As she walked into the living room and noticed the proponderance of African masks and portraits of dead black leaders with their fists in the air, she wondered what kind of life Carl's bizarre imagination had summoned for her. She noticed that her nightgown was even patterned in red, green, yellow and black. Nearly everything, even down to the place settings on the kitchen table, had some kind of Afrocentric significance.
"Lebron, you ig'nant lil punk..." she whispered under her breath, gritting her teeth.
Suddenly, a woman that looked just like Aunt Jemima burst in the front door with a watermelon in one hand and a sack of KFC in the other.
Mom.
She was going to fucking /kill/ Carl. If only she could figure out how to do it...
