My mom is one of the most caring and sensitive people I know. Scratch that. Let me do that sentence again. My mom is the ONLY caring and sensitive person I know since everybody else I know is a straight-up bitch. There that’s better. Even though my mom is a kind soul, she’s never really fazed by the dumb-coated pieces of mangled trash that my mouth shits up on a regular basis. But one of the only times I saw her get sad on the inside over some crap I spewed up was when we were watching her personal God, Dr. Oz, on TV and I said that he looked like a functioning corpse. The look on her face jumped between “you just strangled my kitten with my favorite cardigan while pissing with the seat down in my guest bathroom” to “you better learn how to drop your neck into your body real quick because I’m about to choke you out.”
She is serious about her Dr. Oz and I’m sure one of her dreams in life is to be his assistant of the day so she can gaze up at his apple chip face as he tells her to crawl through a Colossal Colon or some weird shit like that. That is why I cannot and refuse to analyze the possible appearance of Dr. Oz’s crotch wizard in the pages of Good Housekeeping. Damn TMZ, damn Good Housekeeping and damn me for posting this:
If you show this to my mom, do not tell me about it. Because the next time I’m watching Dr. Oz with her, I do not want to know why her smile is extra smiley. No. All parties involved are wrong for this. I hate cameras, I hate paper, I hate magazines, I hate scanners, I hate upload buttons and I hate the Internet.