K. woke with a start, for he swore he heard something close by. Something thumping ominously with the machinery of the modern age and ennui and desperation. In the darkness, his eyes clawed the dark fruitlessly. K. wanted to scream but dared not, and knew that his apprehension was most probably unfounded. Still the regular thumping of something ominous couldn't just be from the silence of his own imagination. Something was there, K. was sure of that. He felt his pulse join the rhythm of the horrible thing in the dark, until he couldn't differentiate between the sound coming from his temples and the sound coming from the darkness.
K. lay there in horror, petrified and exasperated. He shut his eyes again, to darkness only marginally darker than what he had experienced with his eyes open, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes again. The thumping was this there. In his heart, in his temple, and in the dark. K. steeled himself and turned on the light, and there in the corner, was the object of his fascination, his horror.
The washing machine he had patronized at a laudromaut a week earlier. He hissed at it--"I dropped my load in you last week, and you still follow me. Who do you think you are? Andrew's mother?"
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Simple (just like yo' momma): Yo' Momma Jokes written in the style of big time literature.
Suggestions/Complaints
rotundmother@earthlink.net
3 comments:
Hey, I thought the idea was to insult moms generally, not specifically.
What if my mom reads this? After all she did for you (like giving birth to me and providing you with the best roommate ever).
Well, if you want war you'll get it.
I do not want war. I was speaking of failed President Andrew Johnson.
Hmmm. Plausible deniability?
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