Your Mom is a huge fan of the band Incubus. She’s not just into the music, she digs the fan culture that’s grown up around the band. There’s apparently a society of Incubus fans that travel around the country in their Ford Escorts and their Hondas partying in the parking lots before heading into the stadium for upwards of 70 minutes at a time of emotive hard rock from their favorite band ever.
Your Mom never got to go out on tour because she was raising you. Now that you’re seven, she figures you’re old enough to order pizza.
“If you hurt yourself or don’t know how to turn the oven off or something, call Mr. Keough next door. He’ll come and help out.”
“The crossing guard told me never to talk to Mr. Keough but she wouldn’t say why,” you tell your Mom as she applies gray paint to her cleavage and neck for some reason. This is apparently what female fans of Incubus do. They paint parts of their bodies battleship gray.
“You’re a big boy and Mommy needs you to be on your best behavior while she’s gone,” your Mom says.
“Please don’t go I’m scared,” you say.
“Incubus! Incubuuuus!” Your Mom screams it into the mirror with an upraised fist, like she’s practicing. She didn’t hear your plea. Now she’s in the medicine cabinet sliding all of her Paxil bottles into a big sandwich bag.
“Don’t play my CDs,” she tells you as she pinches your cheek. Then she climbs into her Fiero and zips away to go and find her favorite band.
Not long after she leaves, some burglars start trying to get into your house but are thwarted because you know how to devise the crude delivery of torture and pain from simple household products.
Happy Looks Like Your Mom Is Going To Go And Follow Incubus On Tour Day!
