I've been on a roll lately work-wise. Putting out killer sections. Writing wrestling articles. Researching the shit out of Saints history. Putting on a clinic in fun headlines in the Pelicans section coming out Sunday.
THE TINA CURSING CORNER
My mom caught the end of the last Saints' game. "Had it until the last 10 fucking seconds."
Mom had a hunch about the Venezuelan doctor on Homeland. "I knew he was fucking that little boy."
Mom doesn't like the Elmwood Best Buy. "It's so fucked up. I don't know who puts the shit out."
Mom and I went to Cowbell on Monday. Another waitress peeved mom. "This waitress is modeling around the fucking food. Who does she think she is?"
Mom asks why I took off this Sunday. I tell her wrestling. "That's the perk of being single. Do whatever the fuck you want when you want."
I tell mom she is close to hitting another car as she pulls out of a tight spot in the Cowbell parking lot. She gets out to look for herself. "Tell me I had no room. Had two fucking feet."
Mom is repainting the shutters in the front of her house. "The shutters might be dry rotted. Started spraying with the hose, and they just started fucking peeling."
Mom is driving home. "Fucking dust on River Road. My car was clean."
Mom tells me to make sure I cut the grass every so often during the winter. "Grass still grows here. It ain't like we got fucking snow."
Mom catches herself not paying attention while making me breakfast. "Jesus, Tina. You gonna burn the fucking house down."
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