Spielberg Screwed Me, Dude

My mother is a smug bitch.

For years, she and daddy have been in search of my kryptonite, that one thing that could defuse the total toddler asshole in me.  This thing, albeit a tangible item of sorts, a magical phrase, an activity, a deep-rooted phobia, would be something they could take away, or say, or maybe shove up my ass really far so that I would forever remain in the world’s good graces.  In the parenting world, discovery of this super secret jugular vein is like winning the fucking lottery.  I’ve overheard numerous phone conversations where mommy is bitching about what a tireless little jerk I am, and whoever is on the other end offers suggestions to “fix” me.  Mommy’s responses generally include I already tried that, it didn’t even phase him, He doesn’t give a shit about anything! and YOU come here on the night he doesn’t get to watch Toy Story.  That’s a punishment for US.  It is very important that we, as small children who thrive on making our alcoholic mothers’ lives miserable, especially during Diet Coke hangover mornings, do everything in our power to keep this thing a secret so that it cannot ever be used against us.  Well.  That said, I am ashamed to say I have failed you, my brothers and sisters.  I’ve been exposed.  My kryptonite, revealed.

And on the third day, they shall use their bastard daggers to plunge at me, like wild animals, and plunge and plunge again, into this vein that gives me life, meaning, a reason to exist in this putrid place, until they have drained me of all my vivacity, and my soul has spilled out from the inside and seeped sticky and red into the cement cracks of the garage floor next to the oil stains from daddy’s ’71 Shovelhead…

Okay, you may think the drama is over the top, but the hag took my fucking BIKE away the other day.  For the whole day.  No morning ride with Leona in the stroller.  No afternoon ride with daddy at the skate park.  And it was like no other pain I’ve ever experienced.  My bike, my little two-wheeler without training wheels as of two weeks ago, is the Gusman’s kryptonite.  Oh, is it ever.

The whole thing started when I quoted my favorite line of Elliot’s from E.T.:  It was nothing like that, penis breath!  Ha!  I fricken love that line.  Penis breath.  Awesome.  Time and time again, however, I’ve been made aware that we should not call people “penis breaths,” especially our mothers.  As a result, of course, a time-out ensued, and when I began chanting shit-dammit-bitch from the time-out rug, I was threatened with no bike for the whole day.  At this point at 7:30 in the morning, I wasn’t really super phased by the words of this threat.  So I continued my chant, the bike was officially removed for the day, and I had to spend ten minutes cooling down in my room.  The morning went by, Leona went down for her nap, and soon mommy was gearing up in her tennis shoes to jump on the elliptical machine in the garage.  Usually I will ride around the cul-de-sac for twenty minutes while she is exercising.  About three minutes into her workout, I got sick of playing daddy’s drums and I put my bike helmet on just to see what would happen.  She smiled at me and continued on her sweating regiment.  I meandered over to where the bike was stashed in the corner of the garage and coolly put my hand on the seat, stealing a glance at her.  She pretended not to notice.  Well, this didn’t seem so bad.  Looked like mommy had come down with another case of empty threat syndrome.  So I went for it.  With a gush of nonchalance, I declared I was going for a ride down the street now.  She looked at me and raised her eyebrows smugly.  Oh really? she mused.  Not today, my friend.

Dammit.  This was going to take some work.  I whined for a good five minutes until she talked me into riding my scooter around the block instead.  She knows, of course, it takes ten times the energy to ride a scooter around a fucking cul-de-sac, and when I came back panting and red and told her that riding my scooter was too hard, it was too hot, and it was not fun, the bitch half smiled and didn’t respond.  I went for it again.  I think I’ll ride my bike now, mommy.  Again, silence.  Mom?  Mom?  Mommy, I’m talking to you.  Mom?  Can you please listen to me?  This time, a flat no.  I tried to reason with her and the following conversation went down:

Me:  But mommy, I just really want to ride my bike today.

Mommy:  No.

Me: But why not?

Mommy: Because you had a potty mouth this morning.

Me:  But mom, listen.  Let me tell you something.  Sometimes, friends do things that make their other friends mad, like say naughty words.  But friends should still let their friends ride their bikes!  Don’t you think, mom?  Because we’re friends, mom.  You’re my friend, so you should let me ride my bike.

Mommy:  I’m not you’re friend.  I’m your mother.

Bitch had that fucking shit right.

I then resorted to a tantrum on the garage floor, threatening at the top of my lungs to throw everything in the garbage, including my scooter and the whole house.  Hag face continued to calmly ignore me until I undid the foot brake on the jogger stroller that was sitting at the top of the driveway and let that bitch go sailing in reverse down the drive into the street.  Mommy jumped off that elliptical so fast I thought she might pull a muscle and sprinted down the driveway after it.  The look on her face after catching it a half second before it made it into neighborhood traffic was quite murderous.  After parking it, she grabbed my arm not-so-gently and dragged me into the house, explaining that someone could have hit the stroller and gotten hurt.  Which was totally my intention.  Dumbass.

While sitting in my time-out for the stroller incident, I took off my bike helmet and hurled it at mommy when she wasn’t looking.  It struck her with a good smack right in the back of her thigh.  I could tell it hurt because it made a perfect smacking noise, and she dropped a big DAMMIT, GUS! at the top of her lungs.  It felt good to see her in pain.  I was in far greater pain, after all.  The feeling in the pit of my stomach that my life was forever changed now–that the parental unit had all the ammunition they would ever need to get them through life–was boiling unpleasantly there like bad Mexican food.  Fuck.  What a bust.  I suppose the moral of the story is to not quote lines from E.T., keep your mouth shut in time-out if you must quote a line from E.T., and remain cool when punished so the  parental unit does not discover that taking away your bike for a whole day is the equivalent to having your toenails removed with pliers.

I hope some of you can learn from my mistakes.  If I can save even one of my fellow assholes out there, this particular blog has served it’s purpose.  Oh, and those of you I do save, you owe me some fucking M&Ms and like fifty bucks, because this is bullshit.

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