Leona’s party has come and gone. There was cake, beer, presents, ribs, devilled eggs, cash, and forty-seven gallons of sangria that mommy was clearly left in charge of. Some people’s eyes are bigger than their stomachs–mommy’s eyes are bigger than her liver. So, my predictions about her blood-alcohol matching up to the decimal equivalent of a half dolla’ bill y’all were about accurate. This meant that I got away with not really eating anything of nutritional value all day, plus I skipped my nap, got to beat on other children without any severe consequences, enjoyed popcorn and a movie while mommy and daddy had another three bottles of wine for a night cap, PLUS I got a slumber party with my toe-head cousin Sienna. It also meant that I took a hell of a digger off my jungle gym outside because the slide isn’t bolted to the structure and no adults were paying attention. I could have broken my fucking neck, but I’m sure it was more important that the oranges be sliced to garnish the sangria. Oh well. Sometimes you just weigh the pros and cons of dumb-shit negligent parenting. On this day, the pros were like a list of inappropriate things I want for my birthday this year, and the cons were like a list of my favorite baby sisters. You get the idea. No contest. So I will deal with the giant raspberry on my right hip as a result and just give them all a little extra hell this week.
Mom got her first book from Amazon today, entitled Setting Limits with Your Strong-Willed Child: Eliminating Conflict by Establishing CLEAR, Firm, and Respectful Boundaries. Sounds like some riveting shit, right? Ironically enough, she spent the whole day reading it instead of paying attention to me when I tried to feed Leona a ping pong ball, a jack, and some very dated cold cereal from underneath the couch. (By the way, it was a pure moment of humor when mommy discovered the ping pong ball in Leona’s mouth. I’m not even sure how Rat Baby fit that thing it in there.) When daddy got home, she coached him (out of earshot) on all the things they have been doing wrong with me. Like they stand a chance against the Gusman. If they really want to know where they’re fucking up, they should just ask. I’ve been pushing for an Asian playdate for almost my entire life now, for starters. Since six months, I’ve been hot to trot for these ladies and the only one presently in my life–while hot–is my doctor, and all she does is strip me down to my skivvies, stick things in my ears, crack me in the knees with hammers, and then asks me if I want a lousy fucking sticker. Also, I would like some foster parents who A.) don’t have any other children (unless they meet the Asian criteria) and B.) don’t smell like vodka when they jump on a cardio machine. Let’s just say maybe I wouldn’t be such a spirited child if I didn’t have such a spirit-filled mother twenty four seven. I think this would pretty much fix all my problems, and mommy and daddy’s problems too. Nevertheless, this whole new approach to disciplining me could be fun. To celebrate this new, predictably short-phased train-wreck of a whip-cracking, I was a total fucking asshole tonight. They tried to put me to bed at 6:10 because I kept throwing toys and slamming my door. Well, that’s what they get when I don’t get a movie on demand. And then mommy made made me a deal (TOP FIVE RULE: don’t debate, argue, or negotiate with a spirited child) that if I calmed down and read a book in my room, I could come out, apologize, and stay up. I tried, man. I really did. Me and the sorry thing don’t have a working relationship, so I came out several times with the intention of apologizing, but one look at mommy’s ugly smugly mug and I had to turn around and go back to my room. I even went so far as to say the words I’m sorry twice but when mommy said, yeah? You’re sorry? I said fuck this and took it back. No I’m not! I’m not sorry! and I turned around and went back to my room. It was a serious battle of the wills. Eventually, I gave in because I wanted a snack, but that old hag said I could only have carrot sticks or a piece of bread and I had to eat it at the kitchen table. Fucking. Lame.
Daddy (telling me to bring the loaf of bread to the table where he and mommy were eating dinner): Gus, just bring it here.
Me, ignoring him, continuing to try and ravage the plastic wrapping to get into the bread.
Mommy: GUS! Listen to your dad. Bring the bread over here now or you don’t get any at all.
Me: Okay, okay! Okay, okay, okay! Relax!
Mommy: You don’t tell mommy or daddy to “relax.”
Daddy: Yeah, that’s like talking back.
Me: Well, you have to talk back. Like if someone says something to you, you have to talk back, right? Otherwise you don’t say anything!
And I put my palms up and shrugged my shoulders innocently, and sort of used this cute little high-pitched voice when I made my point, and neither mommy or daddy had anything to say in return. Which to me, says, I’m smarter than these fuckers already. The truth hurts. No wonder they drink.
Rumor has it I will be going to school soon. Well, whatever kind of hack program they throw you in for some peace and quiet around the homefront twice a week before kindergarten. Mommy has been prepping me with scare tactics. Apparently teachers can turn into witches or werewolves when their students are naughty. And there are time-outs in preschool that last for half a day. And sometimes if you’re naughty, you have to stand in the corner and wear a ridiculous hat shaped like an ice cream cone while other kids laugh and throw paper airplanes at your head. I say bring it, bitches. The biggest problem is that I am told I cannot go and make new friends until I consistently wipe my own ass after I go poop, and I have to remember to put my pants and underwear on every time–before I leave the bathroom. I don’t get the underwear thing. I asked mommy why people wear underwear, and she didn’t even have a good answer for me. It takes too long, and generally I have an episode of Dora or Mickey Mouse Club to get back to. I guess I will have to oblige though if I want to get the hell out of this shithole once in a while and start developing a posse that doesn’t include Rat Baby and Bettty Ford.
Well, I’m exhausted from the events that have transpired lately. Stay tuned, and I will keep you all posted on the parental unit’s attempt to mold my temperament. Jesus, that sounds like a lewd act, doesn’t it? This oughtta be good.