Here's the thing I like about your mom.
She tells the truth. That's rare these days. I don't remember the last time I got not lied to. I just expect it now. Everyone's a four year old that stuck a finger in the birthday cake 20 minutes before your surprise party. You look them straight in the eyes and ask,
"Did you stick your finger in the cake mommy baked for my birthday?"
(eye contact, shake's head)
"Nope Daddy!" Comes the lie.
"Yes you did you simpleton. I can tell that you're stoned. Didn’t you know mommy puts weed in all my cakes? Now you're fucked up and you're about to start bugging out thinking a miniature sheep is inside your head singing Dionne Warwick tunes and that he’ll be there until you die."
They all just stare straight in your eyes and say “Nope Daddy!”
All a bunch of poisoned tongued rodent faced double talky snake oil salesmen. All except your mom. Take this for example. The other day I took a shit at your crib when you were at work. Chill, duder! I always hang out with your moms in the afternoon. She kills it with the chicken fried waffles. Who would have known you can deep fry a waffle in used bacon grease and breadcrumbs and have it come out tasting like a puppy must taste to a cheetah.
Anyway, I blew up your bathroom. And your mom, in her dry and frank manner said, “That shit stinks.”
“But don’t worry, boy, my shit stinks, too.”
Wow, thanks Mrs.(your mother's name).
Not many people can look me in the eye while I’m dropping “SoCo Splashbombz”, shirtless, reading about hockey (don’t even like that shit) and sweating like Patrick Ewing at Guantanamo; this due to the combination of an out-of-work air conditioner and the hedes like temperature of Philadelphia in nearly all seasons. Furthermore, most could never do so while telling me how putrid my insides smell. And lastly, no one could ever do all this and admit a true fault of their own. Most people would rather wait in the living room hoping that I somehow choke to death during a freak toilet paper accident even though they know the odds of this are slim.
Not your mom. She comes correct. That’s why when she told me to cop the new Wale joint I immediately borrowed your track bike, rode into the sunset, and copped doubles.
Fr-Fr-FRASH!$!$!$!$!
She tells the truth. That's rare these days. I don't remember the last time I got not lied to. I just expect it now. Everyone's a four year old that stuck a finger in the birthday cake 20 minutes before your surprise party. You look them straight in the eyes and ask,
"Did you stick your finger in the cake mommy baked for my birthday?"
(eye contact, shake's head)
"Nope Daddy!" Comes the lie.
"Yes you did you simpleton. I can tell that you're stoned. Didn’t you know mommy puts weed in all my cakes? Now you're fucked up and you're about to start bugging out thinking a miniature sheep is inside your head singing Dionne Warwick tunes and that he’ll be there until you die."
They all just stare straight in your eyes and say “Nope Daddy!”
All a bunch of poisoned tongued rodent faced double talky snake oil salesmen. All except your mom. Take this for example. The other day I took a shit at your crib when you were at work. Chill, duder! I always hang out with your moms in the afternoon. She kills it with the chicken fried waffles. Who would have known you can deep fry a waffle in used bacon grease and breadcrumbs and have it come out tasting like a puppy must taste to a cheetah.
Anyway, I blew up your bathroom. And your mom, in her dry and frank manner said, “That shit stinks.”
“But don’t worry, boy, my shit stinks, too.”
Wow, thanks Mrs.(your mother's name).
Not many people can look me in the eye while I’m dropping “SoCo Splashbombz”, shirtless, reading about hockey (don’t even like that shit) and sweating like Patrick Ewing at Guantanamo; this due to the combination of an out-of-work air conditioner and the hedes like temperature of Philadelphia in nearly all seasons. Furthermore, most could never do so while telling me how putrid my insides smell. And lastly, no one could ever do all this and admit a true fault of their own. Most people would rather wait in the living room hoping that I somehow choke to death during a freak toilet paper accident even though they know the odds of this are slim.
Not your mom. She comes correct. That’s why when she told me to cop the new Wale joint I immediately borrowed your track bike, rode into the sunset, and copped doubles.
Fr-Fr-FRASH!$!$!$!$!
Labels: A review of Wale(Nobody)
1 Comments:
ohhhh man. like i know, i frigging know this wasn't my mom, my mom doesn't cook anything and she would never...talk like that, especially about poop. but still i mean the whole thing made me a little nervous. all like what if. what if jon and my mom...
but of course not. right?
-dr. honey
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