While I would truly like to apologize to you all for taking such long leaves of absence from this blog lately, I would rather tell you all to suck it, because it’s summertime, and Gusman loves the summertime. I’m far too busy swimming, riding my bike, stepping on roly poly bugs and eating popsicles to write as much as I used to. And, because mommy has figured out that if she gets me to ride my bike four miles a day, I have significantly less energy to throw dominoes at her from my time-outs or try to writhe from her grip when being escorted to my bedroom for the trending ten-minute cool downs; thus, I have not been such a shit lately. I know, I know, you’re all so bored with my good behavior. Ye of little faith, come on. On my best day, I’m still acting up like a ten-times-removed foster brat, so give me some credit. So, that’s what’s up. I’m sure all you pricks have been too busy slamming margaritas and working on your skin cancer moles in the summer sun to read me anyway.
That said, I’m pushing the parental unit to have a garage sale so I can hide Leona in a brown paper grocery bag, top it with some straw, and sell it as a five-cent scarecrow costume for Halloween. Holy fuck, talk about a hag junior. The Rat has made serious waves in the asshole department in the last month, and I seem to be the target of her crap most of the time. Firstly, I’m pretty sure she’s borderline retarded because instead of asking for anything, she grunts like an angry bear, and then when she doesn’t get what she wants because nobody in this family speaks Angry Bear, she starts hitting and throwing things. Say I have a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios on the couch, minding my business, watching some morning-time Yo Gabba Gabba. Her eyes deadlock on my sweet, honey-licious booty (the cereal, people, the cereal) and she goes Angry Bear on me. I pull my bowl closer to me and look at her–somewhat nervously, I’ll admit…angry bears are fucking volatile and unpredictable!–and she grunts louder. I call for mommy to come and clear things up before things become a situation. Rat Baby grunts one more time and swings at me with a plastic microphone. Son of a bitch, my Honey Nut Cheerios go flying everywhere–including down into the cracks of the couch as I scramble to save them–and ever since mommy and daddy warned me about ants (you know, how they bite so hard you bleed, especially bites on the ass), I have become an ant-aphobic mess, so much so that I will cry hysterically if I see Leona drop a piece of granola in the hallway. I don’t need any ants turning my ass bloody in their attempt to score some old popcorn kernels buried in the deepest recesses of the sofa. So I have to scream for mommy to help me clean up the mess because I am terrified I will miss one Cheerio, the one Cheerio that will bring a brigade of carpenter ants into my house to bloody my bottom, while Leona just grabs a handful nonchalantly and saunters away to the toy box like nothing ever happened. Meanwhile, I practically need therapy to move on from the incident.
Not only does she speak a language we don’t understand, she is physically abusive. Aside from her slap-happy hands, her weapon of choice is the DirecTV remote control. Ever been whopped in the head with one of those bad boys? It doesn’t feel good. This morning, she even learned how to fake mommy out. The three of us were snuggling on the couch, and Leona was quietly playing with the remote in mommy’s lap. Suddenly, she turned to mommy and raised the remote high above her head like she was going to whop mommy, and mommy flinched. Actually, it was more like a heavy twitch that could have thrown her back out again. Leona thought this was hilarious, so she grinned hugely and raised the remote again and jerked the remote at us slightly. Mommy and I both recoiled this time, and Leona went into a fit of giggles. After several more fake-outs, she was put on the floor as mommy was not amused with Leona’s one-year-old ability to instill the fear of physical pain in her mother and brother. The result was extra snuggle time with just me and mommy while Leona Angry Bear-grunted from the living room floor. Score for me. On the upside of this, Leona has gotten a taste of time-outs for the first time this week. If she beats on the pit bull, mommy puts her on the dog-hairy rug for one minute. The first time she did this, I had front row seating. It was awesome, kind of a cross between watching really cool fireworks, my favorite movie, and a show at SeaWorld, all while eating chocolate cake with gummy bears on top. And since I was all smiles, so was Leona, and so she giggled through her first few disciplinary actions. Eventually, I was not allowed to sit and watch her in her time-outs like she was a circus freak show. Still. It’s good to see someone else on that filthy fucking rug for a change.
So The Rat’s behavior has sort of shed this glorious light on me as of late, but I’m adhering to my regular misdemeanor-grade antics, for instance, eating toothpaste from the bathroom sink counter, then denying it with a smile after telling mommy to smell my breath. Or, racing to grab the toilet paper, turds, or both, in the toilet after flushing it to see if I am, in fact, faster than the power of the flush. I’ve also made a fun rhyming game out of almost-naughty words. Can I say fitch, mom? Fitch. Fitch! Son of a fitch! Can we say lammit, mom? Lammit! I also walk around sing-songing “oh…my…gahhhh-SHHH“ a lot. This game does not impress the hag at all, but I think it’s fun. Better to be hooked on phonics than hooked on hangovers, right mommy dearest? Either way, these things are all minor in comparison to some shit I’ve pulled in the past, but I have a pirate birthday bash coming up and my eyes are set on a new BMX bike…this is grounds for not giving Leona a swirly any time soon. Even though she deserves one.
In closing, I’d like to address the elephant in the room. I know several of you are waiting to get an earful about my time with Aunt Linda, Aunt Kim, Aunt Jenny, Aunt Paula and Gramma Mic this past week. All I can say is, the Gusman doesn’t kiss and tell. Also, those bitches can drink Long Island Ice Teas like a dorm-roomful of perky-breasted sorority prospects dying for negative male attention. Only they don’t end up puking. I need not wonder where the hag gets her steel liver from any longer. And that’s all I have to say about that. I have video footage if anyone wants to hit me up at my birthday party at Gun Lake in August. But bring your pocketbook. This shit is goooood.