I recently asked my son if he’d pick me up in the airport uponΒ a return flightΒ if I came into Dallas instead of Shreveport, sinceΒ I’d been fortunate enough toΒ find a forty-seven dollar ticket.Β 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,Β knowing he’d already agreed to the date.Β A few days later, completely out of the blue, I got this text.Β “Mom, we are at the airport.Β Which gate is it?”
I was horrified.Β Dallas is two and a half hours from Shreveport.Β Surely I hadn’t somehow given him the wrong date.Β I tried to return his text.Β No reply.Β After a few minutes I got him by phone.Β He was laughing hysterically, enjoying my panic.Β Of course, he was just tricking me.
Realizing I owed him, I decided to send him this horrible picture, hoping he’d be repulsed.Β He certainly deserved it.Β 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.