I recently asked my son if he’d pick me up in the airport upon a return flight if I came into Dallas instead of Shreveport, since I’d been fortunate enough to find a forty-seven dollar ticket. Thinking what a good son he was, since I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, I happily purchased the cheap ticket, telling him I’d email him the gate and time details later, knowing he’d already agreed to the date. A few days later, completely out of the blue, I got this text. “Mom, we are at the airport. Which gate is it?”
I was horrified. Dallas is two and a half hours from Shreveport. Surely I hadn’t somehow given him the wrong date. I tried to return his text. No reply. After a few minutes I got him by phone. He was laughing hysterically, enjoying my panic. Of course, he was just tricking me.
Realizing I owed him, I decided to send him this horrible picture, hoping he’d be repulsed. He certainly deserved it. Instead, I got a return email, asking me if they made matching pants so me, him, and his grandmother could get a matching set.
My apologies to the artist.