The  Mother of all Days

The Mother of all Days

Madge and Bisket have been business partners for years. So many miles of rough, crumbling, and unpaved road together have forged an alliance in cocktails, poor pelvic floor control, and criminal dumb-fuckery. A lifetime of poor choices is easily seen, even in bad lighting. So for Mother's Day last year, Bisket decided to treat these old barnacles with some much-needed self-care.
The day started with coffee at their favorite coffee shop, The Steaming Loaf. Then, they sipped their triple shot lattes and walked to the Gilded Hoof and Colonic Cafe. Immediately, the gals were whisked away to their private suite to be pampered with pedicures and poop-chute polish. Our two dilapidated hookers sat with feet soaked in what looked like stew, with chunks of dead skin making lazy circles around their ankles.
"This is the life, Bisket," sighed Madge and proceeded to fart on the Naugahyde seat beneath her.
"Sounds like your coffee is working," Bisket raised a relaxed eyebrow, looking at Madge. They softly chuckled to themselves.
A nail technician had to be replaced after they tried clipping Madge's toenails without eye protection. When clipped, throwing stars will do far less damage than one of Madge's rogue talons. In addition, Bisket's heels needed belt-sanding. Who would think that as much time as she spent on her back, Bisket ever used her feet?
The colonic tech gently pushed Madge's cheeks apart as she lay wide-eyed and horrified on the table. Bisket tried to calm her down with a glass of champagne and a gummy. Eventually, they were lying silently with gentle music playing as the tech watched the unholy contents float past the monitoring windows.
"Oh dear, um, I'll be right back," announced the tech. Bisket popped her head up to see what the problem was. Marching past the monitor window on Madge's ass was a continual march of undigested whitish ribbons and dark, poorly chewed meat. Bisket said, "she's fond of steak and butter noodles."
"Christ, I thought she had tapeworms," the tech mumbled in relief.
A wave of clarity washed over Bisket through the low snores of Madge across the room. Bisket felt relieved like someone had lifted a weight off her shoulders, or some tremendous wrong had been made right. When the tech gasped, "Is that a TV remote?" Bisket vowed to make an appointment with her doctor to talk about rectal neuropathy. And to wash the remote when they got home.
Kids, Mother's Day is something we all share. We all have women in our lives that put up with our shit far more than they should. Whether they are from adoption, blood, extended family, need, or a fortunate accident, make sure to love and cherish these ladies in all their shapes, sizes, and variations.

Happy Mother's Day Bitches
Madge & Bisket
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