so now a funny story I wrote recently. It made had my friend and my mother and my grandmother in hysterics, hopefully It amuses you.

Stop, Look, and Listen

In the most dire of situations, my mother seemed to create rules that were entirely her own. Instead of, say, “duck, crwal, and get out of the house”, my mothr’s responce to a fire was -“Go down to the basement and try to salvage all of your knickknacks and nostalgic family photographs and climb back up with them and then try to fling the cat out of the window before the fire gets to you. If you die, who cares?” I realized this horrible fact the first time there was a disaster in our hometown (a typhoon). My mother had decided that that was the perfect time to get rid of grandpa’s “damn peekaboo tie collection”. She went right into the eye of the storm to get rid of the dastardly things. My father ended up having a swell time paying the 8,000 dollars or so of medical bills, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Unfortunately, my mother did not seem to be the type to learn form her mistakes. For our next housing endeavor, we moved out to a bungalow in california just bordering the San Andreas Fault, despite repeated warnings from our real estate agent (the poor man gave up on our family three years later after the house collapsed in an earthquake).

As a result, I became a safety freak. Everywhere I went, I carried a portable first aid kit and forty five cans of Red Bull in case of a natural disaster. I always drove no faster than 30 miles per hour, no matter the time of day, or the place that I was driving in, or the minimum speed limit. I was ready to recieve multiple driving tickets; Security, as I would say, was my first (and, I must say, only) priority. I raised my two children ,Chastity and Moral, to be minitaure clones of me – getting them used to buckling their own seatbelts by the time they could crawl, making them memorize the top five most commonly found posions in food, drilling them on the proper way to cross a street (wait, look right, wait, look left, make a bikers’ stop sign with the hand that faces the driver, then cross) and telling them gory cautionary tales about kidnappers and child molesters for bedtime.

My husband divorced me after seven long years of marriage because I was, quote unquote “crazy”. It didn’t matter to me at all. It would have been a shande to keep him in the house anyway, seeing that he was a jobless drunk who went to cheap casinos during Yom Kippur and Shavuos. During those hard times in my life, I camped out with my father (who had become a retired enviornmentalist) in the amazon rainforrest. I begged him to let my children live somewhere safer, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

However, love was still in my interest. I think ( but I’m not sure, dont quote me on this) I dated about forty of the native rain forest guys before realizing I was Lesbian, by which point I was an old hag. I was sure that I, a fat, sick, 58 year old woman was not going to get legally married any time soon. On the other hand, life was not all that bad. My two children both became doctors ,who in turn had two more children ( Whillemina and Charles, Poet and Nirvana) who never learned how to cross the street. All four of them died in a car accident twelve years later.

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