Dennis Miller on Mothers
When you're a kid, basically your mother's job is to make you look like
a dork. The mittens pinned to your jacket, the Elmer Fudd earflap hat,
the rubber boots with the Wonder bread bags over your feet, and of
course the piece de resistance, the snow pants. There's an outfit that
just screams, "Beat the shit out of me and take my lunch money."
And why did Mom insist on cutting my hair herself until I was fourteen?
She had a home haircut kit that looked like Mengle's briefcase and the
barber skills of Dr. Leatherface brandishing a flowbee. All right.
She'd finish and say, "Well, how does that look?" I'd say, "Yeah.
Looks good, Mom, because in case my school does a stage production of
Sling Blade, this haircut makes me look like Karl's stupider friend who
couldn't get laid with Brad Pitt's dick. All right. Now, where's my
snow pants, I have to ride that girl's bike you bought me past the tough
kids to my piano lesson."
There's a very good explanation for why cult leaders force members to
cut off all contact with their families. Because they know that their
spell will be broken and all the mind control will disappear the instant
you hear your mother saying: "And I suppose that just because your new
friends are having themselves castrated so they can go on the spaceship,
you have to do it, too, right?"
The relationship between mothers and children never changes, and that's
because no matter how rich or powerful you are, your mother still
remembers when you were three and put SpaghettiOs up your nose.