Wow, my little Nicholas shipped off to the University of Maryland early this week, and my husband Mel and I couldn’t be prouder.

But now I’m struggling with what so many parents in my position agonize about: how do I tell him that his childhood bedroom is now a depraved sex dungeon to use in ways that he cannot even imagine, no matter how much porn he has watched on the iPhone grandma bought him last Christmas?

Let me back up: we are not monsters. We respectfully waited a full 72 hours after he left to begin the renovation.

We began by stripping off the basketball-themed wallpaper he’s had since he was 9 years old, and replaced it with a dingy metal sheeting that somehow always looks both rusty and wet. It’s like we’re prisoners, you know? Where there’s no escape and no one gets food or water unless our Master, who is watching from a monitor in the next room, the sick fuck, gets his fill of watching us doing every last thing he commands, no matter how abhorrent or shameful. Mmmm.

Oh, Nicholas, if you’re reading this, our Master is Mr. Gordon, who lives down the street. You used to mow his lawn and feed his cats when he went out of town. If you see him around Thanksgiving, please stop by and say hello.

Wait, Nicholas, what are you doing home so early? Oh, you were just away for a few days with your friends, and you actually go off to college this weekend? Wow, that totally slipped my mind. There are no windows or clocks allowed in here. Only ecstasy and screams.

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