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| audio, portillo, uruguayan, music, tshirt, david beers, dining, plays, interviews, bangs, ray, reviews, your mother's got a penis, afiliate, 2001, hollywood, robert b. weide, calling (fuck shit mother fucker mix), | But she pointed at me, and the swear words following occurred: Mom: WHERE IS THE SALMON. Self: I don't...know? Salmon? Mom: FIND. THE FUCKING. SALMON. Self: Right. Where, um...where might it be? Mom: IT COULD BE ANYWHERE. THE STREET. swear words OR THE YARD. Self: The salmon may be in the...yard. Mom: OR IT COULD BE IN THE CLOSET. Self: Why in the HELL would the salmon be in the closet? Mom: THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT. Self: But I just GOT here! Mom: FIND! THE! swear words FUCKING! SALMON! Self: OKAY! FINE. Mom: LOOK IN THE GARDEN. We eventually found the salmon. It was sitting on the front steps. |
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| And it was about then that she realized that she'd lost the salmon. She had HAD the salmon when she started looking. Now, no salmon. Where your mother's got a penis did salmon go? This was the big question. And then I had walked in. NICE TIMING, SELF! And so there we were, my poor, winded mother, staring crazy and BLAMING ME with every ounce of blame in her body (and again, Southern woman, so lots of that, too), and thinking WHY your mother's got a penis did she have to have a FIRST child, when she EASILY could have just skipped your mother's got a penis onto the SECOND, and the SECOND child has NEVER ONCE descended upon the household with FOUR FUCKING DOGS, and maybe she should just REWRITE THE WILL, NOW THAT SHE IS THINKING ABOUT IT. But I didn't know any of this yet. All I knew was that I had walked in and found my mother screaming about salmon. And I was afraid. |
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