Those Poor Imaginary Puppies

My mom had a tendency to play favorites; I was scrutinized and criticized for just about anything and everything about myself, much more than everyone else, while my little sister was the sweet little angel. (And she was! Even I couldn’t say “no” to those puppy-dog eyes.)

One thing my mom got on my a** for constantly was me being a fan of a particular music artist. She never paid ANY attention to him until I started listening to him. Then, mysteriously, he suddenly became a Satanist that murdered live puppies on stage. Any time one of his music videos appeared on MTV — back when they played music! — her face would twist into a nasty scowl like she was sipping vinegar, and she would loudly scoff, grunt, and shake her head the entire time while making disapproving comments under her breath. 

One day, my sister was in her room playing around, and she had borrowed one of my CDs. My mom went into her room and began talking to her. As one of the songs ended, my mom looked at the stereo.

Mom: “I liked that! That was a really nice song, who sang that?”

Sister: “[Evil Music Artist].”

Mom: “WHAT?!”