the icing on the cake - the lube on the rubber tubing, if you will.
At times like these, I always turn to the Modfather. Nobody else is so reliably angry, so coldly passionate. When the world is fucked up and frustrating and the tension starts building up behind my temples, he's the one who reminds me it's okay to rail against the stupid and the mundane and the bland.
This one needs no introduction. Sit back and enjoy.
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*Although apparently the endoscopy that followed was quite fun.