In early March, we here at Team Last Call found ourselves in a real bind.
See, Team Last Call's band was getting ready to head out on the road to unleash devastating amounts of rock and roll on the unsuspecting nation. The problem was, we ran out of time to write our Last Call column.
But who was there to help us out in our time of need? Our mommy.
Team Last Call can always count on our mommy. She's caring, intelligent and lots of fun. Granted, she's a little misguided when it comes to politics in fact, she's a staunch Republican but we're not about to sit here and make jokes about it. Because senility is no laughing matter.
So without any further ado, here is Team Last Call's mommy:
Hi. Jeff's mom, here. No, no, don't get up. I'm sure there are many people who are more famous. Like don't press me here, Bucko. I'll think of some later.
It is a little known fact that being funny is genetic. I am living proof, as I got it from my son. But do I get my own column? Noooooooooo. And why is that, you ask? It is because we Republicans never get equal press. Unless you watch FOX, which would be appropriate, because I am, after all, a fox.
>Now, I know Jeff better than any of you. I was even there when he was born. He came out looking like all babies do, rather like Hillary Clinton. That is to say, obviously, a small chest, large chunky thighs and the attitude that the world revolves around you. There is a difference, however. A baby's diaper is a smaller size.
It could have been worse. He could have looked like Bill Clinton, with a nose large enough for its own zip code. Plus, we would have had to separate him from all the girl babies within cooing distance. But enough low blows. Oops.
Well, we took Hillary, I mean Jeff, home. Immediately, he started to do these annoying things that I'm sure other babies don't do. Like make noise. He was already showing signs of being a Democrat, as he would make a lot of noise without really ever saying anything. I should have known.
His repertoire was rather limited. President Poopypants would eat, pee, poop, re-eat, re-pee, re-poop. The good thing was, his talent for producing so much of poop quality was good practice to be a Democrap (typo).
But no, I didn't catch on. I fed his little idiosyncrasies, like his continuous demand for the breast. But enough about Bill.
Then things worsened. He played constantly with his "Welfare Can Be Fun" video game. His favorite movie was "The Horrors of Al Frankenstein." His favorite book was "Nancy Pelosi And Other Tales From The Crypt."
Sometimes he would stiffen up like an Al Gore doll; his eyes would roll back and he would coo stuff like, "Pick me, pick me!" I personally thought it was rather unflattering and made him sound like a booger. Jeff also started playing his guitar rattles. This, I have to admit, was appropriate, since being a rock star makes you an expert in politics.
Before long, he was holding press conferences and doing weird things like Jesse Jackson impersonations. He was telling the whole world how other families are better than ours and how his family leaders needed to be replaced. Maybe it was the starched diapers. We held family elections, but our relatives in Broward County, Florida, couldn't get the hang of the ballots. Seems they required a third-grade education.
So, as fate would have it, he eventually became a Democrat. Which also comes back to genetics. He couldn't help it. I think his great-great-great grandfather was a mass murderer or something. Every family deals with this at some point.
Do I sound bitter? Nosireebob. It could have been much worse. I could have been the mother of, say, Teddy "Chappaquiddick" Kennedy. Or John "The Traitor" Kerry. Fortunately, our last name begins with "R," so we skipped that whole "last name begins with 'K'" curse thing. That's where that old adage originated: "Feed a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Name him something starting with 'K,' and he will never develop morals." Don't blame me. I didn't make it up.
If you are reading this, it probably means I have gone to the great White House in the sky. Jeff is now feeling guilty, and is hoping to make up for his misguided politics by printing this article.
We here at Team Mom will admit to copying Jeff's style. And his ideas. OK, and his lines. But we are not too worried about him suing, as he knows we could cut him out of the will. He would miss out on the $35 and the George Bush calendars.
Before you get the wrong idea, I love Jeff more than life even more than chocolate. We get along even better than Harry Belafonte and Hugo Chavez. He is the best son in the world. This is true, even though for Christmas he bought me Teresa Heinz Kerry's book, "I'm Rich & You're Not. Loser. Hiccup."
But how did Jeff become one of "them?" I have no idea. It couldn't have been the dresses, because he gave them up years ago. Maybe it was the constant constipation, which cut off the blood supply to the brain. But my best guess is that he just wasn't paying attention during our discussions on family vacations. In our Hummer.
Hugs and kisses,
Mom
P.S. Don't be writing me any protest letters, or you will be grounded for your natural lifetime. Or till John Edwards is smart. OK, I'm being redundant.
See, Team Last Call's band was getting ready to head out on the road to unleash devastating amounts of rock and roll on the unsuspecting nation. The problem was, we ran out of time to write our Last Call column.
But who was there to help us out in our time of need? Our mommy.
Team Last Call can always count on our mommy. She's caring, intelligent and lots of fun. Granted, she's a little misguided when it comes to politics in fact, she's a staunch Republican but we're not about to sit here and make jokes about it. Because senility is no laughing matter.
So without any further ado, here is Team Last Call's mommy:
Hi. Jeff's mom, here. No, no, don't get up. I'm sure there are many people who are more famous. Like don't press me here, Bucko. I'll think of some later.
It is a little known fact that being funny is genetic. I am living proof, as I got it from my son. But do I get my own column? Noooooooooo. And why is that, you ask? It is because we Republicans never get equal press. Unless you watch FOX, which would be appropriate, because I am, after all, a fox.
>Now, I know Jeff better than any of you. I was even there when he was born. He came out looking like all babies do, rather like Hillary Clinton. That is to say, obviously, a small chest, large chunky thighs and the attitude that the world revolves around you. There is a difference, however. A baby's diaper is a smaller size.
It could have been worse. He could have looked like Bill Clinton, with a nose large enough for its own zip code. Plus, we would have had to separate him from all the girl babies within cooing distance. But enough low blows. Oops.
Well, we took Hillary, I mean Jeff, home. Immediately, he started to do these annoying things that I'm sure other babies don't do. Like make noise. He was already showing signs of being a Democrat, as he would make a lot of noise without really ever saying anything. I should have known.
His repertoire was rather limited. President Poopypants would eat, pee, poop, re-eat, re-pee, re-poop. The good thing was, his talent for producing so much of poop quality was good practice to be a Democrap (typo).
But no, I didn't catch on. I fed his little idiosyncrasies, like his continuous demand for the breast. But enough about Bill.
Then things worsened. He played constantly with his "Welfare Can Be Fun" video game. His favorite movie was "The Horrors of Al Frankenstein." His favorite book was "Nancy Pelosi And Other Tales From The Crypt."
Sometimes he would stiffen up like an Al Gore doll; his eyes would roll back and he would coo stuff like, "Pick me, pick me!" I personally thought it was rather unflattering and made him sound like a booger. Jeff also started playing his guitar rattles. This, I have to admit, was appropriate, since being a rock star makes you an expert in politics.
Before long, he was holding press conferences and doing weird things like Jesse Jackson impersonations. He was telling the whole world how other families are better than ours and how his family leaders needed to be replaced. Maybe it was the starched diapers. We held family elections, but our relatives in Broward County, Florida, couldn't get the hang of the ballots. Seems they required a third-grade education.
So, as fate would have it, he eventually became a Democrat. Which also comes back to genetics. He couldn't help it. I think his great-great-great grandfather was a mass murderer or something. Every family deals with this at some point.
Do I sound bitter? Nosireebob. It could have been much worse. I could have been the mother of, say, Teddy "Chappaquiddick" Kennedy. Or John "The Traitor" Kerry. Fortunately, our last name begins with "R," so we skipped that whole "last name begins with 'K'" curse thing. That's where that old adage originated: "Feed a man a fish and he'll eat for a day. Name him something starting with 'K,' and he will never develop morals." Don't blame me. I didn't make it up.
If you are reading this, it probably means I have gone to the great White House in the sky. Jeff is now feeling guilty, and is hoping to make up for his misguided politics by printing this article.
We here at Team Mom will admit to copying Jeff's style. And his ideas. OK, and his lines. But we are not too worried about him suing, as he knows we could cut him out of the will. He would miss out on the $35 and the George Bush calendars.
Before you get the wrong idea, I love Jeff more than life even more than chocolate. We get along even better than Harry Belafonte and Hugo Chavez. He is the best son in the world. This is true, even though for Christmas he bought me Teresa Heinz Kerry's book, "I'm Rich & You're Not. Loser. Hiccup."
But how did Jeff become one of "them?" I have no idea. It couldn't have been the dresses, because he gave them up years ago. Maybe it was the constant constipation, which cut off the blood supply to the brain. But my best guess is that he just wasn't paying attention during our discussions on family vacations. In our Hummer.
Hugs and kisses,
Mom
P.S. Don't be writing me any protest letters, or you will be grounded for your natural lifetime. Or till John Edwards is smart. OK, I'm being redundant.
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