Captain Cunt

My mother the superhero.

I’m not sure how motherhood is handled in most places in the United States or even the world, but I like to think that I am an expert on it in Los Angeles. Not that I’m a mother, but I have one and I grew up in Hollywood, so I guess that qualifies me just as much as the next idiot. It became clear to us as children that my father married her because she was very beautiful and very willing to have sex. Los Angeles is about being beautiful or talented and if you cannot have both you better exploit one of them.

Her looks helped her almost always get her way. In the rare occasion that her good looks were not doing the trick she would go batshit insane. These tantrums and outbursts lead to her nickname, Captain Cunt, and when she’d slip into that mental phone booth and shed common decency, it was time to take cover.

Once, I watched her hold the door to the cleaners shut on a woman that dicked her out of a parking spot. Later when the women confronted my mother about her behavior my mom looked at her, spit in her face and said, “Talk to me after you’ve had a face lift.” This is token Angeleno behavior; you do not take shit from anyone uglier than you.

My mother adhered to this unspoken code of ethics, crusading against the unfortunate looking whenever they crossed her path, which was often. Like any worthy superhero, she refused to acknowledge her good deeds.

From time-to-time, I like to bring up these random acts of insanity, but she insists that I am making all of it up. I know the truth, and plan to carry the torch. At any rate, I’ve still got my mother, and she’s not slowing down anytime soon. Seriously, last week she called a condescending sales person a dickhead and swore her revenge on the store. I can’t wait.