Raised On Monkey Business

| Related | November 13, 2013

(I am 34 years old, busty, and a mother. My mother is a bit of a prude and easily flustered, though it’s usually in good fun. She has just come over to my apartment to check in on her way to my grandmother’s apartment next door.)

Mom: “Are you wearing a bra?”

Me: “Nope!”

Mom: “I hope you didn’t go out in public like that.”

Me: “Hate to break this to you, Mom, but I’m old enough to develop my own sense of decency. And as long as my privates are not viewable by the general public, it makes no difference if they are holstered or not.”

Mom: “Please tell me you’re at least wearing underwear.”

Me: “Yes… until my period’s over.”

Mom: “Ew! God, you’re disgusting. How did something like you ever come from my loins?”

Me: “Well, you see, when a man and a woman think they love each other very much, it doesn’t matter if they hate each other thirty years down the road, so they agree to an exchange of bodily fluids—”

Mom: “SHUT IT! You’re deplorable; just like your father!”

Me: “So that’s why I look just like him. Remember, though, that you raised me!”

Mom: “That’s debatable. I’m thinking it was a bunch of monkeys.”

Me: “Hungry for lice, mom? Is that dinner tonight?”

Mom: *laughing* “That’s enough! Go to your room!”

Me: “Love you, too! See you tomorrow!”

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