Once upon a time, daddy would make me these rad pork chops with a panko and lemon-zested crust. They were perfectly thin and perfectly pan-seared, and I declared them my favorite food for all eternity, besides those soy rice crackers from Trader Joe’s and pastel-colored plastic eggs filled with jelly beans or money. More importantly, this was a time in my life that I would actually be asked what I wanted for dinner. Without a moment’s hesitation, the answer would be pork chops. It felt good to be asked. I felt respected. Important. My opinion mattered. But with Rat Baby’s arrival and mommy’s manic attempts to make her gleefully content with every, single, fucking meal, the importance once placed on my grub has been swapped out with dismissive second thoughts and oh, wait, what’s Gus gonna have for dinner, babe? Since the day Leona started eating pureed solids, mommy has gone crazy with the food processor and blender all the spare moments of her day trying to come up with delicious combinations of fresh, organic fruits and vegetables for Rat Baby to feast on. And I get nuked Spaghettios and meatballs from a can, or, as I like to call them, red zeros and squirrel turds. Like most other things in my life since Leona, it’s bullshit. I would be very happy to see the F.D.A. approve any form of contraception that comes from a handle of cheap vodka so that maybe mommy would stop fornicating from this point on and start fucking feeding me something besides hotdogs and mealy, old apples three nights a week.
(Disclaimer: I do not fault daddy for this rapid decline in the quality of my food. His chopping wrist got sliced open six weeks ago and he doesn’t cook much because he is healing. He still goes to work every day and makes me popcorn at night and I don’t expect pork chops until he is all better. That said, fuck you, mom. You’re the pinnacle of health, with the exception of your liver.)
And what’s worse, Leona is such a little piggy when she eats. The other night, mommy made us rotini and meat sauce. Toward the end of most of her meals, Leona will do this thing where she dumps her sippe cup of water on her tray to create a nice mixture of food and liquid to smear everywhere with her hands. Then she will rub her eyes and put her hands in front of her ever-running snot-nose and sort of blow secretions everywhere. Actually, now that I think about it, this is all kind of awesome. Anyway, mommy freaks out and calls the whole thing disgusting, and declares bath time for all. So, as always with bath time, I am naked before I get off my dinner chair and wading in ankle-deep suds within two minutes. And while I have learned to sort of enjoy my rub-a-dubs with the Rat, I do not appreciate it when mommy takes her directly from her high chair without disinfecting her and puts her into my bubbly clean bath water. After rotini and meat sauce night, there were gross little chunks of tomato and onion and noodle floating around us in the water. The illusion was that someone had vomited in the tub, and it was very disturbing. Every time one of those nasty vomit-chunks would come swimming at my pecker I would have to pinch my knees together and swivel around. This created a lot of extra waves and slip-sliding for Leona, which angered mommy, and she told me to sit still and relax, and I was like, tell me how easy it would be for you to sit still and relax in a tub of puke, you nasty, old hag. I cut my bath short that night and spent an extra five minutes watching the water drain to make sure every bit of rotini and meat sauce left the building. Yecht.
In other news, I think I have herpes. Either that, or I have grown another half set of lips on my chin. There are these nasty, dry, red patches right under my bottom lip that sort of look like fresh hickies that came from someone with a very small head. Daddy says he used to get it all the time, and mommy says so did Uncle Boone when he was little, but I am still not okay with having such an obvious case of untreated herpes on my face, and I don’t care who else had it, just please give me some cream or something. Mommy insists that it’s not herpes, but drunks lie, so I am going to research some more after I finish this post. There are herpes commercials on T.V. all the time which make me paranoid and believe that I probably have it and I need to get some Valtrex right away. By the way, I think I got the herpes from the squirrel turds.
Time to go. Leona is trying to stand on my Mickey Mouse chair again and mommy is telling me to go play with her. I think I will take her into the bathroom and let her stick her hands in the bowl of the kiddy potty. It’s full.
Peace out, y’all.