I met your mom at a ballet class. You didn't even know your mom took ballet class, did you? Well that's the goddamn point.
I was nice to her. I complimented her dress and I invited her out to dinner like a goddamn gentleman. I wined and dined her. I told her that her eyes sparkled in the moonlight, held her tight and made her feel a way she hasn't since you plopped disappointingly out of her.
Yeah, I did your mom. But I did it softly. I did it gently, and sweetly. And when it was done, she was weeping in my arms. She was saying, "Nobody's been this nice to me. Not my husband, and definitely not my ungrateful bastard of a son."
She told me about how you told her you hated her. She told me about how you forgot all of her birthdays, and you never call. But that's not even what bothered her. She cried out, "He's just so goddamn awful at Call of Duty!"
I held her close. I shushed her. I said, "There, there. It's not your fault. His father -- his father should have taught him."
But she shook her head. "No," she said. "It is mine. I raised him to be a little girl ***** who couldn't snipe a 12-year-old with autoscope."
For a long time I just stroked her hair. Then she begged me, "You have to show him. You have to gank him so hard that he calls you 'Dada'."
So I kissed her on the forehead and told her not to cry. And now I'm going to finish you. And then I'll finish her.
Banned
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