Hola Bitches,
So I realize I haven't really posted in a while....like perhaps over a week? And yes I do feel terrible because I know how many of you were waiting patiently by your computers just to simply find that feeling of meaning in your life again while reading one of my most awesome stories. Well don't get your panties in a knot, I'm back from essentially saving the world single-handedly.
Now I recently visited home and was reminded of a certain story in my past that I thought would kind of be a topper to establishing the essence that is moi. But first I need to state a disclaimer here. My parents never EVER actually physically abused us...which in truth demonstrated their Jesus like patience. Seriously. So don't get all excited thinking your getting some story about how I became hardened at the age five due to my tough life on the streets with a mother who didn't care and daddy who was never there. This ain't no west side story, yo.
Okay...I should also mention I wasn't exactly involved directly in this story, I was merely an observer. But, I don't really feel okay if this story wasn't mentioned on this blog at least once. It demonstrates the family dynamics perfectly. Now, you have to have an understanding of my brothers deference to authority. He had this keen ability to do exactly the opposite of what you asked him to do. In fact, he still has this ability.
This story all begins with satan. Yes, satan. In the form of multiplication tables. Seriously, who invented timed multiplication tables? What kind of sick person thought this was a great idea? It was probably an old man looking for a good time or...Satan. Yes, Elizabeth Hurley in a red dress came up from the underworld and decided that to curse man she would invent the multiplication table. To make matters worse, most NORMAL people arnt good at them. And by normal people I mean people like me, so for those of you who are good at multiplication...you are some biological mutation of humanity.
For those of us who don't understand what is happening, there are these "magical" places that teach us multiplication tables...through torture. They lock you in a cell type room with others of your kind and force you to do never-ending sheets of multiplication. By the end your soul has been sucked from your body and you become a blob of soulless mathematics. And all for what? If you complete all your questions AND get every single one right (99% right does not count as I was so rudely informed by the old hag who handed out stickers like she was God bestowing the holy light) you get an owl sticker saying "100%!" and you can stick it on the front of your stupid binder like some war hero medal, as a symbol you may one day be awarded your soul back.
Not only did this place have "in-class" torture...you had take some home to. Yes, they had tests you completed at home that were timed. Just so you could "keep up" with the work they were dealing like cheap drugs.
It was on one of these fateful test nights that an event happened that perhaps brought our family closer together. My mom was crazy when it came to me understanding math. I think she kind of felt sorry for me because of how poorly I did in math. So on this night she made sure no one was going to fuck with my ability to get that goddamn sticker. She set the timer, gave me a glass of water and ever so politely told my brother that he better get his ass downstairs and keep it there or he wouldn't live to see the morning light. Well, that's where the problem all started.
My brother, being the sweet and loving child he is, takes this warning as a cue to push the limits. My mom set me loose on the test and like Braveheart defending Scotland, I ran blindly into battle shouting war cries at the top of my lungs. It was about 5 minutes in when my brother came slinking up the stairs, my mom eyes were instantly filled with fire. My brother quietly explained that he just needed to "get his science binder". Instantly, I became distracted, like a bird to shiny things I forgot that I was defending my honor and became fascinated by the movement.
Then shit got real.
My mom tried to hurry my brother out of the kitchen area where I was, but my brother had other plans. It was like Hades himself possessed my brother in that moment and all hell broke loose. He grabbed his binder, my mom shooing him silently, but instead of quietly exiting back down the stairs he transformed into a monster of destruction. He started yelling "WOOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO...(Imagine this continues for a while) and running blindly around the kitchen. My mom's fury was like that of the Red sea by this point and all mothering instincts were abandoned. She began chasing him, holding her arms out in what seemed like a desperate attempt to strangle him.
But she was no match for the whirling dervish that is my brother. He suddenly remembered he had a way out. The Stairs. The only problem was that my dad was headed upstairs just as my brother decided to go down them. What I witnessed next is equivalent to what I imagine world war 3 will end like.
My brother took off towards the stairs, but he had to slow down before he could fully regain balance enough to take on the flight of stairs. This gave my mother the advantage she needed and she quickly made up time between her and my brother. As my brother descended the stairs, my mom released what I can only begin to describe as a ninja kick right at my brothers head. I'm not really sure what would've happened had it connected. It missed by inches. However, not to be deterred she used her only ally in this battle of wills. Seeing my dad so innocently ascending the stairs she yelled to him in what I can only imagine was her last ditch attempt to end my brothers life...
"KICK HIM IN THE HEAD GREG!"
My dad, being the innocent party to all this, made a poor attempt to grab my brother but decided that upon catching him, he would have to turn his only son over to my mother. Which at this point may have been like willingly ending your family name and the only hope of passing down your genes.
Luckily my brother managed to escape with his head and his life intact. However, our family still speaks about that night like a legend. It has been passed through generations and will continue to be. I cant remember if I received a sticker for that math shit, or if I hopelessly failed it. Either way, the lesson I learned that night could not have been taught on paper...
Don't fuck with my mother.
So I realize I haven't really posted in a while....like perhaps over a week? And yes I do feel terrible because I know how many of you were waiting patiently by your computers just to simply find that feeling of meaning in your life again while reading one of my most awesome stories. Well don't get your panties in a knot, I'm back from essentially saving the world single-handedly.
Now I recently visited home and was reminded of a certain story in my past that I thought would kind of be a topper to establishing the essence that is moi. But first I need to state a disclaimer here. My parents never EVER actually physically abused us...which in truth demonstrated their Jesus like patience. Seriously. So don't get all excited thinking your getting some story about how I became hardened at the age five due to my tough life on the streets with a mother who didn't care and daddy who was never there. This ain't no west side story, yo.
Okay...I should also mention I wasn't exactly involved directly in this story, I was merely an observer. But, I don't really feel okay if this story wasn't mentioned on this blog at least once. It demonstrates the family dynamics perfectly. Now, you have to have an understanding of my brothers deference to authority. He had this keen ability to do exactly the opposite of what you asked him to do. In fact, he still has this ability.
This story all begins with satan. Yes, satan. In the form of multiplication tables. Seriously, who invented timed multiplication tables? What kind of sick person thought this was a great idea? It was probably an old man looking for a good time or...Satan. Yes, Elizabeth Hurley in a red dress came up from the underworld and decided that to curse man she would invent the multiplication table. To make matters worse, most NORMAL people arnt good at them. And by normal people I mean people like me, so for those of you who are good at multiplication...you are some biological mutation of humanity.
For those of us who don't understand what is happening, there are these "magical" places that teach us multiplication tables...through torture. They lock you in a cell type room with others of your kind and force you to do never-ending sheets of multiplication. By the end your soul has been sucked from your body and you become a blob of soulless mathematics. And all for what? If you complete all your questions AND get every single one right (99% right does not count as I was so rudely informed by the old hag who handed out stickers like she was God bestowing the holy light) you get an owl sticker saying "100%!" and you can stick it on the front of your stupid binder like some war hero medal, as a symbol you may one day be awarded your soul back.
Not only did this place have "in-class" torture...you had take some home to. Yes, they had tests you completed at home that were timed. Just so you could "keep up" with the work they were dealing like cheap drugs.
It was on one of these fateful test nights that an event happened that perhaps brought our family closer together. My mom was crazy when it came to me understanding math. I think she kind of felt sorry for me because of how poorly I did in math. So on this night she made sure no one was going to fuck with my ability to get that goddamn sticker. She set the timer, gave me a glass of water and ever so politely told my brother that he better get his ass downstairs and keep it there or he wouldn't live to see the morning light. Well, that's where the problem all started.
My brother, being the sweet and loving child he is, takes this warning as a cue to push the limits. My mom set me loose on the test and like Braveheart defending Scotland, I ran blindly into battle shouting war cries at the top of my lungs. It was about 5 minutes in when my brother came slinking up the stairs, my mom eyes were instantly filled with fire. My brother quietly explained that he just needed to "get his science binder". Instantly, I became distracted, like a bird to shiny things I forgot that I was defending my honor and became fascinated by the movement.
Then shit got real.
My mom tried to hurry my brother out of the kitchen area where I was, but my brother had other plans. It was like Hades himself possessed my brother in that moment and all hell broke loose. He grabbed his binder, my mom shooing him silently, but instead of quietly exiting back down the stairs he transformed into a monster of destruction. He started yelling "WOOOOOO WOOOOO WOOOOO...(Imagine this continues for a while) and running blindly around the kitchen. My mom's fury was like that of the Red sea by this point and all mothering instincts were abandoned. She began chasing him, holding her arms out in what seemed like a desperate attempt to strangle him.
But she was no match for the whirling dervish that is my brother. He suddenly remembered he had a way out. The Stairs. The only problem was that my dad was headed upstairs just as my brother decided to go down them. What I witnessed next is equivalent to what I imagine world war 3 will end like.
My brother took off towards the stairs, but he had to slow down before he could fully regain balance enough to take on the flight of stairs. This gave my mother the advantage she needed and she quickly made up time between her and my brother. As my brother descended the stairs, my mom released what I can only begin to describe as a ninja kick right at my brothers head. I'm not really sure what would've happened had it connected. It missed by inches. However, not to be deterred she used her only ally in this battle of wills. Seeing my dad so innocently ascending the stairs she yelled to him in what I can only imagine was her last ditch attempt to end my brothers life...
"KICK HIM IN THE HEAD GREG!"
My dad, being the innocent party to all this, made a poor attempt to grab my brother but decided that upon catching him, he would have to turn his only son over to my mother. Which at this point may have been like willingly ending your family name and the only hope of passing down your genes.
Luckily my brother managed to escape with his head and his life intact. However, our family still speaks about that night like a legend. It has been passed through generations and will continue to be. I cant remember if I received a sticker for that math shit, or if I hopelessly failed it. Either way, the lesson I learned that night could not have been taught on paper...
Don't fuck with my mother.
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