Ok, kids, Sunday's the big day: Mom's day. You don't want to screw this up. Remember, she brought you into this world, and she can TAKE YOU RIGHT BACK OUT OF IT.
Er, so, with that in mind, let's see what you've got.
This is the visual equivalent to being stabbed in the eye with a flatulent walrus.
I'm also craving Pepto Bismol.
I wouldn't, if I were you.
I'mma let you finish, but Momma is gonna be SO PROUD of those grammar skillz.
Wouldn't this be kind of cute if it were decorated by a five-year old?
And wouldn't it be soul-crushingly horrific if it were made by a fully grown adult who is somehow still gainfully employed when thousands upon thousands of intelligent laborers who actually give a crap are not?
I only ask because this was taken while still in the shopping cart, and Jaunna just took the lid off because there was a sticker in the way.
But go ahead and believe that five-year-old thing. You know, for your sanity's sake.
This next one is my favorite, because it was *supposed* to say, "It's my birthday, b*tches!"
And did I mention it was ordered in March?
(Ok, when you guys are taking Mom out this afternoon, I dare you to walk into the restaurant and yell, "It's Mother's Day, B*tches!" In fact, I double dog dare you.)
But don't worry, dear Wreckies; even if you DO accidentally give Mom a wreck this weekend, you can take comfort in knowing that it's always the thought that counts:
And that's just for you, Mom.
Thanks to wreckporters Holly W., Cathy S., Greta B., Jaunna S., Jo M., & Charlene for also not beating me. I really appreciate that, guys.