The Fungus Among Us

It doesn’t sound good, but it’s the truth.  I am surrounded by blistery, pustule-laden siblings and cousins.  Ever heard of hand, foot and mouth disease?  Not to be confused with hoof and mouth disease–that’s the shit cows and sheep get–hand, foot and mouth disease is a virus that gives you a fever for a few days, then rocks your world with mouth sores and a gnarly rash on your hands and feet.  I had it last summer.  Mommy told me it was because I must’ve gotten poop in my mouth.  Of course, she is a lying bitch.  I don’t eat poop.  As you know, I’ve expressed interest in poop on several occasions, especially when I heard that poop sandwiches are all they serve in jail (and you can go to jail for dropping your Costco receipt with a smiley face on it in the parking lot in the state of California…just ask the lying bitch), but seriously, I don’t eat it.  Anyway, Lucien and Sienna got it from daycare, and me and Leona came over to play with them one day, and now Leona has been infected.  My poor baby sister has this boily looking rash all over the backs of her thighs and arms.  It looks like a highly unpleasant venereal disease got bored under her diaper and decided to come out and explore the quadricep region.  Mommy came home from the store today to find Leona crawling naked around the backyard in the 86 degree sun.  She gave daddy a pissy comment about frying our daughter like a gizzard, and then proceeded to spray The Rat from head to toe with some SPF 1000.  She practically lathered her up with that shit, worked it right into those blisters, and thirteen seconds later Leona was screaming like a tea kettle full of bleach and ammonia.  Another Mom of the Year Award headed her way very soon.

Anyway, mommy had to walk around with a cold cloth on Leona’s ass for about twenty minutes, apologizing profusely, looking at her with a desperate mix of love, remorse, and pity, but let’s not kid ourselves, every so often she was tossing a look over her shoulder at the outdoor bar.  Since then, Rat Baby has been collecting massive doses of Tylenol, booby on demand, all-she-can-suck-raspberry lemonade ice cubes out of her meshy suck bag, and just all-around nausea-inducing doting.  I do pity her somewhat, but I feel as though maybe some special treatment should be coming my way because I don’t look like I have ground turkey climbing down my legs.  Everyone is sick but the Gusman.  Does this not warrant a reward?  Some licorice sticks?  A pack of gum, maybe?  Nope.  Not in this house.  I barely get a second thought for being strong enough to fight the fungus among us.  Instead, mommy drops some bullshit about me having built an immunity, but the only thing I’ve built lately is a massive pile of toilet paper in the guest bathroom after I unraveled one extra-large roll of Cottonelle.  That was awesome by the way.  It was like a fluffy, marshmallow tower.  And P.S., mommy does not like towers of Cottonelle.  Either way, no matter what it is exactly I built, I think I should get some candy for building it.

Tomorrow, we will all go to Auntie Jamie’s house and have a BBQ.  I will be the only kid without canker sores in my mouth or pimply arms and legs.  Oh, wait, mom just pointed out that I have ringworm on my legs.  Ahhh, fuck.  I forgot about the ringworm.  But hey, don’t worry, it’s not actually a worm and they don’t crawl into your butthole while your sleeping at night.  That was a relief to discover.  Anyway, yeah.  So I guess we’re all sort of…fungalicious.  Maybe if we all drank as much as mommy, our immune systems would be more like eastern European fortresses.  Maybe a little vodka in the orange juice every morning with our eggs and herpes of the tongue and Syphillis-leg would be a distant memory.  Just a thought.  I find it highly unlikely that mommy would share any of her vodka anyway, so this would probably be a long shot.  Either way, I hope all of you can learn from our present situation here in California:  Cover your mouths when you cough.  Wash your hands after throwing dirt rocks at your kid sister.  Don’t try to clean the urine-spill on the toilet seat with your hands.  Don’t share a sippee-cup with anyone who has a hose nose.  Don’t make out with your cousin.

And don’t eat poop.

This entry was posted in The Uncouth Son. Bookmark the permalink.