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Good Christ I sure know just how you feel.

But would you please get up off your slacker ass and take a run for the presidency of this God-foraken country? I mean, really. You'd be perfect! I'd vote for you! Absentee, of course, but I'd vote for you! Just call up the Democratic National Committee! Or you could just show up for the convention and talk to someone there! It's easy! I'll be looking for you on the ballot.


Your Spore-Sista


Can I revel with you?! Slacking was my minor in college. I miss the security-blanketness of it all.


I'm too much of a firebrand -- an outsider -- a screamer! The DNC would never have me, an unelectable uppity woman. Plus I'm totally unqualified.

Therefore we are left only with the option of takeover by slacker military force! Motto: "We'll get around to it...eventually. Now go away, we're watching Space Ghost."


I want some of your pot.

By the way, we have the same mother. How's she doing today?


Hey, just come on over and we'll...
wait, what pot? What's pot? Is that a fertility drug?

Sigh. Evidently not.

Mom's doing well today. After all the hullaballoo, she couldn't find the job listing, having thrown out all household papers and deleted all "nonessential" emails (this is all true) so it will fade into obscurity forever.

The closest thing I could find on our website was an Editorial Assistant job that required a background in Islamic Studies and fluency in Arabic and multiple modern European languages. With my high school Spanish and that Women in Islam class under my belt, I'd be just perfect.




No matter how hard they try, our mothers just can't be what we want them to be. I was telling getupgrrl that I think we should construct a phone tree to solve this problem.

When you need polite denial and pathological optimism, you can press 1 to connect to a hotline that will ring cheerily in my mother's kitchen. When I need a dose of clinging anxiety, I'll press 2 to speak to someone else's mom. Dial 3 for passive-aggressive guilt. On down the line.

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