Whore Mouth Almost Blows It ... Again

My brother and his wife recently asked me to be the Godmother for their son. My nephew is thirteen years old so I figured I'd go ahead and agree to it. Had he been thirteen months old, I might have said no. Because if something should happen to my brother and his wife, the Godmother is expected to sort of step in and do something, right? Well, my days of dealing with babies are long gone. I always say that you'll know I'm pregnant again because I'll be on the six o'clock news.

This just in ... a clearly unstable woman has reportedly jumped to her death from the Golden Gate Bridge. Early reports indicate the woman, who was wearing nothing but anchor chains and a t-shirt that read "No More Fucking Babies!!!" was seen swilling vodka and babbling something about overactive ovaries before she plunged to her death.

Because I can get pregnant using a man's toothbrush, I'm super cautious. I don't even walk down the baby aisle at Target anymore. Too risky. But thirteen years old, I've handled that age bracket before. Unless his descent into puberty turns him into a hormonally unbalanced and always hungry and unhappy beast. In which case it's off to military school. Hope his parents are okay with that.

My brother began the Godmother conversation by looking at his wife, turning to me and then said, "Sit down. My wife and I have something we want to talk to you about."

Fuck. I didn't do it. I don't know nuthin' about no robbery.

"We want to know if you'll be Junior's Godmother."

Wheeeew.

"Sure. I can do that."

And then of course, Whore Mouth (aka my mom) has to chime in.

"Maybe you should ask her if she believes in God."

*crickets*

My brother looks to his wife. Blink. Looks to me. Blink, blink. Looks to his wife.

"You don't believe in God?"

This is serious business. My brother prides himself on a few things, two of them are being Irish and being Catholic.

"Ummm, well, it's not like I'm a heretic or anything. I more of a spiritual person. It's true, I don't go to church because if there is a God, I'm sure it won't matter to him where I am on Sundays and I like to cook on Sundays. And then there's the whole religion versus science argument, you know?"

I shoot a look to Whore Mouth indicating that she'll be sent to sleep under the stairs tonight. I consider purchasing a large kennel. Maybe visit the local sex shop for a human muzzle.

My brother seems okay with this answer and then tells me that there might be classes I have to take.

What the hell? Since when do Godparents have to take classes? Is there a test? A background check to verify my Catholicism? Are they going to submerge me in water ... if I sink I'm okay and if I float I'm a witch? Will I have to "out" other heathens like that Whore Mouth mother of mine? Because she's the first name I'm giving up.

Jesus Christ, what if they stumble upon my little blog here where I've written about Virgin Mary dildos and other topics sure to cast a doubt as to whether or not I'm fit for the title, Godmother. But shouldn't that be considered nothing more than enthusiasm? Ughh, then there's the picture I posted of a nun in latex wearing a gas mask. That counts as religious art, right? God, what about that hot summer day when that woman (dressed in wool in the middle of a heat wave) confronted me and The Boy and told me that Jesus Christ wouldn't approve of me showing my skin to all of the world like a harlot and that I should save myself for my husband. I politely told the woman that Jesus also probably didn't want me to die from heat stroke and that she could kindly fuck off.

I blame all of this on my mother.

Later in the day, I put my devotion to the Catholic faith on display by showing my brother the large iron cross hanging in my hallway. It's parked right next to some of my personal artwork depicting dancing skeletons, astrological markings and Day of the Dead symbology.

He casts me a weary glance, shakes his Irish Catholic head and walks away, clearly concerned for my soul and maybe doubting this whole Godmother thing.

Whore Mouth is in the kitchen doing whatever it is that Whore Mouths do when I walk up behind her and whisper in her ear, "It's the thumbscrews for you tonight, wench."

Isn't that what any good Catholic would say?