I’ve been asked several times if I felt any embarrassment publishing these posts knowing full well that my mother was going to see them. Truth be told, I feel a huge amount of discomfort knowing that she’s reading every filthy base broad word on this site, and I use that discomfort as an editorial compass. If the idea of my mother reading the post doesn’t fill me with toxic levels of self-conscious humiliation, then it probably isn’t interesting enough to read so I don’t the SEND key.

Luckily, she isn’t a prude and is actually more amused than shamed by my material. She recently admitted to me, that when I publish a particularly embarrassing post, she will, with the same sort of pride that motivates a mother of a toddler to decorate their cubicle with finger paintings, print out a hard copy of the post and pass it around to her coworkers. I can’t imagine that these coworkers are thinking when this woman hands them a piece of paper and says, “Look at what my son wrote about being caught masturbating by his female roommate.”

Granted, I have to admit that she isn’t a typical conservative mother. I wouldn’t say that she is a particularly crass person, but she can occasionally make me blush with a brilliant blue streaked vulgar tirades. This is the same woman, who when complaining about her heavy footed upstairs neighbor, said to me “Jesus Christ, she sounds like a three legged cow getting B**t F**ked up there.”

Stop for a moment and let that sink in. Imagine your own mother, I mean really picture her. Now put those words in her mouth and have her volley them out at you. I’ll even repeat them for emphasis:

“Jesus Christ, she sounds like a three legged cow getting B**t F**ked up there!”

That statement is almost poetic in it’s vulgarity. I could never come up with a burn that descriptive or creative. Hats off to you mom, you inspire me with your potty mouth.

I’ve brought this up because I felt particularly humiliated two day ago when I published this. I had dinner plans with my mother later in the evening and when I went to meet her at the train station I felt a little nervous, unsure of whether she had read the post or not. I had no reason to worry, really. She has absolutely no concerns over my social life. About half way through dinner, I asked her if she had read the post from that day.

“Do you mean the one where the gay guy assaulted you in the bathroom stall?” she asked.

“Um, no” I replied. “The one where I’m talking about being allergic to latex.”

“You’re allergic to latex? That means, oh man, that sucks!” she said, all the while chuckling.

How cool is it to have a mother who feels bad for you because she thinks you can’t get it on with easy strangers? Luckily, this new polyurethane product exists, so I have nothing to worry about and don’t actually have to make any drastic changes to my immature lifestyle.

Later in our conversation, she told me she had followed the links after the last happy hour post. She told me she wanted to puke at all of our polite little “great to meet you” comments on one another’s pages and said we all sounded (myself included) like a bunch of faggots. Actually, she didn’t use the word “faggots,” as faggot was never really that harsh an insult in our family. She said we sounded like a bunch of republicans. I know that doesn’t really make any sense. But in our household that was always a really nasty slam.