Friday, March 10, 2006

church

when i was 6 years old (this was not last year), i threw a full on kick-whine tantrum in the st. thomas more catholic church parking lot. i believe my exact words were, "church is boring". the inflection on 'boring' made the word come out of my mouth at about 1 syllable per minute with a dog-whistle pitched crescendo (wow, that word was not even paying rent in my brain). thou shalt not walk in late for church so Raymond Sr. and Joan gave in pretty quick and let me stay in the car. Todd (brother) went slack-jawed and began to worry that he too should not be going in. Raymond Sr. told him, "doughnuts". they refused to leave me the keys, so i crawled under the car in my church hot-rod mechanics clothes to get the hide-a-key so i could to listen to rick dees. for my parents, this one defeat dominoed into three distinct 'victories' for me that each blossomed countless sub-defeats for all creatures with ears.

1: i learned the 'perceived' power of a good ol' fashioned hissy.
2. Todd learned the power of a good ol' fashioned hissy... three and a half years early.
3. 'Disco Duck' still holds the record for most months (consecutive and non) on the 'why did you buy that for my kid' chart. leisurely surpassing drum set and fire helmet with rotating light and siren.

i got in the highly ironic level of trouble known loosely to eddie murphy fans as 'dear god, please kill my parents'. even that was a shit-assed blubbering whine fest. "god, i know i chose the disco duck over you and not even doughnuts could make me go into your house, but please exchange my parents lives for a weeks worth of atari and new zoo review". i did my time and it went by much quicker that i had thought. i had tasted a power more delicious than half-grape/half-cherry sno-cone. i now wielded and endless supply of trump cards, each emblazoned with nelly olsen shooting the bird at boring. well, Raymond Sr. does not put up with too much "hooey" (that's french for bullshit) so i had to cut back to once or twice a year, quality not quantity, fuck shit up (i.e. stomp your feet and make that face while threatening to break whatever), call child welfare (true story). my parents eventually talked openly about "boring's" polygamous trysts with 'the bank', 'getting tires', and 'haircuts'. most parents were all peyton place hushyfaced about it. but kids KNOW. WE KNEW. boredom was running rampant. parents used to whisper "it's only an accounting thing. do you feel bored? is this boring? i am totally not bored but i have to go do something real quick". meanwhile "boring" grows so brazen that it's sneaking thru cat doors and butt-fucking TRS-80s while opera sits at home blowing sob snot into the synonym clause in her pre-nup. so, my parents sorta became cool about it and there came a time that rather than risk the rare and unpredictable boredom fit at the plant nursery, i would get to go ride bikes or play basketball. totally safe back then. this was late seventies suburbia. child molesters wouldn't stop being weird uncles for another ten years. insanity wasn't even a plea. insane people are just bored igits and knives are fun. back then igits were still family and you don't throw family away on purpose. oh sure, you could do 60 in a residential, driving with your knee and you're normally a right hand drinker but you got the bottle of scotch in your left hand because your throwing arm is busy flinging dirty diapers and cans and mcdonald's bags full of cans out the window because it's the seventies and trash would just blow all the way up to space back then. the fine for making indians cry was still only up to clean car. you throw your family igit out the window, though, and sure he'll blow away... your face. look at any serial killer, bored igit. it was common to set your igit on the porch. give them syrup and feathers and they will not be bored. it was bad luck to throw trash at an igit, so you wave your scotch bottle at them and they'd always flap their little sticky mit back at you. feathers and grinnin. Raymond would say, "wave at the igit, wave at the igit, wave at the igit" and probably would have never stopped saying "wave at the igit" until we waved but my threshold for that type repetitiveness was fairly low for my age. i tried to get my wave in before the second w.a.t.i. even when i did 'ring and runs" you know what, fuck it, we called it 'nigger knocking'. i don't why. we just did, i'm sorry. somebody decorated my little vessel of knowledge with racist-based paint. you don't get to pick your own sweaters when you're young. that's grandma's job and she's a taste racist. she's also the regular kind too. i would only ring the bell once. no one is gonna answer anything that's been rung the shit out of. that's so community theater. ring once, haul ass, and then, apparently, blame it on the black man. so...... safe, yeah, we didn't have any bad things normally associated with baiting the world with a 7 year old. i joined a gang though. it was called the 'snoopy gang' and we had shirts made at the sporting goods store (true) i throw a quick wave to Tom. Tom (i did not call him igit) was a good friend of mine. Tom read at the sixth grade level and i at the fourth grade level. he was like an older kid that had no intentions of beating me up and did not teach me to make people answer their doors at the behest of an invisible black man. that actually gives me an idea. if i ever invent something that makes things invisible, preferably a spray. i would market a spray call 'invisible nigger', kills racists on contact, with or wihout a sticky mess. side effects to racists may include nasea, vomiting, rope-burn, and death. not recommended for use by faggots that want to touch a racist on the hiney. republican nigger faggot penpal. choke on that google. that would cure racism until somebody slaps the word spider on the label and then i would have to kill myself rather than face a world with invisible spiders. i'm trying to type a story. we were sitting on the porch one day and Tom tells me that he's usually not even waving at the passing cars, he was simply trying to get the feathers off his hand. "Syrup is delicious, but feathers are knives," i almost heard him say as sprinted the across the street. then he screamed words that i live by to this day, "ANYTHING TASTES GOOD IF YOU PUT ENOUGH SYRUP ON IT!!!" i wasn't sure at the time if he was thinking about feathers or fingers. i gave him the benefit of the doubt. Tom was an igit, but his family loved him and he never went insane. Tom went on to become the guy that would go get us beer. they would get really cockythe score has since begun to shore up when dad reached the age of "i'll double-click whatever the fuck i want, ray will fix it. it's my computer. it's raining in mexico?".

do you see

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