Men, you better up your game this Mother’s Day Sunday or she may CHEAT. Apparently, your inability to please the mother of your children is what forces her into the beds of random strangers she meets online.
Yes. Brunch is THAT powerful.
Consider other infidelity deterrents like wrist corsages and chocolates. Maybe a bouquet of flowers, but not carnations. Everyone knows carnations are just cheap ass bouquet filler. Same with Baby’s Breath. One wrong flower selection, guys, and she’ll be blowing her boss.
Yes, it’s Mother’s Day season, and you know what that means, don’t you? The
marketing department “scientists” over at Ashley Madison start sending out press releases about the big spike in traffic they get from disappointed mothers after Sunday.
According to the New York Post:
The adulterers website Ashley Madison is expecting a massive 500 percent spike in sign-ups from women on the day after Mother’s Day. According to its data, there was a 442 percent increase in sign-ups (compared to the daily norm) after last year’s holiday, following an upward trend since 2010.
Didn’t men LEARN? We had this same warning last year! And now the numbers are “expected” to climb from 442 percent to 500? Get with it, men! You’re fucked now. Good luck trying to get a brunch reservation today. I hope you know how to flip pancakes or have a diamond tennis bracelet tucked in your pocket or something. The preservation of monogamy is counting on you getting this right.
If you don’t, your wife may become like Ann.
Opening the Mother’s Day card last year from my husband, Derek*, my heart sank. We’d been married for more than 15 years, and I was the mom of his two young children — but he hadn’t even thought to buy me flowers, let alone jewelry.
The whole run-up to Mother’s Day had been depressing. It made me feel old, like I was losing my sexiness. My marriage was stuck in a rut.
Ann, if we’re doing to blame anyone here — let’s blame the children. I hate how children make me feel old, with their dewey skin and lithe little figures. Did THEY think to buy me flowers or jewelry? No. I get a fucking clay ashtray. That they made. I turned it over. Was there a Tiffany’s hallmark? NO. Oh and duh, I DON’T SMOKE. I live with those little cretins for five years and they never figured that out? They don’t know me at ALL.
I know what THEY like. Ask me to name any Thomas the Tank Engine character and I can spot Percy at ten paces. Sir Topham Hat? Diesel? I care! And yet my OWN CHILDREN, my flesh and blood, don’t know that I collect Lalique.
The ingrates. The eldest? Three DAYS of induced labor. Posterior. The epidural fell out. Went home with a catheter and couldn’t pee for weeks. Frankly, for all that pain and suffering, he should buy me a condo on Lake Como. And what do I get? A fucking ashtray.
You know what I’m going to do? Find a fuckbuddy on Ashley Madison. Break up their happy, intact family. That’ll show ’em.
Happy Mother’s Day.