Mother Loves One Of These
Everybody knows a motherfucker. They’re all around us. Like your boss. You say, “My boss is a real motherfucker.” Or your backstabbing best friend, “My backstabbing best friend is a real motherfucker.” Or the brick that you drop on your foot, “Motherfucker!”
But have you noticed there are not a lot of fatherfuckers out there? Or even step-motherfuckers. I bet there’s nobody who likes a step-fatherfucker. Think about what a terrible person a great-grandmotherfucker is. I mean, God, she’s all wrinkly and old. And they fucked her.
Of course, some people are more disgusted by brotherfuckers and sisterfuckers. And when that happens, they always bring up their potentially retarded kids, even if they use three methods of birth control and are just fucking for love and sport.
It’s strange because motherfuckers are a divided people. A motherfucker can be so many things. For instance, he can actually fuck your mother. If he’s your father, then that’s cool, although you don’t really like to talk about it. If he is, however, not your father, you feel a bit uneasy and are suspect until the motherfucker proves that he is, in fact, worthy enough to fuck your mother.
Other motherfuckers like your boss and your backstabbing best friend are people you don’t like one bit. They are plain old sons-of-bitches, which itself references their mothers. It doesn’t mean they fuck them, though.
Other times, a motherfucker is a person you adore, your non-backstabbing best friend. This happens in urban areas. A guy goes to his buddy, “That’s dope, muthafucka!” And yes, by “urban” I mean minority cultures, where the use of “motherfucker” tends to be higher than the uses of “buddy” and “pal” combined. As for the folks who’d rather say, “That’s neat, pal,” I apologize for stereotyping.
Of course, these days it’s just as common to hear a suburban white kid say “That’s dope, muthafucka” as it is for anyone else to say it. I pause here to smile and reflect on how cool that kid must be.
But in the end, there’s always the motherfucker who’s an inanimate object, like the brick you dropped on your foot. Now foregoing the fact that you should’ve been more careful––being as you had a brick in your hand––once you’ve dropped it, there’s probably no motherfucker you hate more. I mean, most bricks you don’t have a problem with. They mind their own business. They’re great in walls. But if they start fucking with your foot, it’s like they’re fucking with––well, like they’re fucking with your mother.