Congratulations Rabid Mom!

Moms can be great. They really can. They give of themselves to their children and, sometimes, to their communities.

But sometimes moms aren’t great. Sometimes moms get bitten by bats that were trapped in their attics and they start foaming at the mouth and making insane requests of the people around them.

“FUCKING JEWS GOTTA GO!” you’ll shout, spraying your children with spittle.

“Mommy?” your daughter will ask, tugging at your shirt sleeve. You’ll want to pat her head and tell her everything’s okay, but instead you’ll grab her hand and just start vibrating uncontrollably.

“SHIT’S GONNA GET REAL DANGEROUS FOR YOU, SHITHEAD!” you’ll lean into her ear before shouting. She’ll start crying, which will make you want to comfort her, but the rabies in your brain will translate that thought into letting go of her and opening your freezer, where you’ll try to consume several pounds of raw meat while standing.

As your daughter sits several feet away and weeps you’ll begin convulsing on the kitchen floor, face covered in blood and bits of meat. You’ll reach out at her, wishing you could tell her that everything’s okay, that you love her very much and that whatever happens to you, she’ll be alright and taken care of.

Instead you’ll shout “PRESIDENT SHOULD GET HIS SHIT IN A BUCKET!” Then you’ll slap the floor repeatedly while coughing up blood. “GRAB THE RINGS AND CALL THE GENERAL! PHONES ARE THE WAY TO GO!”

At this point your daughter will leave the room to find a phone and call someone: not the general, as you requested, but an ambulance to take you to the hospital where you’ll be diagnosed as being too far gone for aid and will be “put down” so that hospital staff won’t have to deal with you. But as she’s gone you’ll shout something profound, something so fantastic that, had she heard it and shared it the world would be so, so much better than it would’ve been otherwise. Hunger would no longer be a problem, healthcare would spill out to the masses like molasses from some sort of molasses accident and even though your mom would be dead she’d be remembered as a profound, tragic figure rather than a crazy bitch with rabies.

But she won’t hear you say anything until she returns to the room and you shout at her.

“FUCKING STOP STEALING MY SOCKS YOU WHORE!”

Congratulations Rabid Mom!