Another Edition of "HumanityCritic's Asshole moments"

My mother loved my father with all her heart, but when it comes to her attitude concerning some of the illnesses that people on his side of the family have fallen victim to - I'm surprised that she doesn't temporarily live in a hyperbolic chamber whenever we go and visit them. Hypertension, High Blood Pressure, strokes, seizures - thank god they survived, but I had two cousins have massive heart attacks in their early 40's for Christs sake - so every time I eat anything in front of my mother its as if she is the human embodiment of a DVD commentary track of my life. God forbid I up-size my fast food combo around her because she'll let out a rather exhaustive sigh and then sarcastically say, "Really? Biggie Sized? Really" - sometimes I find her hypocrisy adorable and remain silent as she puffs on a cigarette and tells me how bad red meat is. Granted, it was wrong of me to bring a girl that I was dating around my moms house, chill for a little more than a half hour - then point to the woman, smile, then ask my mother "It's been almost an hour and you haven't criticized my eating habits yet!!"(Both of the ladies were thoroughly disgusted by the way)

But it's this writers humble opinion, that sure, eating right and exercising regularly will definitely add years to your life - but my penchant for embracing my inner asshole is whats really going to see me into my golden years. Here are a few recent examples.

Holy Cremation Batman: Ever since my old man died 6 years ago I feel amazingly awkward whenever a loved one of a friend meets their maker - not because I enjoy being a delinquent friend, but because anything of comfort that you have to offer always comes out sounding rather meaningless. "They are in a better place now", "At least they aren't suffering any more" - all sentiments I heard firsthand that damn near provoked me to give each of them a rather casual tracheotomy. So when my friend Blake's old man passed last month, I had a game plan of only saying "I'm sorry for your loss", with an occasional arm around his shoulder for comfort - then keep it fucking moving. The funeral went off without a hitch for me, I mean, I didn't say anything awkward to anyone, I didn't punch people - shit, I came out of the whole thing looking like a friend who's loyalty could only be matched by that of possibly Scooter Libby. That was until I was asked, a couple of days later that is - to join the family near a hill by their house where they planned on spreading the cigarette ashes that used to be a Blake's pop. Usually I'd decline, say that I had better things to do like cleaning my sneakers or aggressively beating off to some Belladonna video's like my nut-sack had an expiration date on them - but for some reason I agreed. So there we are, Blake, his mom, sister, and myself - on top of this 12 foot hill about to grant the old man his last dying wish to spread his ashes. After a small prayer Blake's mom opened up the little box that contained her husbands ashes and began to spread them in the wind - the only problem was that there was a gigantic headwind so the ashes blew back in our collective faces. Everyone took it pretty well, except me of course, who acted as if the man's ashes were hot molten volcano lava. The next 20 minutes I spent coughing profusely, throwing up, stripping off all of my clothes - then submerging myself in a nearby lake where I screamed as I blew water out of my nose.

Smoking Gun Proof: I was walking out of a grocery store when I saw a young lady who should have taken a longer look in the mirror before stepping foot outside of her residence. Listen, women who have to get all dolled up just to buy milk irritate me more than DJ's who constantly talk over my favorite song - but at least don't look as if your favorite pastime is smoking cooked cocaine. Anyway, as I walked to my car I saw a young woman with a shower cap on, some shorts that could have been a pair of underwear's last minute replacement - a raggedy shirt with some slippers so dirty you would have thought that she had a strange habit of stomping on every piece of dog feces that she saw. I didn't say anything, but I guess my expression spoke volumes since her man jumped out of his car and said "Hey N*gga, what in the fuck are you looking at??!!" That's when I informed his girlfriend to stop in her tracks, pulled out my trusty camera phone and asked the young lady to pose for a picture. Then I put my arm around the young brother as if I'd known him all his life, showed him the image of his girlfriend that I had just captured and said "That! That's what I'm looking at!! Take pride in your girl for heavens sake, she looks like something a giant would use to wash his car!!!"

Your Moms in my business: Growing up, my friend Jared had a mom who was a bona fide milf - she must have had him when she was like 10 and shit, because she would always greet us kids with skimpy ass T-Shirts and jean shorts so small that her gynecologist had to be the only one who had a better view than I did. Anyway, even though my friends always made rude comments about her to Jared I refrained, I always refrained - even though over the years she has made it perfectly clear that she would like nothing better than to fuck the love handles off of me chubby frame. Of course I've declined and also refused to tell my friend her intentions - even though she still looks great and recently informed me in the supermarket that chubby premature prejaculators with father issues turn her on. Nope, I couldn't do that to my friend - that was until he got arrested recently for some drug shit he was involved in and happened to throw my name into the mix. Truly the definition of "snitching", he dropped my name to the cops even though I wasn't involved in whatever drug scheme he had going - the boys in blue even came to my crib to question me.

Granted, he has apologized profusely and I'm deciding whether pr not I should forgive him - but in the meantime I'm paying his mother friendly visits that are definitely getting back to him and he's none to happy. Every time he calls and asks why I stopped by his moms house I always to say, "To fuck..I mean, to see how she's doing!!" Sometimes, when he asks a bit to much - I tell him that I plan on penetrating his mother in his childhood bed. The sad thing is, I'm in a slump - so I wouldn't be surprised if I hit you guys with a "I once was fucking this 49 year old broad while listening to Donna Summer records" story.