O Come All Ye Poopers

"Her bowels were just exploding this morning," Mom said.

"Annnd we're off."

"I don't know what was wrong with Medora but she was just... It was just exploding out of her. I was in the bathroom with her and she got off the toilet, but more, you know, was falling out of her. She doesn't know, the poor dear, what she's doing. So I had to pick it up. I picked them all up and threw them in the toilet."

"With your bare hands, I assume."

"Yes."

"Gross, Mom."

"But I washed my hands very thoroughly."

"Oh, all right, then."

"She's just an angel. She'll let you do anything to her. The other day it was like cement. I was digging it out of her, and it was like a block of cement. I started to sing to her to settle her down. I sang O Come All Ye Faithful as I held her on the toilet. Just the two of us rocking on the toilet, me crooning a Christmas song. But the poor soul doesn't have a clue about Christmas anymore. No clue. I told her about Jesus, about the baby Jesus, but she had no idea. And then I went back to digging it all out."

I looked at my Baby Ruth. "So much for enjoying this..."

"But I wanted to talk to you about the Facebook."

"Oh, no. Are you ruining the internet again, Mom?"

"Why are you using bad language on the Facebook?"

"What?"

Mom looked around, as if others were listening in as we sat alone in her living room. "You know. Babyfucker?"

"Oh, that! That's just the book I was reading. You know, about baby fucking."

"Awful!"

Just then my phone buzzed.

"Hello?"

"Greg? This is your mother. Why do you say my ER experience is LOL? And why did you put up that picture of me and your father?"

"Mom, I'm sitting right across from you. Why are you calling?"

"And I'm very upset that you write about me on your blog."

"Okay."

My second phone rang. It was Mom. "And I'm upset that you're writing about how upset I am on your blog."

"How did you get this number?"

"I suppose you're too busy for your old mother. You have something better to do?"

"I don't know. I'm reading some Boccaccio."

"You're having focaccia? For breakfast?!"

"Boccaccio, Mom. You know, the fourteenth century writer?"

"Why would you read something like that? Oh, you're such a snob."

"I'm hanging up/leaving now." (infinite regress)

My mom, everyone! Happy Holiday(s)(s)(s)!!