Tell your mom you got COVID, and you’ll find out where you stand immediately based on lack of meaningful follow-up on your behalf soon after. Wife texted my mother about having to cancel our plans to see them in Florida because I tested positive for COVID after going down on my wife the night prior. And they call us unvaccinated people super spreaders. Perhaps, this was God’s way of saying, I should stick to sucking off the sheer wonderfulness of my comedy records instead, 64 money shots later, throughout the last 6 months alone. John Lennon wished he was this productive during his Stay at Dad Years.
In the end though I was right, all I’ve received from COVID is an itchy esophagus and a blown-out voice stemming from repeatedly telling my wife to take her booster shot talk and shove it up her ass. Now, you can’t even enter Whole Foods if you’re shaking from rage after filling up your car for what it costs to buy an eighth of primo Maui Waui, despite never receiving the heady lift of empowerment in return. But that’s what I get for trying to get inside my wife’s booster laden body, that’s more germ laden than she gives her COVID spewing snatch credit for. What’s the science behind getting COVID from going down on your wife for old time’s sake to make your sex life above average again? Social distancing is useless if you go down on your wife’s immune weakened innards. In the end, all I got from mom was a text that read, Michael? After my mom learned about her 3 grandchildren testing positive for Covid but not showing any symptoms at all. In other words, that’s what my mongoloid moron son deserves for refusing to take his chance with the clot shot, responsible for causing more premature heart attacks than sticker shock at the gas pump these days. But I’m positive mom still thinks remote learning is a justifiable response when she isn’t required to socially distance herself from more fear mongering bullshit on CNN either.
In short, I passed the least favorite son test with flying colors considering my mom’s complete lack of follow up on my behalf like the time I got caught in a snowstorm with her 3 grandchildren when our non-existent four wheel drive almost prevented us from ever getting out of Cold Spring, NY up a snow blanketed hill at all to the point where when we finally did, our last option was to remain stationary in a gas station parking lot and dose for 3 hours before the roads became less icy fixated set. At the time, I’m sure mom just thought, “I just assumed my stay-at-home dad son was staying in as usual. It’s not as if my sheltered bum son could afford to do much else these days but write more jokes on his WordPress blog to keep the encroaching feeling of complète uselessness at bay.
Personally, I wasn’t expecting any meaningful follow up check-up from mom but it’s hard not to contemplate what her response would be if her favorite got COVID out of the blue. Chances are that mom would book a red eye back to NY from Arizona that night and rewrite the will in his favor before takeoff. Memorials will be built in his honor like the one Tiger King made for his boy toy before he blew his brains out because living off free weed, dirt bikes and ass munching alone wasn’t enough to keep him hanging on. It’s not as if he was under contract at Universal like Rock Hudson, either. 50 million records later Jim Morrison’s retired admiral dad finally located in his inner mensch and praised his son’s uncompromising genius for self-expression, only 10 years after the Lizard King slipped into unconsciousness. So, I don’t see mom rushing to make any such proclamations for her Stay At Home Comedian son either. At the same time, I don’t see me scoring a new job as the new Manager of Talent Acquisition at SoundCloud changing her lowly opinion of me this late in the Covid con game either. Maybe, Jimbo should’ve also written, mom isn’t your only friend in the end either, especially when she says, “I take your father’s side”, over her own flesh and blood after you dared to unleash a howlish shriek at Dad for making your April fresh daughter 2 days out of the hospital reek of stale cigarette smoke, smelling worse than Don Draper’s corpse, draped in Aramis. But at least I’ve got my 3 gorgeous seedling kids on my love street to love me 3 times over babe. Mr. Mojo Risin lives, Challah, thank you very much.