Currer Bell’s Yo’ Momma Jokes

Human beings must love something, and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to find a pleasure in loving and cherishing yo momma, shabby as a miniature scarecrow, throughout the night.

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It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with tranquillity: they must have unmuzzled crazies; so they suffer yo momma.

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There is only one difference between yo momma and me. I am not mad.

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Yo momma had no right to be born; for she makes no use of life. Instead of living for, in, and with herself, as a reasonable being ought, she seeks only to fasten her thighs about the dredge of society.

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Yo momma makes a restless pillow.

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Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about yo momma. Especially when she speaks to me as she does now. It feels as though I have a string tied here to the part of my eardrum which best perceive screeches, tightly knotted to her lips in a similar fashion. And when she speaks as she does, with all that stupidity, I am afraid that this cord will be snapped, and my ears shall bleed inwardly.

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I was actually permitting myself to experience a sickening sense of disappointment: but rallying my wits, and recollecting my principles, I at once called my sensations to order; and it was wonderful how I got over the temporary blunder—how I cleared up the mistake of spending that night with yo momma.

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Reader, yo momma.