Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Back to Basics

Get outta my dreams
because you might just get killed
bunny-man costume

When I was a young lad, life was not as grand as it is now. We were going through some tough times, me being a man-whore and all, and things needed to look up. My dad cheated on my mom all throughout their marriage. She said he slept with her sister on their wedding night, which is 1) awkward, and 2) fucking awesome that he was sly enough to pull something like that off!

Anyway, life had been kinda hectic, what with my mom knocking my little brother's teeth out because he took a knife to school and Smeagol finally moving out for good, and the WORD came up: Divorce. You see, my mom had gotten a boob job so that she could finally realize her sexy time dream: stripping for men who paid her money. SOunds romantic, right? It's strange though, my dad was less than receptive to the idea of random men stuffing dollar bills into her g-string (every time I think of my own mother in a g-string I want to throw up. EVERY TIME) during the late hours of the night. It was a natural fit though: she was a nurse, so she had the right uniform for it and everything!

He forbade her to strip as long as he was "Man of the house".

So 3 weeks later, we had to find somewhere else to live, and Mom started her career path toward greatness, dancing for men who were willing to stuff money into her underwear... kind of like a fairy tale!

As an aside, I wonder how much money jizz moppers make, and if they get tips. If someone knows please tell me, I am trying to get someone a job in the industry.

Anyway, we moved in with my uncle, who lived in KCK, which is a dump. My dad took me to enroll at Eisenhower Middle School, which sounds much more hardcore than Arrowhead Middle School. We signed up for classes, and he informed anyone that would listen that I am diabetic and need to take a shot once a day when I eat lunch and I am so weak and frail that I need help holding my tiny weiner to pee pee (Actually I would have liked that part). He also signed me up for orchestra.

I play the cello, I played for 9 years. A cello is a fucking huge instrument, only bested in size by the bass and busted in weight by the bass and the trombone or something (I did absolutely no research on this so if I am wrong you are gay for looking it up), and he asked which bus should I take.

"None, he lives too close to the school" the old ass receptionist cawed harshly. You see, dear readers, in Kansas there is a law, called the Fuck Steve Wallace law, enacted the instant I set foot in this state, that says if you live less than 2 miles from the school you need to walk. My dad asked if there could be an exception made for me, as 1) I chug a cello to and from school, and 2) I lived so close to the line that my fucking neighbor, who was as hot as the day is long by the way, rode the bus. I mean, I was THATCLOSE! She lived literally 20 feet from our back yard, and she rode the bus!

The lady informed us that if she made an exception for me she would have to make an exception for every asshole that walked in the door, proving she did not know what the word "Exception" means... but I digress.

And so the school year started, and I lugged my cello to and from school 5 days a week, which is awesome. What is even More awesome is that in the area I lived in, there were no sidewalks, so you had to either walk in the street, which was usually just a 2 lane blacktop, or walk int he ditch, which was almost always filled with water.

What was MORE AWESOME is the dogs. You see, I think the people out on 62nd to 72nd and Leavenworth road did not like negros, as they all allowed their shit eating dogs to roam free, looking for easy pickins, which did not get any easier than a fat nerdy kid with glasses struggling with a cello and backpack nearing absolute exhaustion going to and from school.

Tomorrow... the Chihuahua and I start tying up Friday's story...

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