Today’s conversation with Mom around 8 a.m. went something like this:
Me: (after running Leona’s foot over with my
scooter) Mommy, why are you mad?
Mommy: (angrily scraping dried food from the
chair of Leona’s high chair): I’m not.
Me: Are you a little bit frustrated?
She didn’t respond to this question. But I knew the answer. She was a lot frustrated. She’s a lot frustrated most of the time because I make her this way. She tells me all the time that I need to just relax—like when I’m barking loudly while I’m jumping on the couch, or careening around the kitchen island on my scooter—but when I tell her to relax, she gets pretty pissed off. I get the broken wine glass eyeballs. My thing is, I don’t get why they get to piss and moan and yell and scream and threaten to beat me all day long, and me? I can’t do fucking shit in return. So I’m supposed to just sit there with my mouth shut while you tell me I don’t get my baba before my nap JUST because I kicked The Rat three times when you told me not to? That’s hilarious. Guess what? If you want to yell, I will scream back until my veins are popping out of my neck. If you want to smack my ass, I’m going to throw a punch. This is an equal-opportunity household, bitches, and I’m not going down without a fight.
In retrospect, I was not very good today, which I suppose is more the norm lately. I wrote on myself with a black Sharpie before dinner, and mom told me that it was going to be stuck on my arm forever. Which is fine, because it sorta looks like a T-Rex. Badass. And of course, the bitch scrubbed it so hard it felt like a sandpaper licking in the tub. I was like, hey! That hurts! And she said I should have thought about that before I played art school on my forearm. And I said, I don’t even go to school! And she gave me a dirty look and said that’s because only good boys can go to school, and you are certainly not one of those. So I told her I was going to turn her into a cow. And she rolled her eyes and said, go ahead, see if I care. And then I was stumped, because I really thought the cow thing would work, so I started spitting water at her. Her eyes flashed seven shades of angry, and she dared me to do it again. I like a good dare, but she wasn’t drinking tonight, so I knew to tread carefully. I spit it in the other direction instead. Gus, that’s disgusting! she crowed.
Stop drinking that water! Your butt is dirty—it’s like drinking your poo-poo butt! And I was like, AWESOME! I have been asking her if I can eat poop for like eight months. Like
every time I go. Mom, can I eat that poop? The answer is always the same, but tonight I found a loophole, and it just goes to show I’m smarter than the average little shit.
Speaking of poop, I have had something of an itchy ass lately. I have been wiping my
own butt for a while now, but sometimes, I just miss a spot. And mommy and daddy are pretty good about ass checking before I sit on the couch to put my pants on (heh heh), but the poop patrol is starting to let shit slip through the cracks (HA! I know, I know, I’m here all night). Yesterday, I was itching something awful, and daddy noticed that three of my fingers had disappeared up my rear. He yelled to mommy in the kitchen that my butt was dirty and it needed to be wiped better, and she yelled back to be her guest. Daddy, who just had a bone graft on his wrist last week, held up his cast and gave her a smug look. This pissed mommy off I think. She swigged her 32 oz. vodka diet down and I heard her mutter something about fucking paraplegic. I don’t know what this is, but it might have something to do with the hole in her cup. Anyway, she lubed my hole with some Vaseline after a good wet wipe, and I was ready to do my Rag City Chick dance. Yeeeeaaahhh. How do you spell relief? L.U.B.E.
Anyway. American Idol is on. I love watching mom try not to curse at Steven Tyler when I’m in the room. That’s two people she has to not swear at on Wednesdays and Thursdays. I seriously can’t believe she’s sober right now.
Let’s do this again soon.