I’m sure you took one glance at the big flashy letters reading, “Momma Say What?!” and thought, “This HAS to be a black man’s rip off of ‘Sh*t My Dad Says,’ by Justin Halpern.” Whelp, as much as I hate to disappoint, I am not black. To my dismay, I am a chunky white boy, currently resting in my childhood bedroom, while my equally white mother makes questionable comments. Taking a page from Mr. Halpern, the following comments were recorded over a period of time:
Describing Dallas Buyers Club:
“I have to watch a movie where a baby gets kidnapped! I’d rather watch that movie about the gay guy with AIDS. That’s more uplifting!”
Relaxing on the couch, watching her slipper slowly fall off:
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit……damn.”
Complaint of the day:
“This weather is contradicting AND I’ve eaten way too much peanut butter.”
“Teach me how to make boobies and wieners on text.”
“What do you mean you don’t like the word ‘voluptuous’? It’s a fine word.”
“Which doctor did you have? The Ahmadinejad-looking one?”
Watching the Oscars:
Me: “What do you think about Ben Affleck?”
Mom: “So good. He gets me going.”
“I bought this body wash for you just so I could say you smell like a French whore.”
Dreams are for poor planners. Why? Because people who have lofty goals are not planning their lives well. They’re not taking the time to see that their aspirations are not feasible. Allow me to elaborate.
When I was in kindergarten, we were assigned a project of creating a puppet version of our future selves pursuing a career of some sort. Then, I thought that a coffee can torso and brown yarn hair sported by a lab coat and stethoscope were right on target. You see, even though I still believe that I would make a great doctor, harsh reality says otherwise. I don’t recall a single thing I learned in 7th grade about the body. Not even something simple, such as that there are three types of muscle. Yes, I had to look that up to use it as an example. Since elementary school, I have sucked at science like a five year old sucks a popsicle when it’s 90 degrees outside.
If I had continued with my conceived pre-med track to success, chaos would have ensued. Good thing I didn’t give a dime about my future career. Correction: that’s a bad thing because now I want to be an artist. To most people that means, “I want to be broke.” It’s true, I do. You all nailed it on the head. What was I talking about? Oh, right, science. We must always have realistic goals. President Obama dreamed that one day he would rule Mars (A Source). Look how short he fell of his dreams. Mickey Mouse dreamed of equality for female cartoon characters and, man, was he wrong. Sarah Palin dreamed of being VP, a television reality star, and a domineering huntress. Well, scratch that last example. I guess some dreams do come true. But she’s not exactly the greatest planner, so we’ll consider her an anomaly.
We shouldn’t dream. Nor should we imagine anything for our future selves because we’re probably wrong about our potential and there’s absolutely no hope for change.
I’m an optimist, for the record.
But I’m not a doctor. I can only pretend to be one. And that, folks, makes me a fraud. Don’t be like me. Don’t dream. Settle. It’ll make you a star planner.