Scene: Mama Jaye is curled up on the sofa, enjoying a steaming first cup of morning tea. The boy comes downstairs, fresh out of the shower, leaving damp footprints across wood floor. Mama Jaye's delicate brow pleats in minor distress.
The testosterone-driven, gobs-of-toothpaste & shaver-clippings in the sink leaving, endless-eating machine— aka 'Da Boy'— peers into kitchen and notes bowl of batter on counter.
Da Boy: "So mom, how are those pancakes coming along?" (this passes for subtlety within the neo-adult, pickled in after-shave Neanderthal male sub-species)
Mama Jaye looks up at 21 yrs,7 months and 14 hrs of excruciating labour standing on size 12 feet before her, in wonder. ::short private inquiry with god ensues::
"Why don't you ever make me breakfast?" she asks man-child (screw subtlety)
Boy looks perplexed.
"I've made you breakfast before."
Mama Jaye says nothing, her expression is reply enough.
Much aggrieved, Da Boy triumphantly offers up the penultimate irrefutable culinary proof:
"I made you Pop-Tarts!"
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1 comments:
I would comment but I'm too busy remembering my own offspring's inspired rebuttals...
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