YEAH, THIS SHOULD BE REAL EASY.
A whole week. Without the only girl I've ever loved. I'm not going to get all melodramatic, but it's going to suck so much turd that I'm trying to not even admit that it's happening. I mean, for fuck's sake, I almost felt like I was trying to kick heroin the last time we had to go two days apart. Oh well. My parents are coming down. That's always good for a kick-in-the-pants time. My mother can forge ahead with her ongoing mission to "Yankee-fy" the name of every single town she refers to on the gulf coast, such as "New Orleeeens" or "BiLOCKsi", and my Dad can tell me what a waste of money my TV was, when I could've put a downpayment on a house. Yeah, like I plan to live here forever.
I think I'm going to take my mother out drinking. And not just to some bar that I think would be right "up her alley", like some hotel bar, or the yacht club. I'm taking her to the firedog for power hour, or perhaps to the Pirate's Den and make her sing drunken Kareoki. My mom has known me merely on a "oh, we're so proud of your GPA" level for so long that it's high time she beholds the ungainly sight of Drunk Mathew. I want her to witness the slurred speech, the pangs of purgatory when confronted with the endless array of Creed renditions which border on being just as vile and devoid of musical merit as the ORIGINAL versions, and the constant mockery of those whose only extra-cranial duties consist of trying to figure out which drink is best suited to cover up the tell-tale taste of a roofie. I want her to see the Mathew that spews vitriolic misanthropy on the unsuspecting ears of those foolish enough to consider me a friendly guy. "FRIENDLY?!? WELL I USUALLY AM, BUT TONIGHT THE LOVE OF MY LIFE IS FIVE HOURS AWAY, MY MOM IS DRUNK AND GETTING HIT ON BY A FUCKING SEA-WOLF, AND SOME GUY IN AN OVERPRICED, NEUVEAX TRUCKER HAT HAS ACTUALLY DISCOVERED A WAY TO MAKE NICKELBACK SOUND EVEN MORE LIKE THE EMPTYING OF A COLOSTOMY BAG THAN THE ORIGINAL VERSION," I will proudly say... all the while covering said person in my spittle, since the Den is so oppressively loud you have to scream, and we're all familiar with the math equation (Rum+Screaming=Spitstorm). Then, as a final, shrieking explanation point to the entire night, I'll bring her to IHOP, to experience the night-shift patrons, or as I like to call them, "my people". Every stripe of reject and morally repugnant jack-ass converges upon that artery-calcification emporium once the sun nears its rightful dominion over those unlucky swine that are still stupid enough to be up. Plus, it will be a perfect time for my mother to learn the latest slang and gauge the general morale of today's youth, which is typically summed up with repetitive strings of broken english and profanity, such as would make a longshoreman proud.
In this way, and ONLY in this way, can my mother get to know her son in the truest fashion. Mom, the results of your parenting skills have come home to roost.
I think I'm going to take my mother out drinking. And not just to some bar that I think would be right "up her alley", like some hotel bar, or the yacht club. I'm taking her to the firedog for power hour, or perhaps to the Pirate's Den and make her sing drunken Kareoki. My mom has known me merely on a "oh, we're so proud of your GPA" level for so long that it's high time she beholds the ungainly sight of Drunk Mathew. I want her to witness the slurred speech, the pangs of purgatory when confronted with the endless array of Creed renditions which border on being just as vile and devoid of musical merit as the ORIGINAL versions, and the constant mockery of those whose only extra-cranial duties consist of trying to figure out which drink is best suited to cover up the tell-tale taste of a roofie. I want her to see the Mathew that spews vitriolic misanthropy on the unsuspecting ears of those foolish enough to consider me a friendly guy. "FRIENDLY?!? WELL I USUALLY AM, BUT TONIGHT THE LOVE OF MY LIFE IS FIVE HOURS AWAY, MY MOM IS DRUNK AND GETTING HIT ON BY A FUCKING SEA-WOLF, AND SOME GUY IN AN OVERPRICED, NEUVEAX TRUCKER HAT HAS ACTUALLY DISCOVERED A WAY TO MAKE NICKELBACK SOUND EVEN MORE LIKE THE EMPTYING OF A COLOSTOMY BAG THAN THE ORIGINAL VERSION," I will proudly say... all the while covering said person in my spittle, since the Den is so oppressively loud you have to scream, and we're all familiar with the math equation (Rum+Screaming=Spitstorm). Then, as a final, shrieking explanation point to the entire night, I'll bring her to IHOP, to experience the night-shift patrons, or as I like to call them, "my people". Every stripe of reject and morally repugnant jack-ass converges upon that artery-calcification emporium once the sun nears its rightful dominion over those unlucky swine that are still stupid enough to be up. Plus, it will be a perfect time for my mother to learn the latest slang and gauge the general morale of today's youth, which is typically summed up with repetitive strings of broken english and profanity, such as would make a longshoreman proud.
In this way, and ONLY in this way, can my mother get to know her son in the truest fashion. Mom, the results of your parenting skills have come home to roost.