Eat Soap and Die

It’s been almost a month since we last rendezvoused: one trip to Michigan, two birthday parties, four threats of being sold to the highest bidder on Craigslist, three different soaps tried in my mouth for cussing, and 1,289 sentences ended in “you knucklehead,” “you poop butt,” or “you penis breath.”  Mom is drinking heavily again.  She is counting the hours until I’m back in school nine hours a week, and while she voiced some concern over whether or not I would be kicked out of the program last spring, she doesn’t give a shit now.  I’m paying those fuckers plenty of money.  They’re keeping him! is her sweet, saucy, stay-at-home-mommy mantra now.  Hell.  I don’t even know where to begin.

My trip to Michigan was fun.  I got to fish, go for boat rides, party with One-Eyed Willy, go to a water park, eat a LOT of candy, watch Netflix for kids at my leisure, sleep in a king-size bed with mommy and daddy, ride a bad-ass hot rod bicycle, eat s’mores, and stay up late most nights.  When we got back to California, I decided I would rather be in Michigan, and since that wasn’t in my cards, I decided to be an exceptional prick.  And I have been ever since.

I’m back into cussing profusely, mainly because its starting to illicit the appropriate responses from mommy again.  Instead of ignoring me, she’s back to flipping a fucking lid when I shout Shit!  Dammit! Shut your mouth!  Bitch!  God blessed! from my time-out rug.  Such a poetic, verbal potluck of magical words I will lash her with, until her eyes cross, and she uses what I would argue is unnecessary force to drag me to my room.  I sense her weakness as of late.  Turning four is much like drinking the blood of a superhuman monster.  I’m smarter, stronger, assholier, wittier, better looking, and just plain hungrier for victory against the parental unit.  A couple of weeks ago, though, some friend of mommy’s suggested she put soap in my mouth–a real pain in my ass, this suggestion from her bitch friend–because of course mommy was like giddy with excitement to try it out.  The first week, though, joke was on the hag, because mommy was using this flowery orange bar of soap from her collection of flowery, colorful soaps, and it tasted a bit like marmalade.  Eventually, daddy figured out this was not a sufficiently nasty enough soap to shove down my throat, so they ended up taste-testing several prospects right in front of me while I sat on the toilet quietly with my hands in my lap, waiting for them to choose the one that just might make me vomit.  Can you picture this?  Like a couple of hens in a fucking smelly candle shop.  Assholes. They did eventually find the grossest one, and while I haven’t cleaned up my language completely–and I never will, have you fuckers met my mother?–I’m thinking a little harder about what comes out of my mouth now.

Terrorizing Leona has become my heroin.  Even though she is finally done hanging off of mommy’s boobies–thank God, I thought Rat Baby was going to lose her virginity before she got cut off from those things–Mommy is still so kissy-facey and lovey-dovey with her all the time that the only thing I can do to keep from throwing up in my mouth is to run at The Rat full force and tackle her, sack style.  I’ve gotten really good at this.  I did it three times in the San Francisco airport before we left for Michigan.  Tackling a 1-year old baby also gets a lot of attention from strangers, by the way, including highly disapproving looks at mommy and daddy who are used to this behavior and therefore mildly reactive.  Anyway, tackling is fun, but if I don’t have enough room to get a good running start, I will just do things like back-hand her in the head when I walk by, grab her arm really hard and bring her to her knees, or get really close to her face and scream as loud as I can.  Sometimes she cries, sometimes she doesn’t, but one hundred percent of the time I go in a time-out.  I know she’s the favorite because she has sweet, curly locks of hair that mommy loves to brag about, and when we are discussing my hair, it’s about how I have an imperfect hairline, or how thick and unruly and lackluster and style-less it is.  Also, Leona’s skin is soft and supple; mine is rashy, rough to the touch and full of eczema.  I also have a lot of itchy bumps on my ass like 70% of the time.  The icing on the cake is that she makes perfect kissing noises with her lips and everyone seems to think this is a big fucking deal.  I make perfect farting noises with mine, and I get time-outs for it.  Ahh, well.  The haters are going to be stepping on my heels for the rest of my life.  I might as well embrace it.  Or wear flip-flops all the time.

Well, I’ve got some shit to do.  I’m going to Papa Tim’s and Gramma Jett’s house tonight so I have to practice my Please Let Me Stay Here Forever Because My Parents Suck speech in the mirror a couple more times.  Did you know I can fake tears?  This time it’s going to work.  I really, really want to live there instead, without a mommy who smells like stale booze, and without a sister who shits her pants an extra four times a day just so she can break up me and booze-breath’s game of Toy Story Memory. 

Wish me luck.  If you never hear from me again, the speech worked.


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Spielberg Screwed Me, Dude

My mother is a smug bitch.

For years, she and daddy have been in search of my kryptonite, that one thing that could defuse the total toddler asshole in me.  This thing, albeit a tangible item of sorts, a magical phrase, an activity, a deep-rooted phobia, would be something they could take away, or say, or maybe shove up my ass really far so that I would forever remain in the world’s good graces.  In the parenting world, discovery of this super secret jugular vein is like winning the fucking lottery.  I’ve overheard numerous phone conversations where mommy is bitching about what a tireless little jerk I am, and whoever is on the other end offers suggestions to “fix” me.  Mommy’s responses generally include I already tried that, it didn’t even phase him, He doesn’t give a shit about anything! and YOU come here on the night he doesn’t get to watch Toy Story.  That’s a punishment for US.  It is very important that we, as small children who thrive on making our alcoholic mothers’ lives miserable, especially during Diet Coke hangover mornings, do everything in our power to keep this thing a secret so that it cannot ever be used against us.  Well.  That said, I am ashamed to say I have failed you, my brothers and sisters.  I’ve been exposed.  My kryptonite, revealed.

And on the third day, they shall use their bastard daggers to plunge at me, like wild animals, and plunge and plunge again, into this vein that gives me life, meaning, a reason to exist in this putrid place, until they have drained me of all my vivacity, and my soul has spilled out from the inside and seeped sticky and red into the cement cracks of the garage floor next to the oil stains from daddy’s ’71 Shovelhead…

Okay, you may think the drama is over the top, but the hag took my fucking BIKE away the other day.  For the whole day.  No morning ride with Leona in the stroller.  No afternoon ride with daddy at the skate park.  And it was like no other pain I’ve ever experienced.  My bike, my little two-wheeler without training wheels as of two weeks ago, is the Gusman’s kryptonite.  Oh, is it ever.

The whole thing started when I quoted my favorite line of Elliot’s from E.T.:  It was nothing like that, penis breath!  Ha!  I fricken love that line.  Penis breath.  Awesome.  Time and time again, however, I’ve been made aware that we should not call people “penis breaths,” especially our mothers.  As a result, of course, a time-out ensued, and when I began chanting shit-dammit-bitch from the time-out rug, I was threatened with no bike for the whole day.  At this point at 7:30 in the morning, I wasn’t really super phased by the words of this threat.  So I continued my chant, the bike was officially removed for the day, and I had to spend ten minutes cooling down in my room.  The morning went by, Leona went down for her nap, and soon mommy was gearing up in her tennis shoes to jump on the elliptical machine in the garage.  Usually I will ride around the cul-de-sac for twenty minutes while she is exercising.  About three minutes into her workout, I got sick of playing daddy’s drums and I put my bike helmet on just to see what would happen.  She smiled at me and continued on her sweating regiment.  I meandered over to where the bike was stashed in the corner of the garage and coolly put my hand on the seat, stealing a glance at her.  She pretended not to notice.  Well, this didn’t seem so bad.  Looked like mommy had come down with another case of empty threat syndrome.  So I went for it.  With a gush of nonchalance, I declared I was going for a ride down the street now.  She looked at me and raised her eyebrows smugly.  Oh really? she mused.  Not today, my friend.

Dammit.  This was going to take some work.  I whined for a good five minutes until she talked me into riding my scooter around the block instead.  She knows, of course, it takes ten times the energy to ride a scooter around a fucking cul-de-sac, and when I came back panting and red and told her that riding my scooter was too hard, it was too hot, and it was not fun, the bitch half smiled and didn’t respond.  I went for it again.  I think I’ll ride my bike now, mommy.  Again, silence.  Mom?  Mom?  Mommy, I’m talking to you.  Mom?  Can you please listen to me?  This time, a flat no.  I tried to reason with her and the following conversation went down:

Me:  But mommy, I just really want to ride my bike today.

Mommy:  No.

Me: But why not?

Mommy: Because you had a potty mouth this morning.

Me:  But mom, listen.  Let me tell you something.  Sometimes, friends do things that make their other friends mad, like say naughty words.  But friends should still let their friends ride their bikes!  Don’t you think, mom?  Because we’re friends, mom.  You’re my friend, so you should let me ride my bike.

Mommy:  I’m not you’re friend.  I’m your mother.

Bitch had that fucking shit right.

I then resorted to a tantrum on the garage floor, threatening at the top of my lungs to throw everything in the garbage, including my scooter and the whole house.  Hag face continued to calmly ignore me until I undid the foot brake on the jogger stroller that was sitting at the top of the driveway and let that bitch go sailing in reverse down the drive into the street.  Mommy jumped off that elliptical so fast I thought she might pull a muscle and sprinted down the driveway after it.  The look on her face after catching it a half second before it made it into neighborhood traffic was quite murderous.  After parking it, she grabbed my arm not-so-gently and dragged me into the house, explaining that someone could have hit the stroller and gotten hurt.  Which was totally my intention.  Dumbass.

While sitting in my time-out for the stroller incident, I took off my bike helmet and hurled it at mommy when she wasn’t looking.  It struck her with a good smack right in the back of her thigh.  I could tell it hurt because it made a perfect smacking noise, and she dropped a big DAMMIT, GUS! at the top of her lungs.  It felt good to see her in pain.  I was in far greater pain, after all.  The feeling in the pit of my stomach that my life was forever changed now–that the parental unit had all the ammunition they would ever need to get them through life–was boiling unpleasantly there like bad Mexican food.  Fuck.  What a bust.  I suppose the moral of the story is to not quote lines from E.T., keep your mouth shut in time-out if you must quote a line from E.T., and remain cool when punished so the  parental unit does not discover that taking away your bike for a whole day is the equivalent to having your toenails removed with pliers.

I hope some of you can learn from my mistakes.  If I can save even one of my fellow assholes out there, this particular blog has served it’s purpose.  Oh, and those of you I do save, you owe me some fucking M&Ms and like fifty bucks, because this is bullshit.

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In Olympic Spirit, I Pass the Torch

While I would truly like to apologize to you all for taking such long leaves of absence from this blog lately, I would rather tell you all to suck it, because it’s summertime, and Gusman loves the summertime.  I’m far too busy swimming, riding my bike, stepping on roly poly bugs and eating popsicles to write as much as I used to.  And, because mommy has figured out that if she gets me to ride my bike four miles a day, I have significantly less energy to throw dominoes at her from my time-outs or try to writhe from her grip when being escorted to my bedroom for the trending ten-minute cool downs; thus, I have not been such a shit lately.  I know, I know, you’re all so bored with my good behavior.  Ye of little faith, come on.  On my best day, I’m still acting up like a ten-times-removed foster brat, so give me some credit.  So, that’s what’s up.  I’m sure all you pricks have been too busy slamming margaritas and working on your skin cancer moles in the summer sun to read me anyway.

That said, I’m pushing the parental unit to have a garage sale so I can hide Leona in a brown paper grocery bag, top it with some straw, and sell it as a five-cent scarecrow  costume for Halloween.  Holy fuck, talk about a hag junior.  The Rat has made serious waves in the asshole department in the last month, and I seem to be the target of her crap most of the time.  Firstly, I’m pretty sure she’s borderline retarded because instead of asking for anything, she grunts like an angry bear, and then when she doesn’t get what she wants because nobody in this family speaks Angry Bear, she starts hitting and throwing things.  Say I have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios on the couch, minding my business, watching some morning-time Yo Gabba Gabba.  Her eyes deadlock on my sweet, honey-licious booty (the cereal, people, the cereal) and she goes Angry Bear on me.  I pull my bowl closer to me and look at her–somewhat nervously, I’ll admit…angry bears are fucking volatile and unpredictable!–and she grunts louder.  I call for mommy to come and clear things up before things become a situation.  Rat Baby grunts one more time and swings at me with a plastic microphone.  Son of a bitch, my Honey Nut Cheerios go flying everywhere–including down into the cracks of the couch as I scramble to save them–and ever since mommy and daddy warned me about ants (you know, how they bite so hard you bleed, especially bites on the ass), I have become an ant-aphobic mess, so much so that I will cry hysterically if I see Leona drop a piece of granola in the hallway.  I don’t need any ants turning my ass bloody in their attempt to score some old popcorn kernels buried in the deepest recesses of the sofa.  So I have to scream for mommy to help me clean up the mess because I am terrified I will miss one Cheerio, the one Cheerio that will bring a brigade of carpenter ants into my house to bloody my bottom, while Leona just grabs a handful nonchalantly and saunters away to the toy box like nothing ever happened.  Meanwhile, I practically need therapy to move on from the incident.

Not only does she speak a language we don’t understand, she is physically abusive.  Aside from her slap-happy hands, her weapon of choice is the DirecTV remote control.  Ever been whopped in the head with one of those bad boys?  It doesn’t feel good.  This morning, she even learned how to fake mommy out.  The three of us were snuggling on the couch, and Leona was quietly playing with the remote in mommy’s lap.  Suddenly, she turned to mommy and raised the remote high above her head like she was going to whop mommy, and mommy flinched.  Actually, it was more like a heavy twitch that could have thrown her back out again.  Leona thought this was hilarious, so she grinned hugely and raised the remote again and jerked the remote at us slightly.  Mommy and I both recoiled this time, and Leona went into a fit of giggles.  After several more fake-outs, she was put on the floor as mommy was not amused with Leona’s one-year-old ability to instill the fear of physical pain in her mother and brother.  The result was extra snuggle time with just me and mommy while Leona Angry Bear-grunted from the living room floor.  Score for me.  On the upside of this, Leona has gotten a taste of time-outs for the first time this week.  If she beats on the pit bull, mommy puts her on the dog-hairy rug for one minute.  The first time she did this, I had front row seating.  It was awesome, kind of a cross between watching really cool fireworks, my favorite movie, and a show at SeaWorld, all while eating chocolate cake with gummy bears on top.  And since I was all smiles, so was Leona, and so she giggled through her first few disciplinary actions.  Eventually, I was not allowed to sit and watch her in her time-outs like she was a circus freak show.  Still.  It’s good to see someone else on that filthy fucking rug for a change.

So The Rat’s behavior has sort of shed this glorious light on me as of late, but I’m adhering to my regular misdemeanor-grade antics, for instance, eating toothpaste from the bathroom sink counter, then denying it with a smile after telling mommy to smell my breath.  Or, racing to grab the toilet paper, turds, or both, in the toilet after flushing it to see if I am, in fact, faster than the power of the flush.  I’ve also made a fun rhyming game out of almost-naughty words.  Can I say fitch, mom?  Fitch.  Fitch!  Son of a fitch!  Can we say lammit, mom?  Lammit!  I also walk around sing-songing “oh…my…gahhhh-SHHH a lot.   This game does not impress the hag at all, but I think it’s fun.  Better to be hooked on phonics than hooked on hangovers, right mommy dearest?  Either way, these things are all minor in comparison to some shit I’ve pulled in the past, but I have a pirate birthday bash coming up and my eyes are set on a new BMX bike…this is grounds for not giving Leona a swirly any time soon.  Even though she deserves one.

In closing, I’d like to address the elephant in the room.   I know several of you are waiting to get an earful about my time with Aunt Linda, Aunt Kim, Aunt Jenny, Aunt Paula and Gramma Mic this past week.  All I can say is, the Gusman doesn’t kiss and tell.  Also, those bitches can drink Long Island Ice Teas like a dorm-roomful of perky-breasted sorority prospects dying for negative male attention.  Only they don’t end up puking.  I need not wonder where the hag gets her steel liver from any longer.   And that’s all I have to say about that.  I have video footage if anyone wants to hit me up at my birthday party at Gun Lake in August.  But bring your pocketbook.  This shit is goooood.


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Insert Sand in Face, Then Scream

Things have been good lately.  Too good.  I know mommy feels the same way, because she tells me every day that I have been such good boy lately, and she loves me sooo much when I am her sweet little man.  Which begs the question, how much does she fucking love me when I’m not?  That being said, good shit happens to boys who mind their mothers, let me be the first to tell you, and while I will never disappoint you all and turn over a new leaf completely, it doesn’t hurt to let it fly through the wind once in a while–especially if the end result falls between the lines of treats, trips, and toys.

Daddy had to work this last Saturday, and since mommy wasn’t convinced that I would make her life a living hell, she plead insanity for the afternoon and drove me and Leona to Santa Cruz by herself for a day at the beach.  Leona had never been, and we were both very excited.  After driving around for almost thirty minutes to find parking once we got to the beach, mom was about to have an anxiety attack.  We’d already been in the car for an hour, looped through the North Harbor three times and tried unsuccessfully to bribe one young parking attendant with a ten-dollar bill to please let us restaurant park, we promise not to tell! and she knew if we had to turn around and go home, me and The Rat would surely be hurling feces at her from the back of the minivan the whole damn way.  The beach parking gods were with us though, and right before mom was about to give up and hit a liquor store to grab a pint for the long drive back, an overflow lot opened up in the marina.  Rock star.  We were off!

I had my helmet on and was waiting on my bike in under a minute while mom hauled no less than four large bags of shit into and onto the top of the stroller.  As always, it was about twenty-five degrees cooler here than in San Jose, bringing us to a nice, windy 70 degrees, but me and Leona didn’t care.  After slathering us up with some SPF, and squeezing us into life jackets, we headed to the shore to chase waves.  It. Was. Cold. As.  Fuck.  But after five minutes, my legs were numb up to my penis, so it didn’t matter much.  Leona was a bona fide psychopath in the water.  It took her all of forty seconds to realize she liked the waves, liked them very much indeed, before she was hauling ass down the slope of the shoreline at the incoming 7-foot waves, screaming in terrified delight, completely out of control and off-balance and ready to bite it at any moment.  Mommy had to bend over and hold the back of her life jacket every single second so she wouldn’t get swept out to sea, which meant she couldn’t keep her eyes on both of us 100% of the time, which meant that when I sort of lost track of where I was and did the down-shore shuffle in and out of the tide, mommy would have to scream like a lunatic to get my attention.  Then, if she had to pick Leona up to come to get me, Leona would throw an absolute fit, flailing her arms and legs, flipping her body upside down, kicking wet sand into mommy’s face.  We did this song and dance for about twenty minutes before mommy declared it lunch time.  She told me to go rinse my hands and legs off in the water before following her back to the blanket.  I did, but then ran so fast and furiously at her that I bit it, sprawling in the sand and re-blanketing myself with beachy goodness.  The first time, mommy laughed, rolled her eyes, and said, okay, clutzo, go rinse again, but after six rinses and six diggers in the sand, she was fucking pissed.  Leona was crying and squirming in mommy’s arms because she wanted to be playing in the sand and water, so mommy had to put her down to come and get me.  We rinsed, mommy told me to walk very carefully so as not to fall, or we were going home.  Right about that time, we noticed Leona had left the dry sand perch mommy had left her at and she was running full-throttle in the opposite direction down the shore.  Mommy ran after her, yelling her name, but this was clearly Leona’s plan.  Rat Baby turned to look back over her shoulder at a frantic mommy and overestimated her coordination by a long shot.  She tripped and fell face-first in slow motion, her right knee digging into the wet sand while her left leg continued to follow gravity, lifting up behind her arabesque-like, while the palms of her hands tried to keep her from eating more sand than entirely necessary.  The end result was shitty.  The night before, Leona had fallen on the concrete outside in our back yard and scraped up her eye and cheek pretty good.  This new swan dive into the sand–which somewhat resembled a strength pose at a female body-building competition (don’t ask me how I know this shit)–re-opened all the lesions and scratches on her face from the night before.  Throw in some sand and a little salt water and Rat Baby was screaming her Sweet Jesus’ all the way back to the blanket, especially after mommy tried to wipe her face clean with a sandy towel.  I actually felt bad for The Rat.  She continued to wail through my peanut butter and jelly sandwich (which mom had to feed me–inevitably, I fell on the way back to the blanket), and it wasn’t until she had cried all the sand out of her eyes and was sipping on a cold Capri sun that the sobbing subsided.  Mommy leaned back on the blanket, took a deep breath, and looked up into the sky, clearly wishing buckets of vodka would rain down on us at once.  Leona started playing with the sand toys and I started drilling mommy with questions about sharks.  While we were engaged, mommy caught Leona face down in the sand again, this time with her mouth wide open, on purpose.  Dammit, Leona!  she snapped, scooping her up and force-feeding her a water bottle.  Leona just gave us both a funny face while gnawing the sand and water so that an awesome stream of mud ran down her chin.  Mommy was shaking her head and sighing again.  I smiled at her and told her I loved her.  She cocked her head, smiled, and winked back at me.  Then I told her I had to poop.  Like immediately.  I knew the bathrooms were 100 yards away, but what was I supposed to do?

In the end, the day was a blast.  We pooped, played in the waves a bit longer, then loaded up the stroller and dropped off a bunch of crap at the minivan.  Mommy didn’t even try to slam a margarita at The Crow’s Nest bar while I stood next to Leona in the stroller at the hostess stand.  I know, right?  Then we went for leisurely bike/stroller ride through the marina and looked at all the boats.  Leona was kind of crabby, but mommy bought her some Cheetos to shut her up, and me and mommy got to enjoy ourselves for a while.  I even got an M&M ice cream cookie sandwich after my ride, which of course, Leona wanted instead of her popsicle, and so after a lot of annoying shrieking, I had to eat my ice cream two benches down by myself while mommy distracted Leona with seagulls and beach volleyball players.  Fine by me.  I would eat the shit out of that thing in solitary confinement at San Quentin.  I barely remember getting strapped in the van before I was out like a light.  Leona, too.

I’m not sure mommy will take us by herself again anytime soon, but I give the hag credit for trying it once.  Besides, it’s unlikely that my good behavior streak will last long enough to warrant another beach rendezvous.  Mommy is sober this week for reasons she will not expound on, which means her temper will be shorter, which means I will get blamed for shit more often (guess what, mommy and daddy dearest, Leona has been climbing up on the couch by her-fucking-self for over a month now.  I’M NOT THE ONE LIFTING HER UP, DAMMIT.  The little bitch knows how to climb up there, and she knows I get blamed too, because you think she ever crawls up there when mommy or daddy are in the room?), which means memories of her sweet little man that she loves sooo much will soon fade away.  Enjoy me while I can be tolerated, sweet mother of mine.

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The Fourth of July and I

Happy fuckin’ red, white and blue all you flag-wavin’ hillbillies.  Yee haw, let’s blow some shit up.

I have to say, this 4th of July is looking to be one of the finest in my three-year life.  We started this past weekend off with a bona fide redneck parTAYYY, and I gotta say, I am totally cut out for this shit: dirt bikes, s’mores, firecrackers, naplessness, trampolines, squirt guns, water balloons, extended bedtimes, Doritos all day every day, and just total lack of responsible caregiving in general.  Santa better pull some holy fuckin’ miracles outta Rudolph’s butt this coming Christmas, because Uncle Sam just one-upped his jolly ass.

The weekend started especially awesome, because daddy took me and The Rat to Hollister to Papa Tim and Gramma Jett’s house early in the afternoon on Friday–and we left mommy’s ass at home because she had to work.  In a nutshell, it was perfection.  I ate Hershey’s chocolate bars for dinner, rode my bike until midnight and got to go to bed in a tent with daddy without brushing my teeth or changing my clothes.  Utter sweeeetness.  For anyone who’s keeping track, it doesn’t get much better than this.  The next morning, I got to pretty much do it all again.  Mommy showed up around 2 p.m. with Hot Hallie and a buzz, but I barely acknowledged her as I wheeled in and out and around tables, chairs and pop-up tent poles on my bicycle.  After I ignored her request for a hug and sped away from her remark about my black toenails, she went in search of cups, ice, and vodka with an always-mommy’s girl Leona in her arms.  Whatever.  Who needs a mom when there is an Uncle Nate trying to hit me in the face with a water balloon?  Fuckin’ A, not the Gusman.

The day ensued with plenty of burgers, dogs, steaks, and the lot of traditional side dishes, but I didn’t pay much attention.  I was busy riding dirt bikes and throwing rocks at Uncle Nate.  Mommy got pretty stumbly around 8 P.M., but shockingly enough, daddy took home the Inebriation Nation plaque.  He was talking very funny, and by funny, I mean Japanese.  Every time I would ask him for another dirt bike ride, mommy would cock her head, grin like a retard, say I don’t think so, and pick me up and bring me to some candy.  Which was cool with me.  I caught on after the third request for a bike ride.  Anyway, there were plenty of driveway fireworks, mommy and I had a sword fight with glow sticks, somewhere along the line I ended back up in the tent, and the hag actually remembered to put a diaper on me.  Somewhere between 1 and 3 a.m., we all ended up on a quickly deflating air mattress.  Fortunately for them, they had seven bottles of wine and a half-gallon of vodka, which meant they didn’t know their shut-eye arrangements to be any different from a lush, king-size bed with Egyptian cotton sheets at a hotel room in Vegas.  And I, of course, had eleven straight hours of bike-riding or trampoline-jumping to keep me sedated.

Somewhere between six tents snoring like dying raccoons and cock-a-doodle-doo, I felt a swarming warming around my inner thighs and belly.  Apparently, I had four too-many Capri Suns for my cheap-ass Safeway diaper to handle.  I rolled over and prepared to go back to sleep as I always do when I piss myself, but the river flowed to daddy’s side of the mattress, and he actually woke up.

“What the fuck, I’m covered in piss,” he mumbled.  Mommy just shushed him and told him to go back to sleep.  Which he did.  A couple of hours later, we all woke up at the same time, mommy, stretching and moaning good morning, me, smiling and asking if I could go ride my bike, and daddy dropping F-bombs because he smelled like urine.  Mommy squealed at him not to touch her as he tried to roll out from the middle of the 50% inflated mattress, and I thought the whole mess was pretty fucking funny.  No less than fifteen minutes later, daddy had showered, mommy had downed two cups of coffee and was pouring a vodka soda, and I was being summoned to the bath tub.  It took mommy a lot of elbow grease to clean me up, but at the end of the scrub-down, she had given up on the bottoms of my feet and ankles.  They were still black.  She claimed she had a bucket of bleach at home that she would fill the kiddie pool up with later.

The third day ended with mommy passing out in the mini-van while Uncle Nate drove home, daddy rode his Harley, and a massive amount of greasy Mexican food ended up on our kitchen island at some point later in the evening.  Daddy grunted nonsense a lot while he ate, and mommy just kept looking at all of us with a blank expression.  Me and The Rat were dunzo, though, and went to bed without any sort of argument.  The next day, I was sad because I woke up to Multi-Grain Cheerios and milk for breakfast instead of Scrabble Cheez-Its, but whatever.  I have my memories.

I hope all of you have as much fun tomorrow as I had this weekend.  The plan is to check out a parade in the morning, BBQ in the afternoon, and see some fireworks at night.  I don’t know if my parents can stay sober enough to drive me to the light show, so I will likely end up getting into the lighter stash in my mom’s jewelry box to light my ass on fire.  I’ve given up on asking mom to pull my finger every ten seconds; she just purses her lips like an ugly nun, scoffs, and threatens a time-out.  The trick is to pull your own finger.  If you can master that shit, who needs the hag?  I can make my own Fourth of Joooly fire-farts in my back fucking yard.

God Bless the U.S.A.

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Beat-Down, Bruised and Bloody

The other night, mommy was watching an episode of Law and Order Special Victims Unit.  The story line followed Olivia Benson’s sort of piece of shit brother as his children were taken from him by the state because A. he got busted with a joint during a routine traffic stop, and B. there was a small bruise on his son’s forehead when Child Protective Services came to investigate the family in their home.  Long story short, CPS swooped in like knights in shining armor to take the kids away, and poor, little smokey-tokey brother couldn’t do shit about it.  The point of all this is, is CPS sooo fucking busy here in San Jose they can’t drop by to see that me and The Rat both look like we’ve gotten our asses handed to us in a cage fight recently?  One visit, that’s all I ask.   And we could blow this popsicle stand together.

For example, you all know we’ve both had black eyes already this summer.  Granted, I walked into a table at Gramma Jett’s house for mine, and Leona got a little top-heavy on a concrete step to acquire hers, but it’s all about the illusion, people.  All I need is a sympathetic stranger with a subpoena to take me away to create the impression that my vodka-infused mother and my apathetic father put a little elbow grease into smacking their small children around more often than not.  Two weeks ago, I had no less than 417 itchy, burning bites on the back of my right hamstring and thigh that felt like a traveling-downward version of the wretched diaper rashes I used to get.  These rashes were the death of me over and over again, a painful death in which my balls would feel as though they were soaking in bowl of battery acid whilst my butt-hole was itching to boot-scoot doggy-style across the bristly outdoor mats my parents have outside the front and back doors.  And granted, upon finding these blistering bites on my leg, mommy washed my sheets and applied cortisone cream for three days, but still.  Also, this week at the pool (mommy got brave and brought both of us by herself minus a bubba keg full of vodka, which means miracles really do happen), Leona fell three times on scalding concrete, landing on the same knee each time, until the growing mound on her knee looked like ground beef.  Approximately the same time she took her third digger, I jumped into the one foot deep kiddie pool and ripped off half my big toenail, and a chunk of the one next to it.  In the process, I also sprained my ankle and scratched whole top of my foot.  It was sort of a clusterfuck.  Leona was screaming, I was limping, leaving a trail of blood everywhere, and a family of obviously nosy Asians were ogling the scene…it was kind of awesome.  We came home shortly after.  Mommy gave both me and The Rat some Tylenol, and cracked a beer.  Hmm, what else?  Oh yeah.  At Auntie Jamie’s the other day, I fell on some loose bricks bordering the driveway and smacked my chin on the cement sidewalk.  Daddy barely looked up from his beer as Auntie Jamie carried me, hysterical, into the house to perform the antiseptic routine.  I now have a misshapen pepperoni scab underneath my chin, but at least she gave me a sucker for my strife.  Fuckin’ daddy.  And speaking of a negligent/apathetic father, we can’t forget when me, him and Leona were all home Friday night and mommy was at work.  Me and The Rat were digging through the diaper bag–harmless enough, right?–looking for a bottle of liquid Tylenol to try to break into.  I discovered something much more awesome: a full can of spray-on SPF 50.  Before I could fathom the consequences, I had turned Leona’s face completely white with it.  She was not a fan of this game.  She screamed louder than I have ever heard her scream before and daddy came rushing in to dump her whole head underneath the kitchen sink.  A total face wash ensued, Leona did NOT shut the fuck up, and I of course spent a very long time in time-out.  Which is fine by me, because I overheard daddy telling mommy the story the  next day, claiming that what he wanted to do was “throw me across the fucking room.”  In these particular instances, I will take the ten-minute time-out with a smile–a subtle one.

So that’s that.  To my own discredit, I have taken on the role of “tough guy” in this family.  I have sort of cornered myself into a place where I am comforted less for minor injuries, including, but not limited to, hang nails, jammed fingers, fell-and-cracked-my-head, sprained ankles, split lips, bruising on any part of the body, paper cuts, scratches from the wilderness, scratches from my mommy trying to catch me during a time-out evasion, bites, face-smacks from The Rat, remote control head-smacks from The Rat, etc. etc.  Because I am a self-proclaimed tough guy–my mantra is I am tough! and I say it close to thirty times a day–I don’t get a whole lot of sympathy.  Unless I am vomiting, fevering above 104, bleeding out my ears, ass, or both at the same time, choking on my tongue, or just plain not breathing, my proud-to-be-so-fucking-unruffled-about-a-chipped-tooth parents barely glance in a screaming child’s direction.  Which is why I have to be such an asshole all the time.

That said, I haven’t been a tremendous asshole lately, because Leona is filling in the gaps.  The mischievous glint in her eye has become blinding like the sun.  She honestly laughs when mommy smacks her hand, yells, or tries to be stern.  There’s this little wave of pride that swells in my chest for her.  I’m even considering allowing her to guest blog on The Uncouth Son, but I don’t want any of my thunder to be stolen.  So long as she stays aware of her rank in this family and quietly shares her Cinnamon Toast Crunch with me in the mornings whether I have my own bowl or not, I might let her speak her mind.  I know she’s on my side, anyway.  Maybe we should just rule the fucking world together.

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Dog Days of Mommydom

After about a month of relatively passable behavior, I can officially announce that the Gusman has his swagger back.  Mommy has the fear of Toddler back in her eyes.  She won’t make eye contact with me because she knows I will raspberry the air in her direction with defiance.  She talks to me like she doesn’t like me even when I’m not doing anything particularly wrong.  I catch her giving me dirty looks when I am less than three feet away from Leona, like she can read my naughty little mind.  Granted, all of her behavior is justifiable.  I’ve been a total asshole.  Two days ago, I not only beat my all-time personal best record for time-outs in one day, I created–and set the bar high in–a different category:  Most Back-to-Back Time-Outs.  Oh man, the hag didn’t have a prayer.

The day started out with some pretty minor offenses, like accidentally spilling my Kix all over the living room floor, then intentionally stepping on each and every one of them until there were little piles of cream-colored dust decorating the entire area surrounding the coffee table.  When Leona got the hang of it and started giggling along with me, mommy came running out of the kitchen, haggard as an 83-year-old prostitute, firing coffee-breath threats at the top of her lungs.  At breakfast, there was another dusty cereal incident, this time involving multi-grain Cheerios in a Thor Pez dispenser.  If you were to ask the hag about Cheerios in a Pez dispenser, you’d get a not-so-cheerful those don’t go in there.  Who knew?  I’m three for fuck’s sake.  Also on the list of misdemeanors:  slapping a blubbering Leona in the face moments after mommy scolded her for climbing on the coffee table (hey, really she was crying for no reason–mommy doesn’t even yell at her, it’s bull shit–I thought I’d give her something to cry about), repeatedly calling mommy “mean mommy,” which built up to “meanest mommy EVER,” which, guess what?  The more you make the accusation, the more mean mommy you get, etc.,  etc.  By 10:30 a.m., I had over 15 time-outs.  By the way, can I throw this out there?  Any of you mommy geniuses out there think that maybe these three-minute rendezvous’ on the dog-hairy rug…umm, hmm, maybe don’t fucking work?  I mean, I hate to point out the fat chick in a room of crack whores, but if she’s gnawing on her own fucking leg

Anyway, mommy’s feeble attempts to control me are not really my concern.  Someday she’ll figure out that the only way to keep me in her good graces is to send me to a boarding school in Hong Kong where I can get a dorm room full of Lucy Lius to tutor me some, and Dim Sum more, and Dim Sum more after that, if you know what I mean.  My point is, she’s lost her edge, and I’ve gained mine.  After I refused to go down for a nap, she threw in the proverbial towel and used it to wipe the tears when she called Gramma Mic to tell her what a dick I am.  By the way, name-calling is so cheap, mommy dearest.  But I get it!  I just couldn’t keep my mouth shut.  No matter what she said, asked of me, commanded me, I had to flap my gums at her like a rogue in heat.  Time-out after time-out after time-out I spat in her direction, called her names, sliced at her shins with my imaginary pirate sword, up-turned rugs and doggy water bowls, threw shoes at her head…it was not her finest moment as a parent because, hey, the truth is, her greatest adversary has come from her own womb.  I almost felt bad for her.  And I say this every so often, when I am really blasting bastard at a high volume–you have to feel bad, right?  Yeah, well, I’m lying out my ass.  The drunk bitch deserves it.  She flicks me in the forehead sometimes, and tells me she’s going to sell me to the crazy neighbors, one of which screams dementedly all through the night.  Sympathy for the Devil?  I think not.

The day sort of peaked when she called Gramma Mic and turned into a sniveling wretch.  I caught bits and pieces of the phone conversation, but I heard several words and phrases in particular from mommy that described her drinking habit: awful, doesn’t stop, bad mom, out of control, and I don’t need another one.  When she hung up, she was crying.  I came and straddled her on the couch and put my arms around her neck.  I asked her if she was crying.  She said yes.  Then I started to fake cry as hard as I could.  She just looked at me, shook her head, and probably cried harder.  Then I told her she couldn’t be crying, because was crying.  And I was crying harder.  She sat back and looked up at the ceiling.  I pulled a tissue from the end table and gave it to her with a winning smile–through my fake tears.

At the end of the day, I love the hag.  I really do.  But I feel strongly that I was put here to…challenge the norm, you know, make her work a bit.  And every day, I get better at it.  Better and better.  Pretty soon, all my toddler peeps out there will want me to bottle up my inner spice and sell it on the fucking internet.

Save your pennies.  It won’t be cheap, bitches.

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Semantically Insane

It’s no big secret that mommy curses as much as she drinks.  Or, wait.  Is that right?  Maybe it’s drinks as much as she curses.  You know what, I don’t even know for sure, but let’s just say the hag has a penchant for f-bombs and indiscriminate happy hours, and it’s likely she came out of the womb that way.  So it should come as no surprise that I have been known to say a naughty word here and there.  My first big one was “shit.”  Back when my time-outs were really starting to kick into gear around age two and a half, the parental unit couldn’t set a kitchen timer without an earful of shit! berating them all the way across the room.  Eventually, they started to ignore me.  I got louder and more aggressive for a while, but then got bored with the whole thing and just kept my mouth shut.  It became more fun to run from my time-outs and watch mommy try to chase me with a straight face around the kitchen island.

Along the way, I’ve learned which words I’m not allowed to say out loud, and which words I can say out loud to really piss them off without actually being in direct violation of the No Profanity Clause that my hypocritical mother and father have set into play.  Allow me to explain further.  I know the basics: shit, fuck, dammit, damn, and I’ve pretty much learned them in that order.  “Shit” came from Gramma Jett at a young age, “fuck” is clearly a gift from mommy the English major, “dammit” is well, also mommy, and “damn” was only learned last week.  We were at The Jungle, and one of the games upstairs was not working.  A man’s robotic voice kept repeating, “Oh damn, oh damn,” and so on the way to the bathroom, I heard him, and started sing-songing along with him.  Mommy glared at me as we walked into the stall and said, that is NOT what he’s saying.  He’s saying ball jam, ball jam.  We don’t say ‘Oh damn.’  That’s potty talk.  Like I actually knew.  My point is, I know not to curse, and I don’t do it often in front of the parents anymore.  It’s much more proficient to repeat their own smart-ass remarks back to them when they are irritated with me.

Mommy:  Gus, knock it off.

Me:  You knock it off.

Mommy:  Watch your tone, young man.

Me:  You watch your tone.

Mommy:  Do you want a time-out right now?

Me:  Do you want a time-out?

And so on and so forth.  This gets under their skin way faster, and besides, I have dropped an f-bomb once or twice in my life  just to see what it felt like, and they struggled not to laugh.  Why would I want to make them laugh?  So, you see, cursing is not all it’s cracked up to be.  With my twisted parents anyway who talk like sailors, it’s more entertaining for them than maddening, and that’s no fucking fun.

With the exception of the “B” word.

And this, I learned today.

In a nutshell, I was over-tired and probably so was the hag; she was busy playing Cinderella all day, mopping, dusting, vacuuming, pissing and moaning about crumbs on the couch, Take your shoes off NOW!, blah fucking blah.  I clocked Leona in the head with a pillow after a direct order not to, so I was dragged to the hairy time-out rug, which, pleasantly enough, was not so hairy after a good bi-annual cleaning.  I went down swinging.  Mommy set the timer for 3 minutes and told me I was going to bed right after, which, let’s be honest, is just stupid.  Don’t make me sit in a fucking time-out if I just have to take my nap right when the microwave beeps!  So in one fell verbal swoop, I shouted, you’re-a-mean-mommy-SHIT!  No response.  SHIT!  SHIT!  She actually yawned.  I thought I’d get innovative.  Bitch!  I saw her straighten up even though her back was turned to me.  What a bitch!  I pressed on.  I could see her standing there, deliberating, sizing me up, wondering how far I should be allowed to take this new word.

Oh yeah, I went all the way, people:

You’re a bitch!

In the next moments, I saw my life flash before my eyes.  It was like a scene out of a sci-fi movie where you get stuck in a room with a freakishly fast, vampire-esque alien monster, thrown into the air, tossed against walls, bitten, mauled, trampled, terrorized…and when it’s over, you don’t know your nostrils from your asshole but you’re out of breath, weeping, screaming, and everything hurts.  It wasn’t good.  And to be honest, I might not have even remembered what had triggered the attack had the attacker not gotten down on both knees in front of me, looked at me with acid simmering in her eyes, and grabbed me not-so-gently by my shoulders to say to me in a very low, very tense voice:  Listen to me verrry carefully, Augusten.  You will never, ever, ever say that to mommy or anyone again for the rest of your life, do you understand me?  EH-VER.   She spoke at me slowly, like maybe I rode the short bus, but whatever, I didn’t care.  I hysterically agreed through chokes and sobs, and I have to say, I wasn’t fucking lying.  I had opened Pandora’s box, and now it was shut again–that shit ain’t getting opened on my shift ever again.

So.  Today I lay low.  I almost feel like you should all do the same.  Stay OFF mommy’s block, at least until the first wine bottle hits the recycle bin.


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The Last, Lost Invitation EVER

It was so sweet that mommy was waiting in the window for me when I got home today from two nights away at Papa Tim’s and Gramma Jett’s.  She gushed how much she missed me, doted on my black eye (yes, another black eye in the family–this time I walked into a kitchen table, but you can bet your ass that mommy be on her best behavior or that’s not the story I will be telling my teachers tomorrow), asked me what kind of fun games I wanted to play today, hugged me, plastered me with kisses, you know.  The whole guilty lot of shit parents do when they ship their oldest son out for the weekend and have a kick-ass, raging Memorial Day party behind his back.  Oh, what, you think the Gusman didn’t know?  That I don’t find this shit out?  That I had no idea that Sienna was at my house all fucking day yesterday playing with my toys, eating my gummy worms, watering my mommy’s flowers, dancing around and singing her stupid fucking songs about rainbows and sparkly princesses while everyone else sat at the outdoor bar eating junk food out of gigantic, colorful bowls, sucking down vodka and wine like the apacalypse was knocking on the front door?  Oh, yeah, guess what assholes?  I knew.  Gramma Jett slipped up and told me.  And when I wanted to leave their house immediately after learning about this utterly disgusting betrayal to come join the party and wreak havoc like I have not wreaked havoc before, she said, simply, no.  That I had to stay the night with them while everyone continued to party on like Donkey Kong at MY HOUSE in San Jose.  And so, when mommy greeted me with loving enthusiasm this morning, let’s just say I did not feel the need to return the sentiment in full.

So I didn’t.  Gramma Jett didn’t stay long, which was a perfect reason to throw a fit.  I pretty much had to get started right out of the gate if mommy wanted to know exactly how pissed off I was about this whole thing.  So I asked if Gramma Jett could please stay for a while, and when she gave me some lame-assed excuse about errand-running, I cranked out the tears and kicked and screamed on the kitchen floor for a full three minutes.  They tried to talk over me, so I screamed louder.  When Gramma tried to hug and kiss me goodbye, I denied her.  Then, after she’d left, I cried, kicked and screamed even harder because I didn’t get a hug and a kiss goodbye.  Mommy said, let’s play a game! in a shamefully sprightly tone.  I gave her a withering look and told her I did NOT want to play a game with her, now or EVER.  She responded once more with a chirpy, smiley, how about if we take a walk to the park? and I have to say, in light of yesterday’s party, and the pain in my heart from being disallowed to be here to protect my toys and throw shit at Sienna when she took things that didn’t belong to her, I wanted to knock that cheery look off of mommy’s face with a frying pan. I told her I didn’t want to go to the park in the nastiest tone I could muster, and I took a swing at her kneecaps with my Mickey Mouse jumprope.  The cheery face disappeared shortly after that, replaced with disappointment and anger.  The beauty of this situation was that I fully understood something:  It wasn’t just my attitude that was making her mad, it was that she genuinely missed me and wanted her kissy, lovey little man back to cuddle and hold.  She wanted to sit on the couch with me and exchange giggles and smooches and hugs.  Well fuck that shit.  She could have kissed me and loved me and cuddled me all day yesterday while I was here at the party–with my toys.  My snacks.  My cousins.  But no.  That’s not how it all went down.

Long story short, I gave her some genuine hell this morning.  A good bout of name-calling, a whole lot of antagonizing Rat Baby, a lot of punches and kicks, and several thrown toys to boot yielded four time-outs in under an hour.  I think I saw tears welling up in her eyes at one point after my third “you’re the meanest mommy EVER!” so I backed off a bit, but it’s not because I am even close to forgiving anyone in this fucking shithead family.  What is a party without the Gusman?  It’s like a birthday cake minus a booty-licious Korean girl inside just waiting to pop out and hose me down with whipped cream, that’s what it is.  It’s unnecessary, it’s boring, and it incites sorrow, fury, and a little bit of dickhead from within me.  So let’s just not let it happen again.  Daddy will be home at four, and I hope he doesn’t think he’s off the hook either.  I would almost expect this from mommy, because let’s face it, she can be a selfish bitch, but daddy?  He’s my boy.  He blind-sided me.  It’s crap.

Let this be a lesson to all of you who consider not inviting me to your upcoming summertime extravaganza.   You know what I’m capable of.  Try and stay on my good side or you will end up crying premenstrual tears into your mid-afternoon Kahlua and coffee just like the hag.  And it ain’t pretty, bitches.



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Chuck E. Teases

Guess what?  Chuck E. Cheese is NOT a place where a “kid can be a kid.”  More like, it’s a place where you get taken into a corner and hissed at if you act anything like a kid, for example, dropping trow in the middle of the rides section because you have to pee, or hugging Chuck E. a copious amount of times while he’s trying to sing happy birthday to the annoying fucking club of birthday brats that you could give two shits about.  And so, you might gather that the Gusman attended a birthday celebration at this mysterious and exciting place where large, furry robots pretend to be in a sucky band and there is the promise of cake and ice cream around every corner.  But it wasn’t my party, and that would be the first problem.

The birthday boy was Cooper, a five-year-old who belongs to some friends of mommy and daddy, and who is notorious for kicking my ass every time our families fucking get together.  Once upon a time, mommy or daddy would intervene and tell him to be a little more gentle, to not punch me quite so hard in the face, or they would cheer me on and try to give me inside tips on how to get out from the choke-hold I was currently turning purple in.  These days, though, a party with Cooper is more like being tossed into the Roman Colosseum with thirteen lions.  I mean, I’m not entirely complaining.  I like to get rough.  I like to fight, and I like to get knocked around, but I like to have a standing chance once in a while.  This kid just fucking goes to town.  Trust me.  My parents Flip-Cammed it when they were drunk one time.  Pricks.

Anyway, so I have a love-hate relationship with the birthday boy.  To make matters worse, I got lugged to Target in the morning with mom and Rat Baby on the day of the party to help pick out a present for him.   If there are any sober, respectable mothers out there, could you please explain to me why you think it’s okay to take a three-year-old boy to go and pick out a present for someone else?  Someone that suckerpunches you in the kidneys every now and then no less?  Because I am at a loss as to why mommy spoke at me in a high, excited, helium voice like we were taking a flying unicorn ride to fucking Disney World or something.  Buddy, aren’t you sooo excited to pick out a present for your friend Cooper?  Nope.  Not at all.  Not unless you’re buying two of them.  Actually, I’ll take both.  To be honest, the whole ride to the mall, I had an orange matchbox truck that I was playing with that I kept asking mommy, Why can’t we give this to Cooper?  We can just wrap it up.  She laughed and tried to explain that we couldn’t give him something that we already had, that we had to buy him a new toy, but I stand firm that the orange matchbox truck would have been a perfect gift with some nice wrapping paper and a big pink bow.  Then I could have kept the rocket launcher and the flying helicopter that I had to agonizingly carry out of the store tucked under both of my arms.  That was brutal, by the way.  When mommy asked me to carry them, I should have grinned winningly at her and told her to shove them both up her ass.

So that brings us to the party.  I pretty much rolled out of my nap and into the minivan which is how mommy planned it, because I can be a bit of an anxious Andy when it comes to cake, rides, games, parties, etc.  She did manage to squeeze in a phone call to the location we were headed before we got out the door to make sure they had alcohol.  Shocking, I know.  I was so excited that I forced her to count down the minutes from fifteen the whole ride there, and I have to say, I had a little Chuck E. boner when we pulled into the parking lot.  This was gonna be great!  We got into the lobby and Sienna and Uncle E were there, and then Cooper and his mom and dad showed up, and it was on like Donkey Kong.  I had a cup full of gold tokens and a sweaty flush within minutes.  Life was good.  After we played for a while, it was time to eat pizza.  Daddy had shown up from a late work engagement by now and we all headed back to the tables.  This is when it hit me.  It’s not the Gusman’s birthday.  My indication?  Cooper’s beautiful, gigantic, inflatable, red crown.  I immediately declared I wanted one, and when daddy confirmed my worst nightmare–that only the birthday boy got to wear a crown–I pulled the crocodile tear crank.  And then I howled woefully.  I was removed from the situation promptly after mommy gave daddy a Charlie horse in his arm with her elbow, and pulled into a private corner to get a lame speech from daddy about how when it’s my birthday, I can have a crown.  This would all have been good and nice were I born on the same day as Cooper, but because, in fact, I was born four months after him, this homily came across as meager and ineffectual; the whole time, I was looking past daddy at Cooper like he’d just walked out of my preschool classroom holding hands with my girlfriend, Eva Marie.

When I was finally released, it was time for Chuck E. Cheese to sing to all the birthday kids.  Instantly, I was enamored with the giant rat in a baseball cap.  I made him high-five me ten times before he even made it over to the Mexican kid’s table next to us, and out of the corner of my eye I could see mommy tensing up.  I’m not sure if it was because I was bogarting the rodent, or because there is a two-drink limit at Chuck E. Cheese these days, but I think it was the former, because I saw her giving daddy “the look,” the one that says get your son under control.  Daddy just looked back at her and shrugged his shoulders, and this sums up why I like him so much more.  After ten minutes of dancing and singing and cake-cutting, it was time for all the birthday brats to enter the flying ticket machine thing.  This is a wind-machine booth with tickets flying around inside, and you have one minute to grab as many tickets as you can, and I have to say, it’s the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.  But do you think I was able to do it?  Hell no.  Another fucking zodiac curse.  So I had to sit back and watch.  And guess what?  There’s a “1000 Tickets” blue ticket flying around in that machine–just one–and I’m pretty sure Cooper was at some underground fucking training camp for wind-machine ticket booths for weeks, because he snatched that thing up within seconds and death-gripped it until his time was up.  Then he ran out squealing like a piglet to his mommy that he got the Blue Ticket!  The Blue Ticket! and I feel like I should have tripped his ass when he ran by me.  Good for fucking him.  I’m sure they’ll make an Olympic event out of that shit someday and he’ll make his parents very proud.

Whatever.  So that was my experience at Chuck E. Cheese.  The chocolate cake was good.  The rides were pretty sweet.  I got my ass kicked in air hockey by the birthday boy and I cried some more.  All in all, I would definitely go back.  But only when that crown is mine, Chuck E.’s my bitch, and that booth is full of nothing but massage vouchers to the seediest place in Chinatown.


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