Hi there, Mom. Thought you might like to meet some people I know. These are the people of the SDMB, and a right quick lot they are, to be sure.
Heh, that sure is a funny thing you did yesterday. Almost as funny as those times when you used to beat me about the head with your shoe, so that the other teachers wouldn’t notice the bruises. That was a laugh.
Then, there’s that funny “projection” thing that you like to do. You know, funny.
Like when you were an elementary school teacher, I became an “apathetic student.” It didn’t matter that I was in the fourth grade, reading William Shirer’s books and bored. That was pretty funny, too.
Then you became a guidance counsellor, just about the time I went to high school. I suddenly became a juvenile delinquent, an adolescent vandal bent on destroying society. I tried real hard to live up to your image of me, but it just wasn’t in me. Funny thing about that was I stayed an adolescent vandal until I was twenty-two, when you decided to shitcan your career on the advice of your psychic and move to Palm Beach County, Florida.
Pay no matter the retirement plan or the being two years away from a pension–you’ve got a little boy who’ll take care of you, and the astrologers steered you right, no doubt.
Then, you became a drug counsellor. Suddenly, I turned into a homosexual alcoholic heroin addict. Well, Mom, you’re getting sharper in your old age, because I really am one of those. I’ll give you a hint: it doesn’t involve pricks.
Didn’t we have a laugh when I found out you forged my signature and took out all those student loans in my name, and threw away the payment notices until I defaulted? Golly, that was a pretty great ten years of laughs until I paid that one off myself.
And then, you called me tonight, asking for my help, because I’m so tight with the government, what being in Indian Affairs and all, but not part of the government. I’m pretty important, and you’ve found yourself in a bind. Seems that you were one of the two thousand or so mindless palm-reading flakes who couldn’t read the directions on your ballot, and mistakenly turned over the government of the United States of America over to the very people who will destroy my job and my career, and no doubt more importantly, maybe yours too.
That’s a problem all right, Mom.
We’ve certainly had our differences in the past, but this time, I think we can agree on one thing. You kind of fucked up. Let’s not sugar coat it, Mom–you dropped the ball. You have been singled out as one of the very few people–about two thousand, tops–who changed the fate of a nation though your ignorance.
Blatant, obstinate, and complete ignorance. You knew what you were voting for, and you knew how important it was because I called you twice that day, and I’m sure your astrologer told you the same thing. But you failed to check your work. I recall being punished for the same thing, except the wishes of the country didn’t rely on my long division.
Sorry, Mom. Better luck next time, when you’re past retirement age and have an unemployed historian as an only son. I wonder how this is my fault this time, what with you soon to be elderly and unemployed? I took a page out of your book and tried to blame Ralph Nader. Then you called me, and I realized that this election came down to incompetent fools like you, and strict with the script, you screwed up.
Maybe you should listen to a couple of my friends.
People, do you have anything to say to my Mom, one of the few people who through their stupidity and by default represented about fifty thousand voters each without reading their ballots? Let’s not be shy. After all, we’re here to fight ignorance, and this example is a fucking duesy.