your mother's having another one of her episodes.
Last night, she went to see A Doll's House with a couple girlfriends, and now she has ideas.
I emerged from my sanctum, this afternoon, to discover that not only had she not made me lunch, which is a meal I need in order to live, but she'd furthermore, locked herself in the bedroom to weep loudly.
Now, it's one thing for a woman to weep, but when they do it at such a volume you can hear it through the door, then you know they're doing it just for the attention.
Anyway, I was able to cobble together a sandwich for myself, so, I'm the real hero of the story. It was a couple hours later when I realized I was on a good run with my novel.
I had this really interesting sentence that kept going for pages and pages, and I thought about how rare it is to really get in the groove like that.
How, most days, I can't concentrate because my idiot child is blasting the television, and it suddenly dawned on me; hot ♥♥♥♥ on a rock, she never even picked up the little noise and snot factory!
So, here I am, being your mother, which I know is giving you all sorts of mixed-up ideas about gender, while your brain is still loose and stupid.
Just remember, if you become a queer later in life, this isn't my fault! Don't you sing no songs in your nightclub act called, "My Daddy was My Mommy," while gazing longingly at a tangled string of pearls.
Pearls are for ladies, BoJack.
Pearls are for ladies.
You know Sunday is my writing day.
Sundays are the one day that are just for me and my craft, and still, you and the black hole that birthed you conspire to ruin it for me.
What am I supposed to do now? Just go back to writing? I'm out of the zone now, the whole day's shot! All because of you and that brittle wisp of a woman you made the mistake of making your mother. No.
It's not her fault.
She's doing the best she can, after all.
It's just that you can't depend on women.
You can't depend on anyone.
Sooner or later, you need to learn that no one else is gonna take care of you.
That's what I learned when I had to make my own sandwich.
You can't rely on other people, BoJack.
It's good for you to know that.
And she's a good mother for teaching you that.
You've got a head start on most kids.
You're actually very lucky.
So, I stopped at a Jack in the Box, on the way here, and the girl behind the counter said, "Hiya! Are you having an awesome day?" Not, "How are you doing today?" No.
"Are you having an awesome day?" Which is pretty ♥♥♥♥♥♥ because it puts the onus on me to disagree with her, like if I'm not having an "awesome day," suddenly I'm the negative one.
Usually, when people ask how I'm doing, the real answer is I'm doing ♥♥♥♥♥♥, but I can't say I'm doing ♥♥♥♥♥♥ because I don't have a good reason to be doing ♥♥♥♥♥♥.
So if I say, "I'm doing ♥♥♥♥♥♥," then they say, "Why? What's wrong?" And I have to be like, "I don't know, all of it?" So instead, when people ask how I'm doing, I usually say, "I am doing so great.
" But when this girl at the Jack in the Box asked me if I was having an awesome day, I thought, well, today I'm actually allowed to feel ♥♥♥♥♥♥, today I have a good reason, so I said to her, "Well, my mom died.
" And she immediately burst into tears.
So, now I have to comfort her, which is annoying, and meanwhile, there's a line of people forming behind me, who are all giving me these real judgy looks because I made the Jack in the Box girl cry.
And she's bawling, and she's saying, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," and I'm like, "It's fine.
It's fine.
I mean, it's not fine, but, you know, it's fine.
And I would like to order a Double Jack Meal, and I've kinda got somewhere to be, so maybe less with the crying and more with the frying, huh?"
And the girl apologizes, again, and she offers me a free churro with my meal.
And as I'm leaving, I think, "I just got a free churro because my mom died.
" No one ever tells you when your mom dies, you get a free churro. Anyway, I'm sorry, that's not part of the
All right.
Okay, here we go.
Let's do this.
Here I am, BoJack Horseman, doing a eulogy, let's go.
Hey, piano man, can I get like a, like an organ flourish?
Nicely done.
You know, I was a little worried I wouldn't have the right accompaniment today.
I guess it's a good thing my mom was an organ donor!
- What happened to the organ?
Why don't you leave the comedy to the professionals? Okay? This is a funeral, sir, for my mother.
Can you show a little respect?
I'll take it.
Beatrice Horseman, who was she? What was her deal? Well, she was a horse.
Uh, she was born in 1938.
She died in 2018.
One time, she went to a parade, and one time, she smoked an entire cigarette in one long inhale.
I watched her do it.
Truly a remarkable woman.
Lived a full life, that lady.
Just, all the way to the end, which is, uh, now, I guess.
Really makes you think, though, huh? Life, right? Goes by, stuff happens.
Then you die.
Well, that's my time, you've been great! Tip your waitress! No, I'm just kidding around, there's no waitress.
That's all I have to say about my mother.
No point beating a dead horse, right? So
Now what? I don't know, Mom, you got any ideas? Anything? Mom? No? Nothing to contribute? Knock once if you're proud of me.
Can I just say how amazing it is to be in a room with my mother, and I can just talk without her telling me to shut up and make her a drink? Hey, Mom.
Knock once if you think I should shut up.
No? You sure? I mean, I don't want to embarrass you, by making this eulogy into a me-logy, so, seriously, if you wanted me to sit down and let someone else talk, just knock.
I will not be offended.
No? Your funeral.
Sorry about the closed casket, by the way.
She wanted an open casket, but, you know, she's dead now, so who cares what she wanted? No, that sounds bad.
I'm sorry.
I think that if she could've seen what she looked like dead, she'd agree it's better this way.
She looked like this.
Kinda like a pissed-off toy dinosaur.
The coroner couldn't get her eyes closed.
So, now her face is forever frozen in a mask of tremendous horror and anguish.
Or as my mom called it, Tuesday! Tuesday! My mom called it Tuesday.
Hey, Mom, what did you think of that joke? You like that?
You never did care for my comedy.
Here's a story.
When I was a teenager, I performed a comedy routine for my high school talent show.
There was this cool jacket that I wanted to wear because it would make me look like Albert Brooks.
For months, I saved up for this jacket, but when I finally had enough, I went to the store and it was gone.
They had just sold it to someone else.
So, I went home and I told my mother.
She said, "Let that be a lesson.
That's the good that comes from wanting things.
" She was really good at dispensing life lessons, that always seemed to circle back to everything being my fault.
But then, on the day of the talent show, my mother had a surprise for me.
She had bought me the jacket.
Even though she didn't know how to say it, I knew this meant that she loved me.
Now, that's a good story about my mother.
It's not true, but it's a good story, right? I stole it from an episode of Maude I saw when i was a kid, where she talks about her father.
I remember when I saw it, thinking that's the kind of story I want to tell about my parents when they die.

But I don’t have any stories like that. All I know about being good, I learned from TV. And in TV, flawed characters are constantly showing people they care with these surprising grand gestures. And I think that part of me still believes that’s what love is. But in real life, the big gesture isn’t enough. You need to be consistent, you need to be dependably good. You can’t just screw everything up and then take a boat out into the ocean to save your best friend, or solve a mystery, and fly to Kansas. You need to do it every day, which is so… hard. When you’re a kid, you convince yourself that maybe the grand gesture could be enough, that even though your parents aren’t what you need them to be over and over and over again, at any moment, they might surprise you with something… wonderful. I kept waiting for that, the proof that even though my mother was a hard woman, deep down, she loved me and cared about me and wanted me to know that I made her life a little bit brighter. Even now, I find myself waiting. Hey, Mom, knock once if you love me and care about me and want me to know I made your life a little bit brighter. My mother did not go gentle into that good night. She went clawing and fighting and thrashing, hence the face. If you’d seen her, I swear to God the only thing you’d be thinking about right now is that I am nailing this impression. I was in the hospital with her those last moments, and they were truly horrifying, full of nonsencial screams and cries, but there was this moment, this one instant of strange calm, where she looked in my direction and said, “I see you.” That’s the last thing she said to me. “I see you.” Not a statement of judgment or disappointment, just acceptance and the simple recognition of another person in a room. “Hello there. You are a person. And I see you.” Let me tell you, it’s a weird thing to feel at 54 years old, that for the first time in your life your mother sees you. It’s an odd realization that that’s the thing you’ve been missing, the only thing you wanted all along, to be seen. And it doesn’t feel like a relief, to finally be seen. It feels mean, like, “Oh, it turns out that you knew what I wanted, and you waited until the very last moment to give it to me.” I was prepared for more cruelty. I was sure that she would get in one final zinger about how I let her down, and about how I was fat and stupid and too tall to be an effective Lindy-hopper. How I was needy and a burden and an embarrassment—all that I was ready for. I was not ready for “I see you.” Only my mother would be lousy enough to swipe me with a moment of connection on her way out. But maybe I’m giving her too much credit. Maybe it wasn’t about connection. Maybe it was a… maybe it was an “I see you,” like, uh, “I see you.” Like, “You might have the rest of the world fooled, but I know exactly who you are.” That’s more my mom’s speed. Or maybe she just literally meant “I see you. You are an object that has entered my field of vision.” She was pretty out of it at the end, so maybe it’s dumb to try to attribute it to anything. Back in the 90s, I was in a very famous TV show called Horsin’ Around. Please hold your applause. And I remember one time, a fan asked me, “Hey, um, you know that episode where the horse has to give Ethan a pep talk after Ethan finds out his crush only asked him to the dance because her friends were having a dorkiest date contest? In all the shots of the horse, you can see a paper coffee cup on the kitchen counter, but in the shots of Ethan, the coffee cup’s missing. Was that because the show was making a statement about the fluctuant subjectivity of memory and how even two people can experience the same moment in entirely different ways?” And I didn’t have the heart to be, like, “No, man, some crew guy just left their coffee cup in the shot.” So instead, I was, like… “Yeah.” And maybe this is like that coffee cup. Maybe we’re dumb to try to pin significance onto every little thing. Maybe when someone says, “I see you,” it just means, “I see you.” Then again, it’s possible she wasn’t even talking to me because, if I’m being honest, she wasn’t really looking at me. She was looking just past me. There was nobody else in the room, so I want to think she was talking to me, but, honestly, she was so far gone at that point, who knows what she was seeing? Who were you talking to, Mom? [sighs] Not saying, huh? Staying mum? No rimshot there? God, whatever I’m paying you, it’s too much. Maybe she saw my dad. My dad died about ten years ago of injuries he sustained during a duel. When your father dies, you ask yourself a lot of questions. Questions like, “Wait, did you say he died in a duel?” and “Who dies in a duel?” The whole thing was so stupid. Dad spent his entire life writing this book, but he couldn’t get any stores to carry it or any newspapers to review it. Finally, I guess this one newspaper thought he was pretty hilarious, because they ran a review and tore him to shreds. So my father, ever the proud Mary, decided he would not stand for this besmirchment of his honor. He claimed the critic didn’t understand what it meant to be a man, so he demanded satisfaction in the form of pistols at dawn. He wrote the paper this letter, saying anyone who didn’t like his book, he would challenge to a duel, anyone in the world. He’d even pay for airfare to San Francisco and a night in a hotel. Well, eventually this found its way to some kook in Montana, who was as ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ as he was and took him up on the offer. They met at Golden Gate Park and agreed: ten paces, then shoot. But in the middle of the ten paces, Dad turned to ask the guy if he’d actually read the book and what he thought, but, not looking where he was going, tripped over an exposed root and bashed his head on a rock. I wish I’d known to go to Jack in the Box then. Maybe I could have gotten a free churro. It would’ve been nice to have something to show for being the son of Butterscotch Horseman. My darling mother gave the eulogy. My entire life I never heard her say a kind word to or about my father, but at his funeral she said, “My husband is dead, and everything is worse now.” “My husband is dead, and everything is worse now.” I don’t know why she said that. Maybe she felt like that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to say at a funeral. Maybe she hoped one day someone would say that about her. “My mother is dead, and everything is worse now.” Or maybe she knew that he had frittered away all her inheritance, and replaced it with crippling debt, which is a pretty ♥♥♥♥♥♥ thing to leave your widow with. “Bad news, you lost a husband, but don’t worry, you also lost the house!” Maybe Mom knew she’d have to sell all her fancy jewelry and move into a home. Maybe that’s what she meant by “everything is worse now.” Is that what you meant, Mom? I gotta say, I’m really carrying this double act. At least with Penn and Teller, the quiet one does card tricks. Hey, piano man, when I say something funny to my mom, how about you give me one of those rimshots? Yeah, but not now. When I say something funny. Like, okay. What’s the difference between my mother and a disruptive expulsion of germs? One’s a coughin’ fit and the other fits a coffin! That’s an example of a funny thing. Thank you. Let’s try again. Hey, Mom. What’s the difference between my mother and a bunch of Easter eggs? One gets carried in a basket, the other gets buried in a casket!
Ready for one more? Last one. What’s the difference between a first-year lit major and my mother, Beatrice Horseman? One is decently read, and the other’s a huge ♥♥♥♥♥! Yeah, might have gone a little too far with that one. That one might’ve been a little too “my mom’s a huge ♥♥♥♥♥” for the room. I’m sorry, Mother