Dial M For Mother

Today, I am going to write about my mother.

Now, whether or not you realize what a joyous! and happy! and yayicecream! occasion this is about to be does not matter to me, since I don't even know who you are or where you are, but I'll tell you now that I'm Natasha Ferrier and I'm in my living room. It may be creepy that you know this, which means it is extra creepy that I am the one telling you and therefore I am only creeping out myself, which means I'm really the one to blame, which means that if Jack the Ripper Junior shows up in my living room and makes my intestines into a yo-yo string, I will be remembered as a caring girl who always offered advice to people and who had very stretchy intestines. But that is not really what I want. What I want is for you to shut up and listen. Because I am about to write about my mother.

I cannot tell you everything, because 1) it would not be funny, 2) it would take 19 years, and 3) the last time I wrote about my mother, she threatened to sue me. And so I deleted the post. But today I found out that suing me is not even possible, since 1) I can write about whoever the fuck I want, 2) I'm not using her name, and 3) I'm broke as shit.

Once upon a time, on a sunny afternoon in May, there lived a little princess named Natasha. She was an innocent lass who was oh-so-happy, even though she was a bit jealous of the other princesses. She had never had a sevensome like Snow White, the only whore accepted by society. She lacked the mega-cleavage of Ariel, who was only a wimpy 16 years old. And she had never owned a pair of parachute pants, which Jasmine seemed to have an unlimited supply of. But Natasha had other qualities she was proud of. She would sing to the lambs when they were sad about becoming McNuggets when they grew up, and she who would give magical handjobs to all of the goats of the land when they couldn't find a mate, making all of the animals in the forest simply adore her. But one day, Natasha was sick of pleasuring goats. She wanted to talk to The Queen of the land, who she had not talked to in quite some time. She called, but again,even after 5 months of not talking and a year since she had seen her, there was no answer. So on this very sunny afternoon in May, little Princess Natasha decided to leave an enchanted voicemail on the cell phone of The Queen, hoping to put a spell on her so she would call back this time. The spell worked, but as it turned out, the spell...was actually...a curse.

A WHAT?!

You heard me. A CURSE.

(Cue the Twilight Zone theme.)

This curse was unlike any other, for instead of being put on someone else, little Princess Natasha had put it on herself.

"Hello Natasha."

"Hey Mom..."

"What is it."

"How are you?"

"Quit the nonsense."

"What nonsense?"

"Fine, Natasha, if you want to start a fight, I'm hanging up. I don't have time for this."

"You don't have time to talk to me?"

"Natasha, what do you want."

"To talk..."

"No. You can't call me and leave an emotional voicemail and then not tell me what is going on tell me what is going on or I am hanging up."

"Well, I just wanted to talk. You're my mom...I'm your daughter...I don't even know what's going on in your life..."

"I don't have time for this Natasha. I paid for your school books in the spring."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"I paid for your school books."

"What about it?"

"Fine, Natasha, I can see you just called to fight with me."

"I'm trying to just have a conversation with you."

"I don't have time for this."

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is when the curse kicked in, for little princess Natasha suddenly had a bad case of Tourette's.

"YOU'RE SUCH A FUCKING BITCH!"

"Nata---"

"FUCK YOU!"

Click.

And that is when The Queen hung up on her.

The End!

Okay, okay, so I get that maybe I should not have called my mother a bitch. If I had really, truly wanted her to stay on the phone, I probably should not have screamed "fuck you," since I did, in fact, have a lot more to say. There was, "go fuck yourself," "I hope a dog pisses on your favorite pair of shoes," and "By the way I have six children now and they want to meet Grandmother Bitch if you have the time." These are logical points, except for the six children bit, which is just a lie. Maybe I should not think such mean things. But maybe she should not have randomly thrown away every toy I owned when I was eight years old. I NEED THOSE TOYS. I LIKE TOYS. I PLAY WITH TOYS TO THIS DAY BECAUSE MY INNER CHILD IS MORE OF AN OUTER CHILD AND I WILL NEVER GROW UP. The mere fact that I do not think, but know that Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future is my soulmate proves that I have much maturing to do. Not that he's not. Because he is. Because if he wasn't, I wouldn't feel the urge to say this: Mikey Poo...I love you...

Ahem. Moving on.

Michael...seriously. Do me.

Ahem. I apologize. Back to the topic.

You may be thinking I am a spoiled brat who disrespects my parents and should get my ass spanked. Well, you're wrong. (All except for the spanking bit. I'd be okay with that. That and wearing diapers. I hear they're quite cushy...before they get mushy.) Before you start bein' a Judgey McFucker, you need to know one thing: there is a lot you don't know. And I'm not talking about the fact that I do not own one pair of socks.

Now that it has hit me that my mother probably won't speak to me for a couple more years, I've been devising ways to get her to call me back, because I am a devious mother fucker I am. All of these methods would be in voicemails. Every day, I will leave a different voicemail. Here is what I have come up with so far:

Voicemail #1

"Mom, I've been kidnapped. Please call back."

Voicemail #2

"Mom, a man just doused me with gasoline and is holding a match above my vagina. Please call back."

Voicemail #3

"Mom, I'm in jail for killing all the Kroger employees. Please call back."

Voicemail #4

"WAHHH! WAHHHH! Sorry Mom, that was my baby. Anyway, please call back."

Voicemail #5

"Mom, I stuck a pencil in my eyeball and it's still there. Please call back."

Voicemail #6

"Mom, I don't know where I am but I know I have a blindfold over my eyes. Please call back."

Voicemail #7

"Gurgle! MOM! Gurgle! Gurgle! HELP! Gurgle! Gurgle! PLEASE CALL BACK!"

Voicemail #8

"Ay bitch I have yo daughtuh and I'm gonna kill her. Please call back."

They're all pretty much the same, as you can see. As long as it has to do with me in danger, dying, or fucking up my life in one way or the other, it'll work. I will also be accepting any ideas from others, since I'm going to need about 730 different voicemails if I plan to leave one every day for 2 years.

Or, I could always go with the threat approach.

"Mom, if you don't call me back, I'm going to keep leaving voicemails for the next seven hundred and twenty nine days. Please call back."

"Mom, if you don't call me back, I'm going to blog about you."

Too late. MUAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

(But for you, Michael, I'll leave you a voicemail anytime, baby.)

Summer Time, Where the Living Sucks Ass

I haven't written in forever, so I'm going to be a little rusty. The usual brilliant, superior, cocky comedic genius you all have grown used to is now back to being a mere fetus, and I do NOT. Look good. As a fetus. (You may be wondering, 'Who does look good as a fetus?', but trust me, I've seen some sexy fetuses out there. So sexy. You have no idea. If they weren't minors and I a wise, old, 19 year-old, I'd be holla-in at dem fetuses and tappin dem undeveloped asses. So squishy at that age. So mushy. So perfect.) Speaking of fetuses, it's summer time.

(See? I'm rusty. I can't even make a smooth transition from one paragraph to the next. Fetuses and summer time have absolutely no relation to one another. I know this. And now so do you. In case you thought maybe they did. Because they don't. You moron.)

Summer! A time for joy! Freedom! Sunshine! Smiles! Raging hormones! Body odor! Sweat! Sweat in clothes! Sweat in beads! Sweat on arms! Sweat on face! Sweat on balls! Would you sweat in a box? Would you sweat with a fox? Yes I would, Sam I Am, because it's 110 fucking degrees outside, asshole. But for me, summer has also meant some other things.

What Summer Has Brought Me Thus Far

1. I now have a job.

YAY! JOB! NATASHA IS FINALLY EMPLOYED SINCE SHE SHOULD HAVE DONE THAT 4 YEARS AGO LIKE EVERYONE ELSE HER AGE! Fuck you. I was busy then. I'm not busy now. Well, now I am, since I have a job, but I wasn't before. And I am now. Washing dishes. Sweeping floors. Cleaning tables. Wiping mirrors. Washing windows. Scrubbing toilets. I thought the term was busboy, not busgirl, and I didn't sign on for this shit, anyway. (I mean that in the figurative and literal manner. Little kids. Don't. Aim.) Today a pipe busted while I was washing dishes and of course I wouldn't notice the 2 feet of foam around my own damn legs until my boss came and pointed it out in a high-pitched voice. I thought of making up the fact that I go temporarily blind every 30 minutes, but I thought that was taking it too far. I thought of saying my legs had been numb since birth. That's why I didn't feel the bubbles. I came to the conclusion that that was stupid. So I said I was getting ready to take a bubble bath. He did not laugh. He handed me a mop. I laughed. Because I had never mopped before. I decided not to tell him this. Or take the bubble bath.

2. I now pay for my own gas.

I understand that I SHOULD be paying for my own gas, but it still sucks. The other day I went to the gas station with eight dollars that just happened to be in dimes and nickels and pennies kind of a lot of pennies so the fuck what. They told me they could only accept 5 dollars worth of change. WHO THE HELL ARE THESE PEOPLE DO THEY NOT REALIZE THEY WOULD MAKE THREE MORE DOLLARS IF THEY WEREN'T SUCH COINISTS. (like racists. but against coins. a rare breed.) So I gave them the 5 bucks. Pumped away. Drove to my pump's neighbor pump, then went in and asked for 3 dollars of gas. (I put on glasses the second time hoping they wouldn't recognize me. First, I was Superman. Then, I was Clark Kent. But apparently that only works in the comic books. Assholes.) My daydreams have now transformed from ones of riding on a gondola in Venice, living in a world of vampires and werewolves where everyone dresses in leather and looks fucking sexy (this particular one is Underworld-inspired, NOT Twilight-inspired, thank you very much.), and extreme dance-offs where I kick everyone's ass with my secret move "The Natasha Kicking Everyone's Ass Move" - to ones of filling up my gas tank until it is full, and then celebrating by gazing at my fuel gage and talking to it...

"Oh, fuel gage,

How sorry I am,

to only give you minimum wage,

my fuel gage, my fuel gage...

Dear fuel gage,

Please don't be in a rage,

I have freed you from your cage,

my fuel gage, my fuel gage...

Sexy fuel gage,

Now you shall never age,

at least not for a few days,

cause I just put in 40 bucks,

And now let us fuck."

Then I would stroke it. Lick it. Flick my tongue at it. Other things I shall remain kept to myself. And stare at it for 2 hours before deciding to drive everywhere I can and waste it all that day. Because that's just something I would do. Which is exactly why a full gas tank is a fantasy and not a reality.

3. I now shave my legs.

And it sucks. Legs are what? HALF of the body? That's like if I shaved my entire upper body: arms, neck, chest, and belly-button, which I wouldn't even know how to go about doing. Who decided that legs should be shaved out of all the body parts? How about elbows, instead? That would be easy. Quick. Hassle-free. If you cut yourself, you wouldn't even feel it. Since elbows are inexplicably numb whereas the area under the knee is DEFINITELY NOT. And on top of all that, no one would notice if you had FORGOTTEN to shave your elbows since there is no hair on them to begin with! It's perfect, if you ask me.

4. I now have decided to write again.

It's been too long. I guess writer's block is a real thing and not just some excuse that shitty writers use for never getting their "life's work" published. If it really was your life's work, you'd be dead by the time it got put on the shelves, anyway so what the hell is the point of that especially since all the profits would go to your pretentious grandchildren anyway who would then get all of their shitty shit published because they'd have your millions to bribe the publishing companies I AM NOT RANTING. I'm just explaining without using any type of punctuation whatsoever. Who needs to pause anyway? It's a complete waste of time, if you ask me. You might as well get all of your thoughts out while you can. Pausing only leaves room for other people to talk. Who the hell wants that? Well, other than right now, that is. Since this post is over.

Mainly the Blumpkins

I have a question so I might as well ask it. Forewarning: this question will end in a period and not in the traditional question mark, but do not mistake it for a declaration, because it is really a question in disguise as a declaration, which means it is really just a question. It will also be written in all caps to suggest a strong sense of urgency and pissed-offness, and if you were just offended that I said the P-word, you might as well stop reading now because my question will in fact drop the F-bomb. Now that we've cleared that up, this is what I need to know:

WHAT THE FUCK IS OUR WORLD COMING TO.

I don't even know where to start, really. Wait. Yes I do. Blumpkins.

Blumpkin. Rhymes with pumpkin. I love pumpkins. I wish that this term I learned just 6 days ago had something to do with pumpkins. Because I love pumpkins. Pumpkins are so great. They're just pumpkins. They don't try to be anything else BUT pumpkins. Really I'm just trying to say "pumpkins" as much as I can to keep my mind from picturing a blumpkin. Because a blumpkin,my friends, has nothing to do with any pumpkins of any sorts.

I'm about to explain this, because it's just not possible that I am the only person out there who had not known that this specific type of action, an action that I had not even known existed, nonetheless practiced, had been been given its own personal term. If Webster thought "bootylicious" was definition-worthy, then blumpkin better sure as hell be. On a different note, if I AM the only person who had never heard this word until 6 days ago, THEN THANKS A LOT EVERYONE IN THE ENTIRE WORLD FOR CLUING ME IN ON THE FACT THAT SIMPLY TAKING A SHIT ALONE ON THE TOILET HAS BECOME A THING OF THE PAST.

Nowadays, when a guy sits down to take a shit, he gets his dick sucked while he's doing it. And THAT, my friends and random 90-year-old woman who could possibly be reading this, is a blumpkin.

Two days after regretting ever asking, "What's a blumpkin?", I'm still in denial. It's just not possible. There's no way a girl would ever degrade herself that much. There's no way a guy would be horny while he's releasing feces into a bowl of water. There's no way that among the key words, "toilet," "excrement," and, "oral sex," someone decided that the perfect word for this would be B-LUMP-KIN. Blue pumpkin? Lumps on your cousin? Whose job is it to name intensely disturbing modern-age sexual acts and how do I get hired? But after reassuring myself that a blumpkin could not possibly be toilet-head, but maybe some kind of Harry Potter beverage, instead...I turned on my radio.

"I GOT SHIT FOR BRAINS LIKE A BLUMPKIN!"

Wait, what was that?

"LIKE A BLUMPKIN!"

A what?

"A BLUMPKIN!"

What-kin?

"BLUMPKIN!"

Alas, I had heard correctly. Not only are blumpkins legit, but apparently play a large role in our pop culture, also. Perhaps the iPad progressed us well into the future at hand, but I don't think that makes up for the billions of years we just erased in tracing back to the nut-busting-methods of cavemen.

"OOH OOH AH AHHHHHH!"

2010 Translation: "Be my barbarian, baby. I shit. You suck."

I like to think that all parents are old-fashioned, ridiculously reluctant to accepting change, and ignorant of the ways in which social norms have changed from when they were our age. I like to "know" that if I ever become a parent, I am going to be open to whatever my kids claim is normal for people their age to do, because mine sure as hell don't believe me. However, I've been pondering this recently, and these "norms" are steadily growing worse and worse, which leads me to believe that if I ever do became someone's mother, and I'm going to stick with my "modern mother" fantasy, this is what it is going to be like:

"Mom! Can I go over to Mr. Mac's house?"

"Mr. Mac? Your History teacher?"

"Yeah!"

"What? Why? When I was your age, it was inappropriate to go over to a male teacher's house, especially if he invited you. That was just unheard of."

"No, no, no! He's having our entire class over to his house tonight!"

"Oh? Well what for?"

"To shoot up heroin!"

"EXCUSE ME."

"And then have a giant orgy!"

"AN ORGY?"

"Yeah! He said we're all gonna get really fucked up, screw each other, then put the pictures on facebook!"

"NO YOU CANNOT GO HAVE SEX WITH YOUR 60-YEAR-OLD TEACHER AND THEN CATCH COUNTLESS STD'S FROM YOUR ENTIRE CLASS AND SHOOT UP HEROIN AND THEN PUBLICLY PUBLISH PICTURES FOR GRANDMA TO SEE."

"But Mommmmmm...every other kid's parents are letting them go! It's what teenagers do now."

"Oh. Silly me. I'm sorry, honey, this is all just so new to me. Back in my day, we thought that performing oral sex on a male while he emptied his bowels was risque!"

"HAHAHA that is SOOOOOO not a big deal! I give blumpkins every day! And the other day I got eaten out while I was taking a piss!"

"Ah, you'll have to forgive your old mother. I'm just not as cool as my daughter anymore. Nonetheless, make sure to say "thank you" to Mr. Mac for his heroin. And for his penis."

"Oh, of course I will. Thanks, Mom! You're awesome!"

"I know, sweetie."

Oh how I am looking forward to that day.

Aside from blumpkins, I heard the other day on the radio that Rihanna said she wrote "Rude Boy" for her boyfriend. I did not even know Rihanna had a boyfriend, but I can imagine what he thought when she told him she wrote a song about him.

"I wrote a song about you today, baby."

"Really? You are the best. What is it called? "Love of My Life?" "Soulmate?" "You're The Only One I Could Ever Truly Be Happy With Because You're So Fucking Awesome?" "

"Close. It's called "Rude Boy." "

"Rude Boy?"

"Want me to sing it to you?"

"Of course, baby."

"Come here, rude boy, boy, can you get it up? Come here, rude boy, boy, is you big enough?"

Am I the only one who would be incredibly offended if this was the chorus to the song the person I was dating wrote about me?

"Natasha, my love, I wrote a song about you today."

"Sing it to me!"

"Alright, sugar-pie-honey-bunch-pumpkin-poo, this is my song about our undying, ever-lasting, never-ending love:

"Ay Bitch, suck my dick, right from beneath

Quit using dem teeth

It hurts like hell

Hey what's that smell?"

It's basically the same thing. And the sad thing is, that song would make millions if it were put on the radio right now. The fact that this is the kind of shit that the majority of Americans can relate to is the same kinda shit that makes me want to move to Australia and shoot blow guns with the Aboriginies, instead. Though I'm sure they give blumpkins, too.

On top of all that, I read an article about how spanking apparently is not a beneficial way to punish your children. Okay, okay...I'm seeing some hope now for our future...we're actually realizing that beating children may not be the best way to let them know that crying in public is not acceptable...okay, okay this is good...

until I read the comments that people responded to the article with.

One person took the liberty to inform us that while she and her siblings got "whoopings from Daddy," her cousins were punished with time-outs and getting grounded. Then she goes on to conclude that the "Daddy whoopings" are what led her and her siblings to become very successful, and the reason that her cousins have been "in and out of prison" and "addicted to drugs" is because they had to stay home for a week when they did something wrong instead of getting their ass repeatedly touched. She ended it with "Daddy made the right choices." Wow! I really respect your opinion when you're well into your 30's and still call your father 'Daddy!' You sick freak.

THEN, someone else decided to bring the Bible into it.

Do not withhold correction from a child,
For if you beat him with a rod, he will not die.
You shall beat him with a rod,
And deliver his soul from hell. --- Proverbs 23:13-14

WHAT THE HELL. I guess I would have known that physically abusing children had been condoned by Da Lawd if I had ever read the Bible, but since I have not, this came as quite a shock. However, I do know that "religion and politics" are the two things never to talk about, so I am going to stop there, and end with my first response of WHAT THE HELL.

This same woman ended her comment with "My parents love me good." Again, WOW. I am definitely going to agree with whatever point you make now that I know you dropped out of the third grade.

I'm not saying that I hate my generation, or that I hate my country, or that I hate a good spanking. All I'm saying is that some things need to be left usaid. Unsung. And undone. Mainly the blumpkins.

Long Live Where's Waldo

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