Mom stared at me, like she had never laid eyes on me before in her life: "You have a special gift for me, but I have to close my eyes? I'm sorry, but I don't trust you. I haven't trusted you since you were in your late forties. No, late thirties. Eh, scratch that, late twenties. Eh, screw it, late teens. Okay, fine, not even then. Whatever. I am not closing my eyes when you are in the room. Got it?"
"Yes, mom, I got it. So fine, you won't close your eyes. Okay. Stick out your hand."
"Stick out my hand? What, are you fuckin nuts? I am not going to close my eyes, and yet somehow, you think that I will then, nonetheless, stick out my naked hand for you to drop some perverted shit into it? Do you think that I fell with the fuckin rain last night?"
"No, mom, I am fairly sure that you did not fall with the rain last night. I would have heard the gigantic thump, thump, thump, bump, bump, badadadada, bang bang whump, if you had."
"Wait a minute, mister, are you sayin something about the size of my butt or something?"
"No, mom, I am fairly sure that even with the available twenty-six letters, and all of their possible combinations, that it is not possible, in the English language, to say something about the size of your butt. That would require several more languages, a whole lot of vowels, a few major consonants, and probably a little K-Y."
"You are mocking me, aren't you? You think that I can't figure out what you are sayin, and so you are sayin cruel, spiteful things to me, about me, when you think that I can't tell that you are, aren't you?"
"No, mom, I know that you can tell when I am considering you as a mouth-breathing, totally dysfunctional moron, incapable of much more than tying your shoes. And I also know that, notwithstanding all of the immediately available evidence that I think you are a complete waste of oxygen, that you will smile, nod, and agree that I have your best interests at heart. Ain't familial love grand?"
"Famiminalial whatevah. What is this gift that you have for me, you misbegotten total failure of a man, what is it?"
"Now, mom, don't be waxin sentimental on me, or even mental, or for that matter, metal; no Gene Simmons moves, ok, mom?"
"No worries, regrettable spawn of my loins. Not even one Ozzy move, no Iggy Stooge replays, nothing. Lay it on me, you major league disappointment, put it right over the plate."
"Okay, mom, as you have asked, so it will be done. Hey, I sound like a priest!"
"Calmate, niño, you are no priest, believe me. So show me the freakin gift, already!"
"Okay, here it is, mom. It's a petrified turd of mine from when I was two years old. I saved it, because I knew that many years later, you would find it precious."
"A what? You are kidding me, right? You are giving me a gift which is a turd from when you were just off my tit? Am I getting that right?"
"Yes, mom, that brown, dusty little bit of crusty nastiness is your present. I feel like it is a secret bond that only you and I share."
She stared at me, like she usually does, a cross between a coyote sizing up dinner and an old lady who can barely see. I could tell that she was formulating a response, as I saw the steam start seeping out of her ears.
"What kind of a goddamn Christmas present is that, you worthless moron? You are giving me a piece of your own shit for a Christmas present?"
"Yes, I am, mom. Because it is a lot less injurious to my future."
"Injurious to your future? I can't believe that you were able to use "injurious" correctly in a sentence, you mouthbreathing cretin."
"Yes, and thank you, mom. If I had given you what I really wanted to give you, it could have resulted in a felony arrest and prosecution. So I settled on the turd instead."
"What were you planning on giving me before, nitwit?"
"I was planning on giving you that carving knife, the one that you don't let anyone use. I was planning on giving it to you between your third and fourth ribs, mom."
"Oh, I get it. You are too cheap to give me a gift that you selected, that you purchased, you just were going to give me something that I own. You are so worthless, it makes me laugh. Here, keep your petrified turd, you dopey sonovabitch."
"Well I don't want to disappoint you, mom. So here, here's the carving knife. I hope you enjoy it."
The look on her face was priceless, as the blade sunk in. Not just shock, but a strange maniacal look, like she had been waiting for it for a long time, but never expected it to arrive.
"Well, shithead," she gasped, "I guess you have just injured your future."
"Not really, mom, this is just a story. You know that I would never do such a foolish thing. You're fine. You haven't been murdered. You are just overtired. You ought to get some rest, maybe lie down for a while."
"I can't believe my ears," she gurgled with her last breath, "but I actually agree with you, you imbecile. I think I do need to take a little rest."
Her eyes closed, and the blood began to turn brown, and I knew that I had given her the best. The Christmas gift of all time. I was proud of myself, and I knew, that somewhere around the seventh circle of Hell, she was proud of me too.
December 22, 2009, just in time for Christmas.
Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.