Secretly, there are days I want to be just like Mom.
Oh, you think I mean my Mom? No, no.
I’m referring to the trash-talking, purple-spandex-wearing, ruler-of-an-evil-empire Mom from Futurama. You know, the one who has people cowering in fear when she’s not hiding behind her cookie-baking little old lady disguise. (I’m pretty sure I could rock that look, by the way).
I’m not sure why my alter-ego wants to wear those thigh-high boots. Sometimes when I’m standing in a huge line, and the person at the front is disputing the displayed price of a pair of crap-tacular whatsits, resulting in price check on aisle three, I have this huge urge to jam a squirrel in them.
Seriously? Mom has no patience for this shit. I have places to go… world domination to plot…
Yup, if I had to pick a female role model, it would be Futurama Mom. You see, Mom tells it like it is. She has the freedom to rain cartoonish physical violence on those who richly deserve it. She also has this wicked evil-crazy-laugh going on. You know, the kind that makes you wet your pants a little when you hear it.
You want a cookie? Not now, sweetheart, mommy is trying to figure out how to stick it to that club of crusty old bastards who back-door funded “no” on proposition I-522.
You better watch out before you cross Mom. Mom will bring the pain train down on you.
1 Comment
Wow. I don’t talk to Anne for one day and this happens? Yikes – “re-friend” “re-friend”