Mothers

One might think that, upon reaching adulthood, mothers no longer have any control over their lives. This is a grave error indeed, as anyone who has ever gone to jail for blowing a .05 on a field sobriety test can attest to. Not satisfied with dominating the lives of their children, mothers seek to spread their vile blend of sanctimony and megalomania through the political process. Because of this, perfectly reasonable activities like driving while intoxicated, living next door to a sex offender, and discharging firearms within city limits have been made into risky endeavors. Mothers are avowed enemies of heavy metal, drugs, unprotected sex, violent video games, and practically anything else that can make a few fleeting moments of life seem bearable. This desire to direct and control comes from the natural egotism of the mother, who, immediately upon discharging an oily parasitic critter from her womb, believes herself wise, experienced, and on a personal mission to look out for the common good. Mothers’ hobbies include complaining to their resigned, weary spouses, instilling deep sexual neurosis in their male children, fretting irrationally, and ruining everybody’s fun. Mothers possess this protective instinct because, unlike people who forge a legacy by creating something in business, the arts, or society, a mother’s only chance for the immortality of being remembered after one’s death is their children. Not surprisingly, the number of critters a mother bears screaming into this world is directly proportional to how little she expects to accomplish over the course of her life. The only escape from this emotional albatross of an asshole is the hope that, in some enlightened future, children will be spawned in laboratories and raised by the state. Until that glorious day arrives, sensible people must continue to cope with mothers by seeing them once a year at Thanksgiving, ignoring their phone calls, and talking about them extensively in group therapy sessions.