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Mother's Day: Women Swindling their Husbands out of Chocolate and Flowers.

Updated: Jun 3

Note: This is a satirical paper about Mother's Day. I am extremely appreciative of my mother and do not intend to offend anyone -- especially mothers, who for obvious reasons, love this pseudo-holiday.

Mothers are providers, caregivers, wives, and for a brief nine-month period, mobile homes, as, when they experience love or become exceedingly inebriated, they spontaneously sprout a rapidly-growing animal that eventually emerges as a shriveled-up meatball that incessantly screams and creates waste -- like a biological train horn that constantly spews disgusting materials. Despite the blubbering micro-human that produces excessive noise and generates unexpected fluids at unexpected times, a mother will care for the defenseless animal until it metamorphs into a mid-sized monkey.

Mother's Day is a national pseudo-holiday craftly fabricated by a coalition of hungry mothers who had not received a box of assorted chocolates or bouquet of last-minute flowers since mid-February. Unlike Christmas, which celebrates a fictitious Jewish man for being publicly tortured, or Easter, an annual festivity about rabbits defecating hollow eggs filled with Laffy Taffy and Jellybeans, Mother's Day celebrates something that exists; sexually active women.

If not created by the obvious suspects -- hungry mothers -- it may have been arcanely established by Hallmark, who slyly convinced nearly every child and husband to scribble insincere notes in folded paper; an insincerity promptly ignored because cheap gifts by loved ones makes women hormonal and jovial. This tradition was boosted by the chocolateers, who realized that hungry mothers consume an exorbitant quantity of chocolate, and heart-shaped drops of sugar blocks will be routinely purchased by men who are afraid of upsetting their hungry wives.

But since commercial advertisements peer-pressure men to shower women with insincere gifts, husbands and children scramble to find the perfect present to adequately express their love and gratitude for not being aborted prematurely. Will it be a bouquet of flowers? A fancy brunch reservation? A poem that brings tears to her eyes, either from an emotional overload or the realization that she raised a fuckin' illiterate? Chocolate. We give them chocolate. Maybe with some flowers and a cheap card; the effort does not extend far past that.

Many women proclaim their achievements during childbirth with exemplary pride -- "childbirth is the most painful experience, and men could not handle it". I am not a medical expert, and I cannot name more than four bones in the human body, but ignoring a growing fetus inside a protruding stomach would become a medical emergency after ten-or-eleven months. Evacuating a living human from a bursting stomach is not a personal achievement. It is a medical requirement to not perish prematurely from a ruptured epidermis. That is not to say that I am not appreciative of my mother. She could have rational-ed that, since no one intentionally ordered an expensive pet -- that Tequilla and wine bamboozled her into placing an unexpected order -- that she could stoically discard my shriveled-and-shrieking body in the waste disposal like a package of spoiled meat. She did not do that. She tolerated my incessant complaining and stubborn bickering for twenty-eight years, while pretending to not be miserable.

Disregarding the medical requirement to birth boisterous blobs of fat and ligaments -- that miraculously transmute into bipedal monkeys -- mothers must tolerate the most grueling tasks of adulthood: an entirely dependent baby that urinates unexpectedly during routine diaper changes, as if aware of the repercussions -- a practical prank from an unexpected prankster. She will unconditionally love the small critter that shits rainbow paintings in recently-changed diapers while under-rested parents are grocery shopping; a child that decides to cry every time his senses detect that his mother is honing-in on some shut-eye; a hyper-energetic and frequently-misbehaving miniature human who shamelessly smears silky boogers across new furniture sets and noisily sobs every couple hours, for various unexpected reasons. And after every embarrassing action the child commits, which is frequent, and after all the smeared boogers, midnight crying, and shit-smeared diapers, she is expected to love the child more than anything else in the world.

Regardless, I appreciate everything mothers offer; none of us would exist on this politically-divided rock without living in a woman's stomach for nine months and relentlessly crying until she arrives with food. So... Happy Mother's Day to my mother, and Happy Mother's Day to everybody else's mother!


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