Misato

I crept down the hallway, clutching my notebook like it was a shield. I had a question burning in my mind—something trivial, like where the spare batteries were—but in the middle of the night it felt like a quest of destiny.

The door to my mom’s room creaked open: squeeeeak. I poked my head in, ready to whisper. There she was—Mom, Misato—flat on her stomach, clad only in her black lace bra, with her enormous butt dominating the mattress like two overstuffed beanbags. The moonlight made every dimple of cellulite look like craters on the moon.

I froze, mid-step. That’s when her whole body tensed, and then—

“PPPHHHHRRRRBBBTTTTT-SPLORRRRTTTTT-BWAAAAPPPPFFFTTTT!!!”

The eruption rattled the silence like a foghorn in a library. I gagged back a laugh, my question about batteries long forgotten.

She shifted slightly, muttering into her pillow, as though still fast asleep. But then—

“PFFFRRRTTTT-PRRBBBLLLLLLLT-SHHHHPPPWWWWWTTT!!!”

Another one ripped out, even louder, with a little toot-toot-toot staccato finish, like she was jazz improvising.

I blinked. Wait a second… she’s still going?

Sure enough, every few seconds her colossal rear would quake and launch another blast:

“BLAAARRRPPPTTT!!…BRRRRRFFFTTTT!!…TWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAARP!!!”