yo momma

Yo momma so German she’s a Volkswagen.

Yo momma so rigorous she always prepares a litter box when she lets the cat out of the bag.

Yo momma howl so loud she’s destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging herself through the negro streets at dawn looking for a megaphone to further up her decibels.

Yo momma so pedantic when she rides through the desert she names her horse.

Yo momma so fearful of marsupials she equates any enclosed moist space with a pouch and refuses to enter, and never has a nice word to say about kangaroos who have almost had enough of her petty insults.

Yo momma so hirsute her moustache married your dad and gave birth to three yetis: Paul, Arnold and Marilla.

Yo momma so weary of this ancient world she purchased a DeLorean.

Yo momma so cranky the chip on her shoulder is crinkled, has a deceptive gravitational pull and at times seems to illustrate a certain self-consciousness.

Yo momma so confused she spent a season in hell where every wine flowed and she took Beauty in her arms, but thought she was in Ireland.

Yo momma so accepting she don’t just bite the bullet, she makes it into a fine bullet seafood stew.

Yo momma so creepy she’s Abbott’s wink.

Yo momma so hip hop she don’t just raise the roof, she elevates the ozone layer, and when she crunk the world crunk in time with her.

Yo momma is a collage eliminating any notion of her as a single, stable idea: she is a grumpy cat, a Joycean pun, a Grecian urn, Wesley Snipe’s better half, a goat singing Swift, a dice cup, an awkward typographical arrangement, and a love curse uttered by a witch-gypsy in the final throes of her obsession with lust and knitting.

Yo momma so transcendent nothing can describe her.