Meet the Family Solely Responsible for the Words that Come Out of My Mouth
Before we do that, though, first and foremost, I am Gus. I am three years old. I have been writing about my cursed life since I’ve arrived into this world. At two months, Mommy hi-jacked me and took me on a two-week hiatus to the cold, barren, mid-Western state of Michigan where all of her family is from. Separated from daddy, I suffered and pined. So, I decided to write him a letter via Facebook everyday to keep him posted on my well-being and on mommy’s debauchery. And so many people loved to hear from my cute little ass, I kept writing after I finally got out of that shit-hole state and back to good ‘ole, sunny California. And here we are. Much has changed since then, including my family. Let me introduce them to you.
First, mommy. The matriarch. The lush. I don’t know if she’s just pissed because they had to gut her like a trout to get me out of the womb, but she seems to have a chip on her shoulder most of the time and it’s called motherhood. She likes vodka, wine, beer, hats, Amazon.com, swearing, the word “dude,” and shopping with loose change at the flea market. She stays home with us during the week, but she bartends on Friday and Saturday nights–and generally, she doesn’t do a good job of hiding her enthusiasm to get the fuck out of here. She has threatened suicide if she ever has to use her teaching credential, which means we have to win the California State Lottery before my sister gets to kindergarten.
Then, there’s daddy. I can’t say a whole lot of bad things about him. He has tattoos. He’s a professional chef. He makes the best pork chops ever. He rides a Harley and let’s me sit on it when he starts it. He wrestles with me and tickles me until I get pissed. He also plays this awesome game called Airplane with me when I get out of the tub: he tacos me in a towel with my arms and head out of the front, then swings me back and forth. Sometimes, I think I am going to touch the ceiling fan. It’s. Awesome. Mommy sits in the background and sings the Buzz Lightyear theme song while I fly.
Our dog is a pit bull named Brisket. She is very calm and tolerant and stinky. She is not–I repeat, NOT–a horse. She cleans up all the food that falls on the floor in the kitchen after we eat. She looks scary, but the only things she really likes to terrify are squirrels and flies. She also enjoys eating the feces of other animals, and rolling on the rug in mommy and daddy’s room, which really pisses mommy off. I have recently taken to talking to her like mommy does (mommy is not, let’s say, as much of a friend to the canine community as daddy), but she doesn’t listen the same way. I have to work on my “bitch” tone of voice. This is tough for a 3-year-old boy.
Lastly, and certainly least, is Leona the Rat-Baby Sister that came without my permission. I told the parents another dog would be cool, like a Cocker Spaniel, or maybe even a lizard, and then next thing you know, Princess Leona had taken a big, stinky crap on my kingdom with her super-soft skin and twinkly blue eyes and adorable drooly smiles. She follows me around like a fruit fly at a farmer’s market. She tries to take my milk, my toys, my food. Mommy says, She doesn’t know any better, she’s just a baby, Gus! and I have to say, I’m getting really sick of that fucking line. It’s in her eyes. Baby my ass.
And there you have it. Our happy clan. If mommy gets knocked up again, I’m putting myself up for adoption because this world is already too small for me and them.