An Oral History of Your Mom

Your mom’s reputation is known far and wide. So this Mother’s Day, we’ve gathered her fondest admirers to extol her historic virtues.

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Your Father: I knew she liked me because she always let me cut in line. Others were getting seconds, thirds, sometimes fifths, but not your old man. That was of course before they shut down the ol’ glory hole.

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The Town Dentist: Your mother is a remarkable woman. Kind, caring—and her smile! It really is a marvel given all the “fillers” your mom had in her mouth.

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The Family Doctor: Of course I remember that little minx. I delivered all ten of her kids! Your mom loves fuckin’ almost as much as she loves suckin’.

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The Town Vacuum Salesman: I was selling vacuums for decades, but I had one run-in with that broad and hung it up the next day. I figured, why bother? Nothing’s ever gonna suck as good as your mom.

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Her Anatomy Professor: Scientists flew in from around the world for the chance to spend even thirty seconds with her. Clinically, it’s referred to as “Megaglottal Perpetitis,” which in layman’s terms means, “condition of the never-ending throat.” But we just called your mom “Lady Giraffe.”

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The Town Priest: From fornication to intoxication, my life was a runaway train with the devil’s name. Then came rock bottom. It’s still clear as daylight: the suffocating stench of whiskey; a red-hot iron in your mother’s hand; “6669” freshly branded into my rump. She was my cross to bear, not unlike the cross I was cuffed to in her BDSM dungeon.

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The Mailman: I delivered the mail. When your dad was working, your mom was the best stop of the day, if you catch my drift. I am your real father.

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The Milkman: I delivered the milk. We drank so much, that was a whole job! Anyway, I am your real father.

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Your Older Brother: Remember how I used to tease you about being “adopted”? I did that so you wouldn’t find out our dad isn’t your real father.

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Your Father: Haven’t you wondered why you don’t look like your siblings?

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The Town Peasant: Nobody but your mom ever paid me no mind, on account of my living under a bridge. So I wrote her poetry every day. Got no idea how to read or write, but I scribbled what looked like words onto discarded candy wrappers. Did she keep them? Does she talk about me? Anyway, I am your real father.