Drug muling and child porn are not in my immediate future.
So much for licking margarita salt and swimming in infinite pools all week. This fucking sucks. Cabo is cancelled because now daddy has turned into just as much of a lush as mommy–he can’t drink in Mexico, doctor’s orders, because he’s on antibiotics. And so, the whole trip has gone out the fucking window. Instead of frolicking in the pool and flirting with bitches at the swim-up bar, now I’m stuck here in the crappy-ass rain all week with mommy and Leona and mommy’s stupid strong-willed children books. (By the way, they aren’t about strong kids who are willing to say shit, damn and fuck. And none of these kids go to Disneyland, either. These books are about making the Gusman’s life miserable.) And you can’t just gank a Mexican getaway from the Gusman without catching a little flack for it. Just wait, mommy. All of these new “techniques” you’re using to get me under control–you know, the ones you think are working?–are going to start backfiring on your ass to the tenth power.
So, that’s my life this week. No white beaches. No wave-running in warm, blue ocean water. No throwing sand in Leona’s eyes. No counting one tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor from a distance while watching mommy. I’m sad. Now I have to wait all the way until August for a vacation, and then we will go to Michigan. And I suppose I should just let all you Michigan folk know, we are coming for the Gusman’s birthday. And it’s going to be a bash. I’m thinking Mardi Gras meets Boogie Nights meets Toy Story 3. And I think I will be dressed as a dragon. I’ve been practicing my fire-breathing. Mommy tells me with her stupid raised eyebrows when I am huffing and puffing that I am silly because little boys can’t breathe fire, only dragons can. For being buzzed so much, she sure as fuck is a buzz kill. What happened to, You can do it! Just believe! If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again! I will learn how to breathe fire some day because I will never give up until I blow up our hutch of liquor. It’ll be like Hiroshima up in this bitch. Who will have the stupid raised eyebrows then? Anyway, back to the party, where I will be a fire-breathing dragon: I also want LOTS of presents that will aggravate my cheap-ass mommy because she will have no choice but to ship all my crap back to the west coast. And I want M&Ms and jelly beans and cotton candy and pony rides and belly dancers and boat rides and my favorite movies on all day on every single T.V. in the house. Also, I want KIDS!! Lots of KIDS!! I have been colossally screwed on all birthdays leading up to numero cuatro because mommy and daddy forget the occasion is all about me and they invite grown-ups only and there are no fun pin-the-boobies-on-the-Vietnamese-girl games and everyone drinks ’till they puke. It’s like Girls Gone Wild with a lame Elmo birthday cake and old ladies that I don’t care to see in bikinis. So. Michigan. August. Get your shit together people and let’s rock Gun Lake like it ain’t never been rocked before.
In other news, Rat Baby will be walking very soon. She is taking two or three steps at a time, and again, the enthusiasm behind the parental response is excessive and annoying. You would think one of two amazing things had happened: 1.) She passed a watermelon out of her tiny little asshole, or 2.) Flew a rocket to the sun and back. Mommy squeals like a stuck pig and the sheer joy in her face makes me want to fist pump through her skull. Hey, guess what? I am able to successfully sneak the pruning shears out of the junk drawer and hide them in my sandbox so nobody knows where they are. I can make myself hiccup. I can do headstands on the couch and watch T.V. that way upwards of ten minutes. I have scores of hiding spots for my boogers throughout the entire home that will never be discovered. I can almost breathe fire. But do you think anyone gives a shit? No. Whatever. At least when she can stand and walk on her own, I will be able to push her down and remind her who the fucking man is. It is important to always view the positive.
Alright. Gotta get my snooze in. Papa Tim and Gramma Jett are coming over for dinner and I am going to sneak into the trunk of the Jaguar and go home with them for a while. It’s not exactly Cabo, but at least there’s a tractor there. Maybe by the time I come back, Leona will know how to fart on cue and we can have a fucking mensa-baby party for her.