So , I didn’t get my mom a Mothers’ Day card this year. I didn’t forget, I just didn’t buy one. Mostly because I absolutely despise buying greeting cards. I’d rather get a three hour prostate exam than go card shopping. Sifting through thousands of cards looking for one that doesn’t suck is a delight. Seriously, greeting card sales in this country alone are an estimated $7-8 billion dollars. A year. What the hell do they spend their money on? They don’t advertise or market. And they sure as hell aren’t spending it on decent writers.
Anyway, in lieu of an actual card, I’d like to describe every card I’ve ever given my mother. Ever.
The front of the card will feature a poorly drawn woman, haggard and frazzled looking, perhaps wearing a bathrobe, slumped over a kitchen table or lying on a couch, her arm draped languidly over her forehead, in case you had missed all the other signs that she was worn out. Above the picture would be the set up for a joke along the lines of how much trouble raising kids can be. Inside the card will be the “punchline” of the joke (punchline is in quotes because greeting card punchlines are not terribly funny and thus can only be called punchlines in the loosest of terms). The punchline will be delivered in Comic Sans or some other font used to denote the words written should not be taken seriously. The so-called punchline will be about how I have been the cause of your grey hair/drinking problem/undiagnosed but mild emotional disorder. ( Though we all know that it was my sisters that caused this and not me, I will take the bullet for the sake of maintaining the integrity of the card. You’re welcome, Tricia, Helen, and Judy.) Under that, I will have written something infinitely more inappropriate not to mention funnier, most likely with a personal bent/anecdote. Below that will appear the word, “Love,” and below that, my signature (first name only, you know who the fuck I am) which will begin with a “B” that in fact looks like a cross between a drunken eight and what it would look like if Frosty the Snowman fell asleep standing next to a space heater and none of those little shit kids he’s always hanging out with bother to unplug the damn thing. After the “B” will be a primarily flat line with a random number of humps indicating where other letters might go, but the number of humps will in no way coincide with the number of letters actually in my name. This is the result of having terrible, terrible handwriting and no longer giving even the tiniest of shits about making it legible.
Happy Mother’s Day!