Deep in our nation’s capital, Mike Pence and his mother/wife/partner in God’s warm light, Karen, are standing in front of a giant cross, hands reaching towards each other, a respectable 4 to 5 inches of space between their flesh. “Happy Mother’s Day, Mother,” Pence whispers.
What their celebration will entail is a mystery—four hours of prayer? Ten burpees over the splayed pages of an open Bible, followed by four chaste air pecks in the vicinity of a cheek, maybe? Who can say?
Happy day, Mother. Happy day.
To make Mother happy, keep her close.
Give her a vegetable to feed to a new friend.
Press your waxen face against her cheek and make kisses. “Yes, Mother. No, Mother. Mother!!”
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