It was fall, Marching Band Season. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing my math homework, trying not to “turn” gay, my brothers (one older, one younger) are in the kitchen getting into some highly competitive shenanigans. You know, guy stuff. At some point I hear this shattering of glass. Like as if Stone Cold Steve Austin had corporeally materialized himself into our lease-breaking, dog hair riddled, Craigslist furnished, dejected, sewage dump, scene of domestic violence, too small, having to use closets as bedrooms, downstairs of drug dealing neighbors, rundown apartment double; only shittier.
I look over and Chris, the younger of my brothers, is rolling around on the ground holding his face. You see, Chris has this defense mechanism where he just slowly rolls into a ball on the ground, not like me where “defense mechanism” is just a personality type. What ended up happening is that Jake, the eldest brother, got frustrated with this back and forth, machismo, false-aggression laden drivel-fest and just started punching Chris. Chris starts slowly curling into his safety ball and as he slid into his security-haven Jake just kept punching straight on and eventually his fist met Chris’ face; right in his glasses, causing them to explode into his eye.
I look over because this is way more exciting than Chi Square Correlation Tests or some other equivalent knowledge dump that fits the age range of something I could have been working on at the time (I DON’T REMEMBER!). Now, at this time our family only had one car and my mom was the only one who worked so my step-dad, being the wealth of responsibility that he is, called her up at work.
“Chris’ glasses exploded into his eye and when you get off work we should take him to the hospital.” he said. To which my mother responded with what I could only assume was an “okay, deal!” or a “you betcha” all pre-Sarah Palin style Sarah Palin-ing it or even an “Okay, I’ll do it just don’t bring up bible verses about how I, as a woman, am supposed to be subservient to her husband even though you’re a “Buddhist/deist” who doesn’t really understand how his purported belief system works but just claims it as his own and uses the belief system of a loved one to guilt them into domestic servitude because why not? After all, bullshit does beget wisdom.” Keep in mind these are all conjecture as I am not actually my mother.
Chris is sitting on the couch crying a little bit, which is understandable for a 15 year old who just had his glasses explode into his eye. You know, that delicate organ that grants you vision. As my brother quietly sobs, my step-dad recognizes that this is one of those moments where he as a prominent male role model in the lives of these 3 young, developing boys has to step up and speak. He should say something. He has to say something. Something that’ll show us children that he’s a kind, adult, father-figure who’s nurturing, and emotionally mature, and capable of love, compassion, and empathy in dire situations and these are the words that his mouth pushes out of his teeth-hole: Suck it up, pussy. Suck it up, pussy! What a crowning achievement in parenting! You’ve firmly established yourself as the alpha-male! That’s still an important thing to establish when establishing your list of things to establish! So, kudos on your magnificent 21st century achievement!
My mom got home about 20 minutes later and took him to the hospital. He ended up being perfectly fine, glass in eye wise. Jake and I had to go to practice. We were instructed to tell our directors that he “fell down the stairs.” Firstly, we didn’t have any stairs for him to fall down. And secondly, why did we have to lie about it? I’m no counselor or anything but I don’t think it’s a good idea to make your children lie about an incident using the ole domestic violence “go to.” Years later, my mother divorced him and the last time I saw him he called both my mom and I “cunts” but not before breaking up another family. And everyone lived happily ever after. Well, not happily ever after. Most parties involved are pretty broken. They lived after. After the ending of this story. Nothing too pleasing. Just living. The end.
What do you think is the best way to tell someone that you both love them and hate them at the same time? I think telegraph because the frustration that would come with having to decipher that outdated technology would add to the emotional damage you’d be trying to do. These are the sorts of things I like to think about. Very relaxing.
I took the “Writing Proficiency Exam” last week. That title is pretty explanatory. It sees if you can read something and then write about it like a competent person. The article I had to read was about the differences in men and women’s senses of humor. I have this problem where I start writing and I just decide to say whatever I want and it is usually very inappropriate for the situation. Like, for instance in this particular piece of business I wrote the words:
“Plus, it’s laughing. Laughing! Everybody loves laughing. Laughing is great. It feels good. It’s like a mini orgasm for your brain except less intimate and you don’t have to wait 19 minutes in between giggle fits.”
That. I wrote that. On an exam that determines whether or not I graduate from college. So, if you guys ever start wondering “Hey, I wonder what Ben’s up to.” Remember this and that’ll probably explain why I work in a ‘Scrubs’ store and spend all my money on import DVDs from Great Britain.
I’m performing some stand-up for a charity event tonight. It’s gonna get real sad and personal. For charity.
I was in Wal-Mart recently because I love human suffering. I hate small businesses? Love convenience? Am poor? It’s where the bus was going? I needed some dowel rods and Thomas the Train Engine stickers? Just pick one. It doesn’t really matter. Anyways, I’m standing in what I can only assume is the middle of the dog sweater/cereal/picture frame department next to these two employees when I hear what turns out to be the greatest sentence I have ever heard in my life. And I’ve heard upwards of 12 sentences. The one employee turns to the other and in a very thick southern accent goes:
“Really? You’re gonna do this to me after I saved you a hundred dollars on Reese Cups.”
Now I understand there is a decent amount of context that I’m probably missing here and had I not fled to cover up my laughter I’m sure I could have learned some of it, but that is not how life works. The thing is, that’s a lot of candy. All I know is that he saved $100. That’s just the savings. In order to save $100 on Reese Cups you have to spend more than $100 on Reese Cups. And if you know a guy, don’t cross that guy! They will hold it over your head. And that is a weight that I could not possibly want to bare.