Sometimes I get a break from dealing with a recalcitrant West Indian woman. That’s when I get to observe the recalcitrant West Indian woman collide with her equally recalcitrant son, who may only be half West Indian, but who compensates by being, among other things, part Irish and part Hungarian.
Mom: Get up, gear up, and fall in.
Son: I’m done with school. (Walks away from his father.)
Mom: Don’t you walk away from your father! Get back in line!
Son: No, m’am, I’ll spend the rest of my life on punishment if I have to, but I’m done with this.
Mom: I’m not gonna’ ask you again (pulls out gun). Fall in!
Son: What, you gonna’ shoot me over school?
Mom: Nah, I’m gonna shoot you, ‘cause I don’t like you.
Son: You won’t shoot that damned class bully, now you’re gonna’ shoot me?
Mom: He’s better than you.
Son: Then why don’t you just do it, Mom, put one in my leg and give me that…
Mom: I’m gonna put one right in your big goddamn mouth.
Son: Well, put your money where your mouth is.
Mom: You don’t know when to shut up, you don’t know how to shut up!
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