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 Mom's RevengePosted 01.10.2007 by Anomalous Coward (690)
The week before Christmas I found myself with an unexpected day off, so I went to visit me poor old widdered mudder. As do most people when the holidays draw near, Mom became nostalgic. We reminisced about Christmases and years past for a couple hours, and she mentioned that the holidays just aren't the same because she has no one to bake for.
At the mention of baking, I was overcome by an uncontrollable craving for cookies. My mother is one of the best cooks in the world (my unbiased opinion). My wife, on the other hand, is a sports model -- she looks great, has horizontal skills that are amazing, is fun to be with, and can burn water. The girl just can't cook. But then again, that's not why I married her. Thus, with all the dignity I could muster (and it wasn't much), I begged, whined, and wheedled my mom into making me a batch of old fashioned soft molasses cookies. I will admit that I'm a sorry-assed loser to shame my octogenarian mother into baking, but damn them cookies are good. To show that I was concerned about her having to bake all those cookies herself, I volunteered my wife to help. This was a mistake. Mom and my beloved sort of detest each other. When I graduated from high school, Mom tried to get me to date her friend's daughter. I'm sure she had her good points, but an overweight, crossed-eyed girl who was two years older than me and sporting both a bald spot and the name Bertha didn't really do much for me back then. Matter of fact, now she has a mustache; so she doesn't do much for me now. Several years later, when I brought my Wife-To-Be to meet Mom, Mom asked, "But what about Bertha?" Bertha who? Who the hell is Bertha? Wife-To-Be was six years younger than I, slim, sexy, "skilled," and in possession of a full head of hair. Mom never forgave me; nor did she warm up to the Wife-To-Be even after she became my wife. "I can do it myself," Mom informed me. "If I needed help, I'm sure Bertha would come over. She has no one and the holidays are rough for her." Give it a rest, Ma. It was all good, however, because I was gonna get me some molasses cookies. I sat uselessly at the kitchen table as she mixed, rolled, cut, and baked the cookies. At last they came out of the oven all warm and delicious-smelling. She then put them in a container and sent me on my way. She did manage to get in one more dig about Bertha, but who cares? I had COOKIES, dude! On the way home, I wolfed down four cookies. They were so good I had two more when I arrived. They tasted excellent. Two more bit the dust before dinner, and four more before I went to bed. At two AM, I suddenly awoke with the feeling that all was not well in the bowel department. My gut was cramping and I could feel the relentless momentum of pressure building in the poop chute. I stumbled to the bathroom and sat on the can. Diarrhea burst forth in a veritable deluge, followed by the longest fart I ever have heard or experienced. It was under so much pressure that it initially began as a squeak but developed into a full-throated roar. Quickly on its heels came the fecal aftershock, with more drizzling shits squirting out my butthole like a fire hose. Once the onslaught seemed to have abated, I wiped the smeary, viscid semi-liquid shit from my bung with nearly half a roll of toilet paper, stood, and realized that I was far from done. I parked it back on the throne and blew another quart or so of fluidized mud out my back door. When I seemed to have exhausted my supply of liquishit, I wiped again, got as far as the sink to wash my hands, and realized that the party wasn't over by a damn sight. I barely made it back to the crapper before the dam burst and the big muddy overflowed again. Finally, after four o'clock, the last of my brains had been shit out. My o-ring reminded me of a Johnny Cash ballad -- "it burns, burns, burns / a ring of fire" -- and the bathroom smelled like hell. I staggered back to bed and collapsed into a fitful slumber. When I dragged ass out to the kitchen later in the morning, my wife was sitting at the table. She asked why I had gotten up in the middle of the night. I told her what had happened and said I couldn't figure out why I had diarrhea. She asked how many cookies I had eaten. I told her and she said, "Well, that's what caused it." According to her, I was suffering from acute molasses overdosing. I launched into a diatribe. "Mom was so pissed at me for offering your assistance that she poisoned me with a toxic dose of molasses! She's still mad that I didn't marry Bertha! She..." "Get a grip," my other half said. "Molasses cookies will give you diarrhea if you eat too many of them. You know, like the kid on The Christmas Story -- only instead of shooting your eye out, you'll shit your brains out." She was probably right. But I just can't resist a conspiracy theory. Post new comment
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