Friday, January 20, 2006


So, Howard, our son tells me he wants to be a pitcher! Can you believe it? With all the talent from both sides of the family, he wants to throw it all away, and for what? I told him, I says, "Honey, your father was a catcher, his father was a catcher, and his father before that. All of my family have been catchers. It is a part of your genetic make-up by now. God gave this family extra large breadstick mitts, and he expects us to use them! It is your destiny!" And still he insists. He's a stubborn boy, he is. I told him over and over and over, and still he thinks he can pitch! I told him, "with the size of your breadsticks the ball will end up in Katmandu, never mind over the plate," and yet, he continues to break a mother's heart! Can you not meow some sense into him, Howard? I'm just terrified he will end up on the streets, all his dreams will be dashed and he'll be dragging his matted behind around in search of a little comfort. Oh, I can't even sleep for fear of what will surely become of our poor dear! Howard, do something, please!!

Ethel, Ethel, would ya give it a rest already?! I'm having a coronary ova hea'. Let the boy do what he wants! He wants to pitch, let him pitch, he wants to catch, whateva'. My God, woman, ya got a death grip on him like he's some kinda rat or somethin'. He don't have to be like his old man if he dont wanna. Lay off, fa' chrissakes!


Anonymous Anonymous said...

..another home run!! thanks for making my day!! love those mitts.

5:01 PM  

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