Plus Two
Equals Necro-Kiddie Porn
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
MM and Her Toys
--E
Just to get you in the spirit of the post, click play (with headphones only).
This weekend, after I bought myself the Dick in a Box, it reminded me of my very first encounter with sex toys--the time when I found my mother's Dick in a Box.
It's no secret that my siblings and I are sexual individuals; when two people as horny as MM and Dad fucked like rabbits on a regular basis without adequate birth control, their seven kids were bound to inherit the obsession soon as the sperm fertilized the egg. Whether they tried it Doggy-style, MM on top, Scissors, The Wheelbarrow--there was no knocking out the sex gene.
In an attempt to quell our budding sexuality, MM enrolled us in Catholic school, also known as "Death to a Healthy Sexual Outlook."
In addition to this oppressive p.o.v. toward sexuality, I was also not allowed to enjoy masturbation. My cousin, Jailbird 2, taught me how to use bath time to my advantage when I was 10, but there had been many times when MM would bust me while auditioning the finger puppets. My endeavors weren't confined to the shower, either; I'll never forget the time I got caught with the ladybug "back" massager hidden inconspicuously next to my bed. That took a lot of explaining.
Catholic school taught me that while masturbation and sex before marriage were sins, I also learned that dressing like a slut makes you a slut, so I was consistently reprimanded for rolling up my skirt and wearing makeup. I learned that saying "Goddammit" in front of Mr. Sepanski, the Religion teacher (also known as Mr. Spank Me), was not approved of.
In an attempt to offset the Catholic Schoolgirl Phenomenon, St. Joe's instituted "Family Life" classes once a quarter in Religion class that served primarily to address interpersonal relationships, human growth development and sexuality, responsible personal behavior and building strong families--conveyed through poorly-drawn illustrations that unequivocally and artlessly stressed abstinence as the only means of birth control, and reproduction as the only reason for sex. The Family Life program looked down on sex before marriage and everything else related to intercourse--road head, anal, and even threesomes were prohibited in the Family Life curriculum. Sixes would probably have been kicked out of St. Joe's by third grade, riding crop and purple prostate eater in tow.
Despite what we learned in Family Life class, the boys I dated were teaching me other things-- that I could just give head instead of having sex; that "just the tip" wasn't sex, either. They taught me how to minimize teeth, the art of using two hands, and that if the guy pulls out it's not really sex and the girl is still a virgin (one less sin to confess before Easter, and YES, I seriously considered myself to still be a virgin for like, four years after that event, thx bro). After I finished eighth grade, I left St. Joe's, much to the dismay of Sister Mary Judith, I'm sure (PS: Detention accomplished nothing, so I hope you rot in hell, you fucking cunt).
My freshman year of high school, I had a serious boyfriend and showed with my mouth just how serious I was about him. Unfortunately for me (and my siblings, who, after that incident, were not allowed to have members of the opposite sex in their bedrooms) I made the tactical error of leaving the bedroom door cracked--so that I could see MM coming. Of course, I was precockupied with someone else's coming, and didn't hear her. She only saw me on the floor next to him, dick in hand. After that, I got a lecture about how I shouldn't fool around with anyone before marriage, blah blah, I could end up getting pregnant like Aunt J and have an abortion, blah blah. Lesson of the day, kids: blowjobs lead to abortions, so make sure to use cherry-flavored condoms when giving head.
MM watched me like a hawk after that, but quickly became distracted when she & Dad divorced and she found fresh cockmeat sandwiches. This proved to be a wonderful opportunity for me to let loose my inner harlot--as MM started dating, she was around less. My boyfriend and I would tag along with the family in the Suburban to Chief & Boss's Pop Warner practice. While MM and her boyfriend, the Nazi, would get to know each other in a way that was acceptable in public , I'd get down and dirty with my boy in the backseat across the field.
At some point during their courtship, MM's hypocrisy became obvious to me. Maybe it was the point at which Number 2 and I were sitting downstairs in his bedroom/Dad's workshop and could see the ceiling tiles shaking from a mid-afternoon romp above us. (Number 2's retaliation to this incident will be detailed in a later post.)
But yeah, that was one instance in which I learned MM liked to fuck.
Another incident occurred post-Nazi, when MM was on Match.com and went out one date with a dude; the next date, he came back to our house. I came home from waitressing one night to find Bee in my bed. Confused, I gently roused her:
E: Why the fuck are you in my bed?
Bee: MM said Rich was going to sleep in my room, so I had to come sleep down here.
MM didn't raise no fool, unfortunately for her and Rich. From the bottom of the stairs I could hear OH OH OHHHHH AH AH OOOOHHHH and was fucking pissed, for a number of reasons:
1) MM could fuck [a guy she barely knew, let alone a stranger to us], but I couldn't?
2) More importantly, I had to sacrifice my bed so that her hypocrisy could be kept quiet.
FUCK that, I thought, and marched up to her bedroom, banging on the door.
MM, breathless: WHAT???
E: Just to let you know, the whole house can hear you.
Rich left before breakfast the next morning. And I got a fucking earful about fucking interrupting someone and making those fuckers feel uncomfortable (while fucking).
Luckily, Bee shared my thoughts and was equally pissed. And when we told the rest of the family, they also agreed: MM was not allowed to tell us not to fuck before marriage and yet do it under our roof, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
However, that she had been found out did not stop her from telling us we couldn't have boys/girls in the bedroom. Once again, unfortunately for her, she made another mistake in her course on sexual education.
Number 2 and I were at home one day when the doorbell rang. UPS had a package for MM, and since neither of us had a credit card, she had been buying a lot of things for us, so we opened it assuming MM had finally ordered us the pair of shoes we asked for, like, three years ago. We brought the package up to her bedroom, figuring the worst case scenario was that MM ordered a birthday present WAY in advance, but since that was so uncharacteristic of her, we figured opening the box was safe.
It was not.
The following marks one of the most victorious moments of my sexual life--the beginnings of organizing a coup against MM's sexual tyranny.
I stuck my hand into the plastic peanuts and pulled an object out with my thumb and index finger: a pink Rabbit about eight inches in length and three inches in girth (MM did have seven kids, mind you--the average penis
size for all you insecure boys is only six and something inches).
I immediately threw the dildo at Number 2, who promptly vomited.
Not only was finding a dildo bad enough, but she'd also bought a porn with it! I refuse to believe this was a package deal; MM wanted to get her penile pleasure pursuit on without waking up the rest of the house.
The hardest part was trying to explain to MM why her box was open (all puns intended). We told the truth, trying to stifle our laughter and the awkwardness of the situation. To which MM explained with a freshly-fucked flush, "Oh, it's for Jeanette [my lesbian friend/coworker]. She's feeling...lonely."
"Yeah, okay Mom" is what I'm pretty sure both of us said to her face. It didn't help that two weeks later when we were INNOCENTLY (for once in our lives, free of other motives, STG) helping her out by changing her sheets at her request--that we found said dildo and porn in the most obvious of hiding places: underneath the mattress.
Did you honestly think no one would find it there, Mom?
I learned more from MM on this particular occurrence than I ever learned in Family Life, Cosmo, or all the boys combined: more important than practicing what you preach is perfecting the art of good hiding places.
Note: my Dick in a Box is not as good as it appears to be. While BMW is satisfied that his piece looks just as big off his body as it does on it, the thing gets the smell of rubber everywhere and doesn't feel so hot. That being said, maybe MM's Dick in a Box was a better idea, after all.
Just to get you in the spirit of the post, click play (with headphones only).
This weekend, after I bought myself the Dick in a Box, it reminded me of my very first encounter with sex toys--the time when I found my mother's Dick in a Box.
It's no secret that my siblings and I are sexual individuals; when two people as horny as MM and Dad fucked like rabbits on a regular basis without adequate birth control, their seven kids were bound to inherit the obsession soon as the sperm fertilized the egg. Whether they tried it Doggy-style, MM on top, Scissors, The Wheelbarrow--there was no knocking out the sex gene.
In an attempt to quell our budding sexuality, MM enrolled us in Catholic school, also known as "Death to a Healthy Sexual Outlook."
In addition to this oppressive p.o.v. toward sexuality, I was also not allowed to enjoy masturbation. My cousin, Jailbird 2, taught me how to use bath time to my advantage when I was 10, but there had been many times when MM would bust me while auditioning the finger puppets. My endeavors weren't confined to the shower, either; I'll never forget the time I got caught with the ladybug "back" massager hidden inconspicuously next to my bed. That took a lot of explaining.
Catholic school taught me that while masturbation and sex before marriage were sins, I also learned that dressing like a slut makes you a slut, so I was consistently reprimanded for rolling up my skirt and wearing makeup. I learned that saying "Goddammit" in front of Mr. Sepanski, the Religion teacher (also known as Mr. Spank Me), was not approved of.
In an attempt to offset the Catholic Schoolgirl Phenomenon, St. Joe's instituted "Family Life" classes once a quarter in Religion class that served primarily to address interpersonal relationships, human growth development and sexuality, responsible personal behavior and building strong families--conveyed through poorly-drawn illustrations that unequivocally and artlessly stressed abstinence as the only means of birth control, and reproduction as the only reason for sex. The Family Life program looked down on sex before marriage and everything else related to intercourse--road head, anal, and even threesomes were prohibited in the Family Life curriculum. Sixes would probably have been kicked out of St. Joe's by third grade, riding crop and purple prostate eater in tow.
Despite what we learned in Family Life class, the boys I dated were teaching me other things-- that I could just give head instead of having sex; that "just the tip" wasn't sex, either. They taught me how to minimize teeth, the art of using two hands, and that if the guy pulls out it's not really sex and the girl is still a virgin (one less sin to confess before Easter, and YES, I seriously considered myself to still be a virgin for like, four years after that event, thx bro). After I finished eighth grade, I left St. Joe's, much to the dismay of Sister Mary Judith, I'm sure (PS: Detention accomplished nothing, so I hope you rot in hell, you fucking cunt).
My freshman year of high school, I had a serious boyfriend and showed with my mouth just how serious I was about him. Unfortunately for me (and my siblings, who, after that incident, were not allowed to have members of the opposite sex in their bedrooms) I made the tactical error of leaving the bedroom door cracked--so that I could see MM coming. Of course, I was precockupied with someone else's coming, and didn't hear her. She only saw me on the floor next to him, dick in hand. After that, I got a lecture about how I shouldn't fool around with anyone before marriage, blah blah, I could end up getting pregnant like Aunt J and have an abortion, blah blah. Lesson of the day, kids: blowjobs lead to abortions, so make sure to use cherry-flavored condoms when giving head.
MM watched me like a hawk after that, but quickly became distracted when she & Dad divorced and she found fresh cockmeat sandwiches. This proved to be a wonderful opportunity for me to let loose my inner harlot--as MM started dating, she was around less. My boyfriend and I would tag along with the family in the Suburban to Chief & Boss's Pop Warner practice. While MM and her boyfriend, the Nazi, would get to know each other in a way that was acceptable in public , I'd get down and dirty with my boy in the backseat across the field.
At some point during their courtship, MM's hypocrisy became obvious to me. Maybe it was the point at which Number 2 and I were sitting downstairs in his bedroom/Dad's workshop and could see the ceiling tiles shaking from a mid-afternoon romp above us. (Number 2's retaliation to this incident will be detailed in a later post.)
But yeah, that was one instance in which I learned MM liked to fuck.
Another incident occurred post-Nazi, when MM was on Match.com and went out one date with a dude; the next date, he came back to our house. I came home from waitressing one night to find Bee in my bed. Confused, I gently roused her:
E: Why the fuck are you in my bed?
Bee: MM said Rich was going to sleep in my room, so I had to come sleep down here.
MM didn't raise no fool, unfortunately for her and Rich. From the bottom of the stairs I could hear OH OH OHHHHH AH AH OOOOHHHH and was fucking pissed, for a number of reasons:
1) MM could fuck [a guy she barely knew, let alone a stranger to us], but I couldn't?
2) More importantly, I had to sacrifice my bed so that her hypocrisy could be kept quiet.
FUCK that, I thought, and marched up to her bedroom, banging on the door.
MM, breathless: WHAT???
E: Just to let you know, the whole house can hear you.
Rich left before breakfast the next morning. And I got a fucking earful about fucking interrupting someone and making those fuckers feel uncomfortable (while fucking).
Luckily, Bee shared my thoughts and was equally pissed. And when we told the rest of the family, they also agreed: MM was not allowed to tell us not to fuck before marriage and yet do it under our roof, loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
However, that she had been found out did not stop her from telling us we couldn't have boys/girls in the bedroom. Once again, unfortunately for her, she made another mistake in her course on sexual education.
Number 2 and I were at home one day when the doorbell rang. UPS had a package for MM, and since neither of us had a credit card, she had been buying a lot of things for us, so we opened it assuming MM had finally ordered us the pair of shoes we asked for, like, three years ago. We brought the package up to her bedroom, figuring the worst case scenario was that MM ordered a birthday present WAY in advance, but since that was so uncharacteristic of her, we figured opening the box was safe.
It was not.
The following marks one of the most victorious moments of my sexual life--the beginnings of organizing a coup against MM's sexual tyranny.
I stuck my hand into the plastic peanuts and pulled an object out with my thumb and index finger: a pink Rabbit about eight inches in length and three inches in girth (MM did have seven kids, mind you--the average penis
size for all you insecure boys is only six and something inches).I immediately threw the dildo at Number 2, who promptly vomited.
Not only was finding a dildo bad enough, but she'd also bought a porn with it! I refuse to believe this was a package deal; MM wanted to get her penile pleasure pursuit on without waking up the rest of the house.
The hardest part was trying to explain to MM why her box was open (all puns intended). We told the truth, trying to stifle our laughter and the awkwardness of the situation. To which MM explained with a freshly-fucked flush, "Oh, it's for Jeanette [my lesbian friend/coworker]. She's feeling...lonely."
"Yeah, okay Mom" is what I'm pretty sure both of us said to her face. It didn't help that two weeks later when we were INNOCENTLY (for once in our lives, free of other motives, STG) helping her out by changing her sheets at her request--that we found said dildo and porn in the most obvious of hiding places: underneath the mattress.
Did you honestly think no one would find it there, Mom?
I learned more from MM on this particular occurrence than I ever learned in Family Life, Cosmo, or all the boys combined: more important than practicing what you preach is perfecting the art of good hiding places.
Note: my Dick in a Box is not as good as it appears to be. While BMW is satisfied that his piece looks just as big off his body as it does on it, the thing gets the smell of rubber everywhere and doesn't feel so hot. That being said, maybe MM's Dick in a Box was a better idea, after all.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Mogwog breaks her leg, we laugh
--Bee, Number 2 & E
Bee:
We were on our annual family ski trip (and I mean ENTIRE family—seven kids, one MM crammed into a condo in the mountains) to Mont Tremblant, Canada. The older siblings were expert skiers by now, especially Number 2, so MM let us go off in groups.
E:
Something you need to understand about MM: she has no ass and fake tits, therefore, she has no body fat. She has chicken legs and had a tummy tuck, so she’s got nothing to keep her warm. Even though she has heated ski boots, when she gets cold, she gets COLD, and has to get down the mountain ASAP and warm up, otherwise the rest of the day will be spent listening to MM bitch and moan about not being able to ski because of frostbite, and she’ll guilt someone into spending the rest of the day with her at the condo.
Bee:
Since Mogwog and Kait had finished ski-school for the day, they came with Number 2 and me, and we wanted to go on one more run for the day. It started snowing and we got cold and lazy so Number 2 decided that the team should take the quickest route down the mountain. Trusting his expert ability/opinion, we three n00bs followed. Halfway down, Number 2 realized that he took us down a double black diamond (for those of you non-skiers, that’s the hardest kind of trail).
Number 2:
I contest this. I did not intentionally bring said siblings down a double-black trail. What am I, half retarded?
E:
Ahem. Would this be similar to the time I first learned to ski, had spent the morning at ski school, and MM decided that since the beginner trails were closed, she’d take me down an intermediate trail? I didn’t speak French yet, so I asked what she was thinking taking me down a hard trail—even harder than a US-intermediate trail—after only two hours of skiing on bunny slopes.
E: MM, doesn’t blue mean intermediate?
MM: No, in Quebec “blue” means “easy.” You’ll be fine.
(E flies down the mountain at 50kph, unable to stop.)
MM: SNOWPLOW!!!!! FUCKING SNOWPLOW!!!
(E snowplows into a tree, gets carried down the mountain on a toboggan by Quebecoise ski patrol.)
And for the record, Number 2 is half retarded.
Number 2:
No I’m not. In this case, Mont Tremblant neglected to properly label their trails/trail maps. I highly distinctly remember the trail map said that this trail was a blue square (read: intermediate-level) trail. However, when the A-team reached the slope, I immediately realized that this was no blue square. It was scary—like that hilly street you are too scared to park on because you think that even with the parking brake on, the car will roll down and kill Grandma Agnes while she’s walking across the street. (It’s okay. She was gonna die anyway).
E:
By this logic, Mogwog was going to break her leg anyway. And “highly distinctly?” Are you seriously serious?
Bee:
At this point in Mogwog’s skiing escapades, she hadn’t learned what it meant to “snowplow.” All the bunny slopes had taught her was “pizza” and Canadian “fries,” at least that’s the way Jean-Luc the instructor put it. Number 2 led the way by zooming as fast as he could and Mogwog thought it would be cool to mimic him. What happened next sounded something like this: “Ahhhh, hahaha, oh no! Pizza and fries, pizzaaaa and frieeessss!!! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh pweajrkwlq;pjfsdhoiehwq!!!” Needless to say, she crashed into a patch of snow-covered trees.
Number 2:
Hey, asshole…no she didn’t. Mogwog caught an edge while snowplowing and was going too fast. She didn’t hit any trees—I remember because she was in the middle of the trail and we had to stand her skis up like an X.
E:
I can’t vouch for any of this. I was making out with some French boy.
Bee:
Anyway. Coming from a family of tough love, I thought Mogwog’s fall was hilarious! I skied down to find her crying. Someone came up to us and asked if she was okay. I shrugged them off in a breathless laughing fit, telling them she was fine, but they still proceeded to call ski patrol. By the time ski patrol got there she was shrieking loud enough to wake up Canadian Bigfoot, and I was only contributing to that. The medic asked Mogwog if she knew her name and how old she was, and she told them. And then they asked seven more times to make sure she didn’t have a concussion, only the eighth time they got the answer of, “I told you already! My name is MAGGGGGGGGIIIIIEEEEEEEE, GOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDD! Are you stupid????”
Number 2:
I second that – when she said that, I was fucking dying. Good thing Tremblant had cannon-balled the avalanches the day before, otherwise Mogwog would have definitely caused one.
Bee:
I know she was screaming out of pain, but I couldn’t help but crack up. When we found out that she actually broke her leg, I felt bad for about a second, until Chief and Boss were kicking her out of her wheel chair so that they could have a Handicap X Games with it. When we got home, Mogwog was bed ridden because the boys would not give up “the wheels of death.”
(For weeks, the events of the X Games at 210 Cable Ave—the rental house we lived in after George kicked us out—included: racing down the hallway, 30 second SS tricky session, and chasing Kaitlyn with Citrus-spray—to be explained later in the episode of “Piss Queen: aka Pee Pee Girl.” Months later, when we lived on Forrest Trail Circle and Gram moved in after her stroke, Chief would reobtain possession of the Wheels of Death and mimic Gram as she yelled MM’s name for help wiping her ass.)
Bee:
We were on our annual family ski trip (and I mean ENTIRE family—seven kids, one MM crammed into a condo in the mountains) to Mont Tremblant, Canada. The older siblings were expert skiers by now, especially Number 2, so MM let us go off in groups.
E: Something you need to understand about MM: she has no ass and fake tits, therefore, she has no body fat. She has chicken legs and had a tummy tuck, so she’s got nothing to keep her warm. Even though she has heated ski boots, when she gets cold, she gets COLD, and has to get down the mountain ASAP and warm up, otherwise the rest of the day will be spent listening to MM bitch and moan about not being able to ski because of frostbite, and she’ll guilt someone into spending the rest of the day with her at the condo.
Bee:
Since Mogwog and Kait had finished ski-school for the day, they came with Number 2 and me, and we wanted to go on one more run for the day. It started snowing and we got cold and lazy so Number 2 decided that the team should take the quickest route down the mountain. Trusting his expert ability/opinion, we three n00bs followed. Halfway down, Number 2 realized that he took us down a double black diamond (for those of you non-skiers, that’s the hardest kind of trail).
Number 2:
I contest this. I did not intentionally bring said siblings down a double-black trail. What am I, half retarded?
E:
Ahem. Would this be similar to the time I first learned to ski, had spent the morning at ski school, and MM decided that since the beginner trails were closed, she’d take me down an intermediate trail? I didn’t speak French yet, so I asked what she was thinking taking me down a hard trail—even harder than a US-intermediate trail—after only two hours of skiing on bunny slopes.
E: MM, doesn’t blue mean intermediate?
MM: No, in Quebec “blue” means “easy.” You’ll be fine.
(E flies down the mountain at 50kph, unable to stop.)
MM: SNOWPLOW!!!!! FUCKING SNOWPLOW!!!
(E snowplows into a tree, gets carried down the mountain on a toboggan by Quebecoise ski patrol.)
And for the record, Number 2 is half retarded.
Number 2:
No I’m not. In this case, Mont Tremblant neglected to properly label their trails/trail maps. I highly distinctly remember the trail map said that this trail was a blue square (read: intermediate-level) trail. However, when the A-team reached the slope, I immediately realized that this was no blue square. It was scary—like that hilly street you are too scared to park on because you think that even with the parking brake on, the car will roll down and kill Grandma Agnes while she’s walking across the street. (It’s okay. She was gonna die anyway).
E:
By this logic, Mogwog was going to break her leg anyway. And “highly distinctly?” Are you seriously serious?
Bee:
At this point in Mogwog’s skiing escapades, she hadn’t learned what it meant to “snowplow.” All the bunny slopes had taught her was “pizza” and Canadian “fries,” at least that’s the way Jean-Luc the instructor put it. Number 2 led the way by zooming as fast as he could and Mogwog thought it would be cool to mimic him. What happened next sounded something like this: “Ahhhh, hahaha, oh no! Pizza and fries, pizzaaaa and frieeessss!!! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh pweajrkwlq;pjfsdhoiehwq!!!” Needless to say, she crashed into a patch of snow-covered trees.
Number 2:
Hey, asshole…no she didn’t. Mogwog caught an edge while snowplowing and was going too fast. She didn’t hit any trees—I remember because she was in the middle of the trail and we had to stand her skis up like an X.
E:
I can’t vouch for any of this. I was making out with some French boy.
Bee:
Anyway. Coming from a family of tough love, I thought Mogwog’s fall was hilarious! I skied down to find her crying. Someone came up to us and asked if she was okay. I shrugged them off in a breathless laughing fit, telling them she was fine, but they still proceeded to call ski patrol. By the time ski patrol got there she was shrieking loud enough to wake up Canadian Bigfoot, and I was only contributing to that. The medic asked Mogwog if she knew her name and how old she was, and she told them. And then they asked seven more times to make sure she didn’t have a concussion, only the eighth time they got the answer of, “I told you already! My name is MAGGGGGGGGIIIIIEEEEEEEE, GOOOOOOOOOODDDDDDDDDD! Are you stupid????”
Number 2: I second that – when she said that, I was fucking dying. Good thing Tremblant had cannon-balled the avalanches the day before, otherwise Mogwog would have definitely caused one.
Bee:
I know she was screaming out of pain, but I couldn’t help but crack up. When we found out that she actually broke her leg, I felt bad for about a second, until Chief and Boss were kicking her out of her wheel chair so that they could have a Handicap X Games with it. When we got home, Mogwog was bed ridden because the boys would not give up “the wheels of death.”
(For weeks, the events of the X Games at 210 Cable Ave—the rental house we lived in after George kicked us out—included: racing down the hallway, 30 second SS tricky session, and chasing Kaitlyn with Citrus-spray—to be explained later in the episode of “Piss Queen: aka Pee Pee Girl.” Months later, when we lived on Forrest Trail Circle and Gram moved in after her stroke, Chief would reobtain possession of the Wheels of Death and mimic Gram as she yelled MM’s name for help wiping her ass.)
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Retard Rage
--Number Two
This is to be considered an interpretive account of retard rage. DYFS [Division of Youth and Family Services], if you're reading this, just consider this uncorroborated testimony. Besides, you already have so many other reasons to split up our dysfunctional fucking family :)
If you've read the previous family C-U-Next-Tuesdays, you know of Frick and Frack. But for this story, I am going to refer to them as Chief and Boss, the nicknames that were supposed to be universal for them because Uncle Dave (Uncle D) couldn't tell them apart.
Being twins, Chief and Boss have had a long history of violence from one another, stemming from that one time that Boss stepped on Chief's throat on his way out the womb in an attempt to win the ultimate victory of being born first (congrats, Ry). It was all downhill from there. They would punch each other, kick each other, bite each other, throw one another down the stairs, etc. Watching them fight was like watching R-rated movies as a kid - I could never look away because I didn't want to miss the point where the people in the movies would rip each others' clothes off and go at it--except in this scene, they'd proceed to beat the piss out of one another, and instead of having sex, one would start crying and the other would end up standing with his face in the corner somewhere, praying the rosary as punishment. And Mom wonders why we hate going to church.
This particular story centers around one specific fight over who-the-fuck-knows-what at our second house. They agree that it was over a game of chess, but both claim that it was the other who cheated. At this point, Ryan was the one who instigated the violence. He decided to pull his belt off and go old-school on Boss's ass. Boss, seeing this was going to escalate to an ass-whooping contest, decided to kick it up a notch, tormenting him all the while by laughing in his face. Boss runs to the kitchen and grabs the scissors that you can split apart and use as daggers. See, Mom? We did learn something from Mortal Kombat!
So Boss thinks he's gonna slash Chief a new mouth in his stomach like the liquid antagonist in Terminator 2, but Chief knows better. He's faster, and his whip-belt has much more range than Boss's step-above-prison-shanks. While fighting on the stairs, Chief lashes out at Boss's face. Trying to protect the beautiful visage that had already been scarred by CatMo [another story, coming soon], Boss quickly turns around. Wrong idea.
While still on the bottom stair, Chief jumps on Boss's back, applying the rear naked choke to his throat
(deadly). Boss must retaliate and get Chief off his back, or he will pass out. In a completely idiotic fashion, Boss's eyes roll back in his head like Satan, he begins to scream in tongues, and flails his arms as he does a backwards run into the wall behind him. Sure enough, Boss smashes Chief up against the wall, and Chief falls away from the choke. And sure enough, that wall is made of sheetrock. Actually, let me rephrase that: that wall WAS made of sheetrock. After the rear naked choke attack, there was gaping hole the size of Greenland in it.
Since neither myself nor E were home to referee the Ultimate Fighting Championship, Bee panicked and put in a phone call to E:
Bee: Oh em gee, E, Ryan and Kyle just put a hole in the wall!
E falls out of desk chair and rolls around laughing on dorm room floor.
E: What do you mean by "hole?"
Bee: A fucking hole, with his back.
E laughs more.
E: What happened, exactly?
Bee: Well, Ryan went after Kyle with a belt and Kyle grabbed scissors and pulled them apart and went at Ryan with them like knives--
[more laughter]
Bee: And then Kyle jumped on Ryan's back, and Ryan ran around screaming because Kyle was trying to choke him--
[E is crying]
Bee: So then Ryan slammed backwards into the wall to get him off, and now there's a big hole.
After laughter subsides, E says: Uh, so, what do you want me to do about this?
Well, there was nothing E could do, because at that very minute, MM came home and saw the
sheetrock that used to divide the hallway and the bathroom.
As punishment, Chief and Boss had to buy Plaster of Paris and the other materials, as well as pay Cement Hands for labor to fix the wall. They also had to sit and watch him do it.
This, my friends, is not the only instance of violence. This incident was just the beginning of Retard Rage.
(note: picture is just an example. actual hole size was...as big as a twelve-year-old.)
This is to be considered an interpretive account of retard rage. DYFS [Division of Youth and Family Services], if you're reading this, just consider this uncorroborated testimony. Besides, you already have so many other reasons to split up our dysfunctional fucking family :)
If you've read the previous family C-U-Next-Tuesdays, you know of Frick and Frack. But for this story, I am going to refer to them as Chief and Boss, the nicknames that were supposed to be universal for them because Uncle Dave (Uncle D) couldn't tell them apart.
Being twins, Chief and Boss have had a long history of violence from one another, stemming from that one time that Boss stepped on Chief's throat on his way out the womb in an attempt to win the ultimate victory of being born first (congrats, Ry). It was all downhill from there. They would punch each other, kick each other, bite each other, throw one another down the stairs, etc. Watching them fight was like watching R-rated movies as a kid - I could never look away because I didn't want to miss the point where the people in the movies would rip each others' clothes off and go at it--except in this scene, they'd proceed to beat the piss out of one another, and instead of having sex, one would start crying and the other would end up standing with his face in the corner somewhere, praying the rosary as punishment. And Mom wonders why we hate going to church.
This particular story centers around one specific fight over who-the-fuck-knows-what at our second house. They agree that it was over a game of chess, but both claim that it was the other who cheated. At this point, Ryan was the one who instigated the violence. He decided to pull his belt off and go old-school on Boss's ass. Boss, seeing this was going to escalate to an ass-whooping contest, decided to kick it up a notch, tormenting him all the while by laughing in his face. Boss runs to the kitchen and grabs the scissors that you can split apart and use as daggers. See, Mom? We did learn something from Mortal Kombat!
So Boss thinks he's gonna slash Chief a new mouth in his stomach like the liquid antagonist in Terminator 2, but Chief knows better. He's faster, and his whip-belt has much more range than Boss's step-above-prison-shanks. While fighting on the stairs, Chief lashes out at Boss's face. Trying to protect the beautiful visage that had already been scarred by CatMo [another story, coming soon], Boss quickly turns around. Wrong idea.
While still on the bottom stair, Chief jumps on Boss's back, applying the rear naked choke to his throat
(deadly). Boss must retaliate and get Chief off his back, or he will pass out. In a completely idiotic fashion, Boss's eyes roll back in his head like Satan, he begins to scream in tongues, and flails his arms as he does a backwards run into the wall behind him. Sure enough, Boss smashes Chief up against the wall, and Chief falls away from the choke. And sure enough, that wall is made of sheetrock. Actually, let me rephrase that: that wall WAS made of sheetrock. After the rear naked choke attack, there was gaping hole the size of Greenland in it.Since neither myself nor E were home to referee the Ultimate Fighting Championship, Bee panicked and put in a phone call to E:
Bee: Oh em gee, E, Ryan and Kyle just put a hole in the wall!
E falls out of desk chair and rolls around laughing on dorm room floor.
E: What do you mean by "hole?"
Bee: A fucking hole, with his back.
E laughs more.
E: What happened, exactly?
Bee: Well, Ryan went after Kyle with a belt and Kyle grabbed scissors and pulled them apart and went at Ryan with them like knives--
[more laughter]
Bee: And then Kyle jumped on Ryan's back, and Ryan ran around screaming because Kyle was trying to choke him--
[E is crying]
Bee: So then Ryan slammed backwards into the wall to get him off, and now there's a big hole.
After laughter subsides, E says: Uh, so, what do you want me to do about this?
Well, there was nothing E could do, because at that very minute, MM came home and saw the
sheetrock that used to divide the hallway and the bathroom.As punishment, Chief and Boss had to buy Plaster of Paris and the other materials, as well as pay Cement Hands for labor to fix the wall. They also had to sit and watch him do it.
This, my friends, is not the only instance of violence. This incident was just the beginning of Retard Rage.
(note: picture is just an example. actual hole size was...as big as a twelve-year-old.)
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Number 2's birthday
I'm late, I know. Better late than never. iMovie decided to choke at the last minute, just when I was putting the movie together, so the following is from yesterday. Just pretend like it's still Tuesday.
Today we celebrate the twenty-first anniversary of my first baby brother, Number 2. My earliest memory of #2 takes place on his first birthday. Regardless of whether or not this memory has been facilitated by our ONLY home video--the one that our aunt accidentally destroyed--I remember it clearly.
On the morning of April 8th, 1988, Mom & Dad spent several hours blowing up a garbage full of party balloons--the kind that you use to make animals and shit--and then we went to wake #2 up and dumped the garbage bag over his head. #2 was sitting in his crib and rubbing the sleepies out of his eyes, chillin out, when I made my debut as a ham (and bossy, abusive older sister) as I began smacking him in the head with balloons.
"Wake up, Evan!" I shrieked. "It's your birthday! I'm going to eat your cake!"
Number 2 sat there, staring in amazement at the bat-shaped balloon swinging toward his face.
As he played in the crib full of balloons, Dad zoomed in on me, marking the dialogue that our whole family has come to memorize and recite for some strange reason (perhaps because it's the only record of dialogue we had for about 10 years):
Dad: "Okay, Erin, it's time for breakfast."
Me: "But I already had breakfast!"
Dad: "You did? What did you make?"
Me: "Maa-aake?"
Dad: "What did you have?"
Me: "Animal crackers!"
cue family chorus in sing-song voice: "Animal crackers! That's not a very good breakfast, Erin."
Remembering the video inspires smiles all around, because this birthday will mark the first of many occasions on which I have effectively stolen the spotlight from Number 2.
Later on in the video, the camera pans to me kart-wheeling through the backyard and pushing Number 2 on the swing, causing him to accidentally knock into the tree until he starts crying. Fortunately, Dad was able to come to Number 2's rescue, and soothed him while he pushed me on the swing, instead.
The birthday festivities included family from my Dad's side--Aunt C, her [now] ex, and their three kids. We walked back and forth across the side yard, balancing eggs on spoons, carrying balloons under our chins and between each others' backs, all that cool shit. Needless to say, Number 2 sucked at all this shit. All he could do was hold a football with his baby sausage fingers and watch from the sidelines.Although, once inside, it was cake time, and eating was something he never failed at. In fact, he split our mother's hoo-hoo when he was born, weighing in at 9 lbs, 12 oz. So he squealed like a fat pig strapped into a high chair when some idiot relative put the cake on the tray in front of him. He went at it with both hands and bathed in it, smushing it around in his hair and fingers, throwing some on the floor for good measure.
All I remember is being so pissed that he wasted the chocolate cake. Even as a child, I could prioritize: chocolate is thicker than blood.Anyway, Number 2 grew up and got smart. So smart that he eventually did my math homework--for fun. Following in my Dad's footsteps meant that aside from being smart, he was really good at video games. We'd play Zelda--I had to beg to play because he and Dad would monopolize SNES--and when I got to a hard part, I'd ask him to beat it for me. Ry and Ky continue that tradition today; whether it's Diablo or Warcraft, Number 2 will pwn those nubs and level up to 70.
Growing up--and this may be a male thing, I'm not sure--#2 was obsessed with a few quality movies (Batman Forever, Three Ninjas, Three Ninjas Kickback, Drop Dead Fred) and felt compelled to learn the lines. All of them. I'd come into the living room at 10 years old and think, "oh, cool--Home Alone. I haven't seen this in a while." I don't think I ever saw the end, because Ev would rewind the part where Kevin plays the movie in the background as Harry and Marv are at the back door--you know what I'm talking about--and he would keep rewinding it until he learned all the words. "Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal."
He'd even do a dialogue between two people by himself: (skip to minute 2:40)
Now, repeat after me:
"Slow it down."
"Slowin."
"Slow it down."
"Slowin."
"Sloooooow it dowwwwn..."
[pause--best if recited with two friends]
"Uh oh. Fender bender."
"Woo, gonna get a ticket!"
"Shut up! Oh, not you, the kids."
Now rewind again to minute 2:40 and repeat. Twelve times. Now you have some idea what it's like to watch a movie with my brother. Unfortunately, his love of memorable quotes, or catch phrases, never faded as he "grew up." In fact, I'm pretty sure you could name a random movie and he could act out a scene.
His love of catch phrases STILL hasn't died. So, Ev, since it's your birthday, we thought we'd show you how we appreciate you and your Rainman-like determination to beat a quote till it's dead and has decomposed to the point that Grissom is examining what kinds of larvae have grown in it.
Happy Birthday!
family cunt
it's coming, i promise. due to some minor technical difficulties, we're running behind, but we should have the post up in a couple hours just in time for Number 2's birthday celebration.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
All in the Family
Disclaimer: if Aunt J or any of her immediate family members are reading this, you know that what I'm about to say is 100% true and can in no way be considered defamatory--you've ruined your own reputations, I'm merely reporting them.
I recently thought of my family's history of breeding delinquency after reading Velvet's latest post. In comparing our families, hers consists of Oldest, Older, and Velvet, with two well-matched Greek parents (read: eccentric, somewhat similar to those depicted in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but way cooler and nuanced, I imagine) who are still concerned with her well-being, bringing 27 boxes of tissues (because she needs something to clean up after her dogs knock over "china" mid coitus).
Velvet's family, stereotyped: Oldest brother: the caring, responsible, and forgiving eldest son who hosts Older brother for the weekend, a narcissistic well-to-do writer who knows everything about nothing, the least of which is the meaning of family. Velvet's the baby but an achiever at the very least, a sex goddess at the best--unaware of "feminism" because it never entered her mind that women should do anything other than what they want. Velvet, you, too, are my official girl crush.
Anyway, Velvet's story left me wondering what role one's family fills. In my family, there's been a long battle against becoming "one of them." We've made examples out of the screw ups: we've come to refer to Kait's (my youngest sister) tendency to leave the table immediately after dinner (in an attempt to avoid cleaning up) as "pulling an Aunt J." Similarly, when Kait started slacking off in school and nearly failed English, we told her she was going to be a dropout like Aunt J's kids--in an effort to remind her what she didn't want to be.
When Number 2 had a brief stint selling drugs out of MM's car, I told him he was going to end up in jail, like Jailbirds 1 & 2.
Basically, any time one of my siblings has screwed up or moved toward making a bad decision, we
remind them of what could happen if they don't shape up.
Now, for the things you can't make up (or can't you?): E's (maternal) family, the numerous, birth-control resistant, sloppy Irish Catholics. I thought a diagram would be easiest, so I spent two hours fucking around in Excel for you. Enjoy it.
Basically, we look like this on my mom's side:
Gram & Pop had 4 kids: Aunt J, MM (my mom, aka Milk Maker), Uncle N and Uncle D. The delinquency, while not restricted to my mom's side, is concentrated in Aunt J's family.
Aunt J: let's see. Was into alternative religious practices when she was 16, and went from Catholicism to Shamanism to Wicca. Four kids with three different men. Smokes pot with her kids, dresses like she's a teenager and wears belly shirts. Has no life. Husband is a drug addict and only ONE of her kids graduated from high school.
Step-uncle: hair is past his ass. Like his wife, is still stuck in 1990, when
it was cool for girls to wear huge bell bottoms and for guys to have long hair and wear Mega Death t-shirts. This is the uncle who, under the pretense of fixing my brother's computer, came into our house and stole MM's jewelry. He promptly left town for Colorado and pawned the jewelry for drug money.
Kid A: fairly normal; family overachiever because not only did he graduate high school, he went on to college (never finished). Stellar athlete and drummer. However, Aunt J couldn't afford/be bothered with a deaf child, so she passed him off onto my grandmother at a young age. This is probably the only reason he went as far as he did. Now that Gram has passed away, he's been without a steady job and was, at one point, asking my mom what to do about the rumors surrounding his girlfriend being pregnant with another guy's kid.
Jailbird 1: slightly more decent than the rest of his family. Having a[n illegitimate] kid has cleaned him up; basically, he was an addict at one point and is now claiming he's clean (marijuana not included).
Jailbird 2: Aunt J never wanted her. Seriously--'bird 2 would come over to our house crying, asking to live with us. On and off she did. Perhaps the biggest screw up in the family: tried to get away from hard drugs at 19ish so she came to live with us. Took my mother's car before she even had a license, let her friend smoke crack in the car in front of me, stole my then-eleven-year-old brother's Timbaland boots (for skiing) because they were "mad gangsta," and she and her white friends needed to be chill, yo. After my mom reluctantly kicked her out, stole an ambulance because there was heroin in it. Went to jail, got out on probation. Got pregnant, got thrown back in jail, let out again to deliver baby. Skipped town and left baby with paternal side. Baby's around four now. 'Bird is currently 24 and dating a 17 year old who she met through her younger sister, the Future Jailbird/Vampire.
Future Jailbird/Vampire: went through a phase where she was really active on VampireFreaks.com. Vowed she'd never be like her siblings, yet is an avid pot smoker and high school dropout. Also has had several assisted miscarriages. Our family now has a running joke that in addition to the numerous (once monthly) collect calls we've gotten over the years from Jailbirds 1 & 2, we expect to get one from the Future 'bird. Our stepdad, Cement Hands, even does the impression of the operator saying "you have a collect call from: [insert family member here]."
So, kids, next time you think about smoking a cigarette or stealing something--as small as a twenty from Gram's purse, or as big as an ambulance--just remember: you could end up with a meth face, hiding from parole for the rest of your life.
But honestly, Aunt J, you and your kids are the reason why I've always had really, really safe sex, so thanks for that, at least.
I recently thought of my family's history of breeding delinquency after reading Velvet's latest post. In comparing our families, hers consists of Oldest, Older, and Velvet, with two well-matched Greek parents (read: eccentric, somewhat similar to those depicted in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, but way cooler and nuanced, I imagine) who are still concerned with her well-being, bringing 27 boxes of tissues (because she needs something to clean up after her dogs knock over "china" mid coitus).
Velvet's family, stereotyped: Oldest brother: the caring, responsible, and forgiving eldest son who hosts Older brother for the weekend, a narcissistic well-to-do writer who knows everything about nothing, the least of which is the meaning of family. Velvet's the baby but an achiever at the very least, a sex goddess at the best--unaware of "feminism" because it never entered her mind that women should do anything other than what they want. Velvet, you, too, are my official girl crush.
Anyway, Velvet's story left me wondering what role one's family fills. In my family, there's been a long battle against becoming "one of them." We've made examples out of the screw ups: we've come to refer to Kait's (my youngest sister) tendency to leave the table immediately after dinner (in an attempt to avoid cleaning up) as "pulling an Aunt J." Similarly, when Kait started slacking off in school and nearly failed English, we told her she was going to be a dropout like Aunt J's kids--in an effort to remind her what she didn't want to be.
When Number 2 had a brief stint selling drugs out of MM's car, I told him he was going to end up in jail, like Jailbirds 1 & 2.
Basically, any time one of my siblings has screwed up or moved toward making a bad decision, we
remind them of what could happen if they don't shape up.Now, for the things you can't make up (or can't you?): E's (maternal) family, the numerous, birth-control resistant, sloppy Irish Catholics. I thought a diagram would be easiest, so I spent two hours fucking around in Excel for you. Enjoy it.
Basically, we look like this on my mom's side:
Gram & Pop had 4 kids: Aunt J, MM (my mom, aka Milk Maker), Uncle N and Uncle D. The delinquency, while not restricted to my mom's side, is concentrated in Aunt J's family.
Aunt J: let's see. Was into alternative religious practices when she was 16, and went from Catholicism to Shamanism to Wicca. Four kids with three different men. Smokes pot with her kids, dresses like she's a teenager and wears belly shirts. Has no life. Husband is a drug addict and only ONE of her kids graduated from high school.Step-uncle: hair is past his ass. Like his wife, is still stuck in 1990, when
it was cool for girls to wear huge bell bottoms and for guys to have long hair and wear Mega Death t-shirts. This is the uncle who, under the pretense of fixing my brother's computer, came into our house and stole MM's jewelry. He promptly left town for Colorado and pawned the jewelry for drug money.Kid A: fairly normal; family overachiever because not only did he graduate high school, he went on to college (never finished). Stellar athlete and drummer. However, Aunt J couldn't afford/be bothered with a deaf child, so she passed him off onto my grandmother at a young age. This is probably the only reason he went as far as he did. Now that Gram has passed away, he's been without a steady job and was, at one point, asking my mom what to do about the rumors surrounding his girlfriend being pregnant with another guy's kid.
Jailbird 1: slightly more decent than the rest of his family. Having a[n illegitimate] kid has cleaned him up; basically, he was an addict at one point and is now claiming he's clean (marijuana not included).
Jailbird 2: Aunt J never wanted her. Seriously--'bird 2 would come over to our house crying, asking to live with us. On and off she did. Perhaps the biggest screw up in the family: tried to get away from hard drugs at 19ish so she came to live with us. Took my mother's car before she even had a license, let her friend smoke crack in the car in front of me, stole my then-eleven-year-old brother's Timbaland boots (for skiing) because they were "mad gangsta," and she and her white friends needed to be chill, yo. After my mom reluctantly kicked her out, stole an ambulance because there was heroin in it. Went to jail, got out on probation. Got pregnant, got thrown back in jail, let out again to deliver baby. Skipped town and left baby with paternal side. Baby's around four now. 'Bird is currently 24 and dating a 17 year old who she met through her younger sister, the Future Jailbird/Vampire.Future Jailbird/Vampire: went through a phase where she was really active on VampireFreaks.com. Vowed she'd never be like her siblings, yet is an avid pot smoker and high school dropout. Also has had several assisted miscarriages. Our family now has a running joke that in addition to the numerous (once monthly) collect calls we've gotten over the years from Jailbirds 1 & 2, we expect to get one from the Future 'bird. Our stepdad, Cement Hands, even does the impression of the operator saying "you have a collect call from: [insert family member here]."So, kids, next time you think about smoking a cigarette or stealing something--as small as a twenty from Gram's purse, or as big as an ambulance--just remember: you could end up with a meth face, hiding from parole for the rest of your life.
But honestly, Aunt J, you and your kids are the reason why I've always had really, really safe sex, so thanks for that, at least.
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