In the bowels of some unnamed, industrial puddle of cat sick, in a neighborhood touted by the locals as a tourist attraction following the use of their Main Street as the establishing shot of a meth lab in a Charles Bronson film, sits the kind of restaurant whose “Family Style” logo was erected out of equal parts desperation and unintended irony. Within this restaurant works a waitress named Gaia.

Through no mean series of failed relationships with traveling salesmen and evangelists, Gaia now functions as the single mother of six and a half billion greedy, mouth breathing little bastards who refuse to stop breeding, themselves. Many of these ungrateful spawn, most notably the males, go so far as to turn their backs on their mother, departing with a dismissive “Whatever, I’m gonna go live with my dad in Washington! He has a car, and money, and even his own government!” while visions of sugar plums and spinning wheel rims dance in their heads.

The girls, however, emulate the worst aspects of their mother by pursuing their own salesmen, their own evangelists, to produce their own broods of glass eyed suburbanites defined by their cell phone ring tones and Myspace pages. Sainted entropy married wholly mediocre simians. God bless.

Forgotten and forlorn, Gaia calls Loveline for advice. Upon hearing how many children she has, Dr. Drew hangs himself.

Screw you, mom, I liked that show. At least until Carolla left.



Joined March 2008

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