yo mama often casts lustful sidelong glances at the reddened and throbbing genitalia of canines that frequent a rusting fire-hydrant on her favorite corner; a corner that has not seen as much action as those first few weeks, before her constant habbit of injecting an inexpensive, yet easily obtained, methadrine compound into the spiderveins that line her pock-marked and spunk-scented thighs.

damn. have I done that one already?

Your mother, space, is renowned for making excessive and gratuitous sounds providing the merest patina-simulacrum of sexual gratification, transparently masking the desperate emptiness at the very core of her being.

yo mama speaks seven languages fluently, having learned each during sexual intercourse with a troupe of circus performers from various eastern-european nations, whose center-ring act involves lighting a german police vehicle on fire and packing it full of thirty-seven oiled and shaved freaks rented from the Chernobyl orphanage. the only differnece between the car and yo mama is, the car requires that the orphans be oiled and shaved, yo mama doesn't. in fact, she has been heard to shout (in fluent slovakian) "no ohol si ho", a plea to the circus trainer to put down his shears and get on with it.

He's gone, his presence was magnificent. He....is a true man. Definitely gets my panties wet.

Fuck amerikangawd (and my mama would), where's space?

Your mother is unappealing of countenance and her bodily proportions generally exceed culturally defined limits of attractiveness with regard to one's carriage.

You speak as one who has known her (carnally).

qué pantis, barbón.

Yo mama is voting for Romney.

Oooooooo--- dis!

Yo mama's so fat the chubby chasers quit.

Yo mama's rap-name is Tomato Soup, because she goes down well with crackers.

Yo mama is soo primitive that only chimpansees understand the half of what she is say'ing

Yo mama's so fat, she's like a Greenland glacier; her calves are the size of Manhattan.

okay here is one that i hope will end this silliness

your mother
doesn't want you to call her:
she regrets the botched abortion
that let your sorry existence happen
and hates reminders.

even if she felt for you
anything other than contempt
(she doesn't, but one can dream)
she couldn't answer the phone--

your mother sucks cock in hell,
and her mouth is full always.

You have the sentiments correct, but in my humble opinion, you should work on your flow,.just like yo mama works on mine.

flotters, your prose has the flow of a diseased colon, which makes you less than the ideal person to dispense advice on rhythm, but be assured i'm not related in any way to the lady who administers your daily enemas (i also doubt that's "yo mama" either, but for different reasons).

Prose? I'm afraid you have the wrong thread.

Maybe Yo Mama is a cultural thing, as in, yo mama is culturing seven different strains of weaponized bacteria in her crotch, an innoculating donation by each one of the nightly visiters that she suspects is your father, which is to say "one of your uncles".

everything you write is prose


i rest my case