MST3K Meets The Mommy Of The Future

I grew up in a house -- then a condo, then a series of increasingly shabby apartments -- that could best be described as a sort of parental Fail Blog, so I was never much tempted to breed and continue the cycle.  But whether by chance, or because the Universe has a particularly virulent sense of irony, I happen to know a number of exceptionally Cool Moms, and in several of the cases (my sister KT comes to mind), the very coolest of Moms seem to have had the very worst of role models.

I don't know quite what to make of this, and I'm not trying to postulate a Unified Field Theory of Motherhood, I just think it's interesting, and perhaps indicates that the animal handlers at Sea World who train their dolphins, seals, and orcas with food and affection rather than punishment have it wrong, and those embittered high school P.E. coaches who taught us good driving habits by screening 16mm films of gruesome automobile accidents had it right.  In fact, they probably didn't go far enough, and should have turned the Drivers Ed. simulator into a giant Skinner Box.

But I digress.  Cool Moms beget Cool Kids, and my friend Elizabeth is definitely one of the former, while her son Wes is a distinguished example of the latter. A musical prodigy and fashion trendsetter, Wes is preternaturally verbal (but not in a creepy, Children of the Damned sort of way; more in a cocky, Children of the Damn I'm Good! way), and almost as soon as he could talk, he dubbed Elizabeth "Mommy of the Future!" for reasons that were never explained.  (At least, I hope they weren't, and if they were, I hope no one explains it to me, because it remains one of my favorite non sequiturs.)

Anyway, like s.z., I originally bonded with Elizabeth (many, many years ago) over a shared devotion to Mystery Science Theater 3000, so I've been waiting for the day she introduced her child to the series, since I've always wondered if it was hereditary, like Hitchhiker's Thumb, cleft chin, or the congenital syphilis in Ibsen's Ghosts.  As it turns out, the results were more than I could ever have hoped for.  Here's a taste (Wes, at this point, was in first grade):

(Note: THE FOLLOWING CONVERSATION ACTUALLY HAPPENED. I’m not proud.)

Ten minutes pass. He comes out. “Mommy? I think the Mike episodes are better.”

“WHAT!?”

I solemnly urge you to click here and read the whole, hilarious thing; I guarantee, you will not regret it.

I mean, come on -- have I ever steered you wrong before?  Except for that one time?  And maybe that other thing?  Besides that?  Never.