Deep in our nation’s capital, Mike Pence and his mother/wife/partner in God’s warm light, Karen, are standing in front of a giant cross, hands reaching towards each other, a respectable 4 to 5 inches of space between their flesh. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mother,” Pence whispers.
What their celebration will entail is a mystery—four hours of prayer? Ten burpees over the splayed pages of an open Bible, followed by four chaste air pecks in the vicinity of a cheek, maybe? Who can say?
Happy day, Mother. Happy day.
To make Mother happy, keep her close.
Give her a vegetable to feed to a new friend.
Press your waxen face against her cheek and make kisses. “Yes, Mother. No, Mother. Mother!!”
GET JEZEBEL RIGHT IN YOUR INBOX
Still here. Still without airbrushing. Still with teeth.
