NOTE: I meant to post this on Mother’s Day, as it seemed more apropos for the occasion. However, it’s two days after Father’s Day—and my very first Father’s Day at that (look what I made below).
See, in addition to being monumentally adorable and a nipple suckler par excellence, Marlowe Pia is quite the timesuck as well (albeit a worthy one, to be sure).
And that’s why I haven’t been able to post this enthralling signage until today. If you can’t handle that, well then you just don’t understand liberty. Get a soul, asshole.
Moving on, there’s this covered outdoor mall (already a confusing concept) that I use as a thruway on my way to work everyday. It’s called Crocker Galleria. Were it named in days of yore, it would quite likely be called an arcade. Alas, we don’t live in yore no more.
Beyond nomenclature, this peculiar locale seems to be plagued by awkward signage as well, such as this Oedipal gem from right before Mother’s Day:
Call me old-fashioned, but my vision of Mother’s Day doesn’t include my Ma in skanky, see-through lingerie, spilled across some squalid granite floor, back arched, neck exposed and nipples photoshopped out as she writhes in the throes of a fake orgasm. And unless you’re Stephanie Seymour’s son, the damaged young man in Spanking the Monkey or little Pink here, I would imagine yours doesn’t either.
Nobody looks at this image and thinks, “Gee, I bet she’s a wonderful mother.”
Wanna know why? Because Mother’s Day isn’t fucking sexy. It’s a warm fuzzy thought, commercially exploited to Hallmarkian proportions and steeped in schmaltz, flattery and nostalgia.
And though I do understand that such a getup is probably how my mother became my mother, I don’t want to think about that—at all.
Motherfucker is a cuss word for good reason.