We are online, bitches.
Many of you have nagged and prodded mommy over the years to get me a blog. And so it shall be. The Gusman has arrived at www.theuncouthson.com. Get your Mott’s on, tip that sippee of arsenic, and let me hear you say it’s about fucking time.
For those of you who have been in the dark, here’s what your virgin ears and eyes have been missing. I am Gus, short for Augusten, named after some drunken, girly-man writer with freaky dry hands that mommy was obsessed with when she got knocked up with me. I am three and a half years old. I have a mommy and a daddy and a pit bull named Brisket and oh, a little sister, Leona, but you can call her “the rat.” I do. She is two years younger than I am. I’ve been bitching about my life on Facebook since I was two months old, and for good reason. I was born into this world a bastard. It took two years for my parents to get their shit together enough to get hitched. This was a very good thing. The wedding was great. I shook my groove thang. I ate cake. I slow-danced with mommy. And for a while after the big day, I was living the good life. You know, the only child good life.
And then, one day, shit changed.
I’ll cut straight through the bullshit. Roughly three weeks after our camping trip to Lake Pillsbury with Auntie Jamie and Uncle E in 2010, mom started raging through the house at three a.m. like a drunken sailor, slamming windows shut and cursing all the curry-stewers on the block with a very sophisticated level of profane and derogatory language. She inhaled Jack-in-the-Box instead of Marlboro Lights for three weeks straight, drank diet Vernors instead of coffee, and ate the shit out of all my animal crackers. I seriously have not seen them since. I thought maybe she had an advanced case of brain-eating syphilis. I thought some amoxicillin and a sixer of ale would chill her the fuck out. I was wrong. It was not syphilis.
It was much, much worse. She’d been inseminated by my father.
Enter the rat. And the story of my life. Shunned by the world of only children, I have been forced to welcome the terrible part of the “terrible threes” with open arms. Leona has wrecked EVERYthing. It used to be me and mommy and daddy and the pit bull and now, there is a whole bunch of screw you, Gus, going on and it makes me want to drink a Mott’s ‘n tequila before I give myself a swirly. Fuck my life.
To be specific, many things are no longer fair. Leona gets all the soft blankies. She gets the booby. She gets to be called “sweet, baby girl” and “princess” and mommy talks to her in cute, funny voices. She gets gentle sponge baths and mommy doesn’t get water in her eyes. She has TWO music toys in her crib, and one is rightfully mine. She gets to cry without being told to “stop whining or go in your room.” ME? My sheets are scratchy. They only cost $1.98 on clearance at Target. Thanks, mom. Cheap bitch. And instead of the booby, I get three-day old pulled chicken that is dryer than a granny crotch. I am called “punk,” “little shit,” and “do you want another time-out?” Mommy does not talk to me in cute voices. Rather, she puts as much anger and venom into a kind of quiet, hissy, “knock it off!” so as not to disturb the little rat hanging off her milk jugs. My bath time is barely chaperoned by an adult anymore, and when it is, mommy has confiscated my squirty toys with leftover cold water in them and she squirts me if I do anything that annoys her. If I cry when she dumps water on my head, I am told to suck it up and not be such a girl. Then I get squirted. Nothing is ever The Rat’s fault. And I am going to fight this utter bullshit. I will not succumb to a life of second best-ness. I am going to go down swinging like the crazy bastard I am.
This blog provides me my battle ground. As much as I’d like to kick mommy or daddy’s ass sometimes, they are just bigger and stronger, and booze makes both of them (especially mommy) freakishly angry. All I have are my words. And I can spit some venom, fuckers. So please visit. Say hello. Empathize. Send me some cake. I love cake./
So, that is all for my introduction. It’s time to take a nap. Before I go, though, I need to address something I came across in my Blogging for Pimps with Drunken Mommies research. It relates to profanity within a weblog. Apparently, there are some blogging forefathers out there that think cussing is a lame substitute for intelligence. I just gotta say, try and be three again, motherfucker. Profanity is my religion, because what am I supposed to call my mother when she tells me she can’t get me my milk until she’s done nursing The Rat? A female dog? I think not. I am The Uncouth Son. But, whatever. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I know this.
I look forward to seeing you all in church on Sunday.