Sunday, December 18, 2005

Huh. It's been roughly six years since I've made a new entry, but after weeks of begging and the sacrifice of 16 virgins, I decided it might just be time to dust off the old blog and crack it open. Don't think that I haven't spent my time away not doing anything productive. I have both developed, and cured cancer. Because I cured myself, I decided not to reliease the recipe to the public, though I will tell you it includes sugar, spice, and everything nice; and I may have spilled some Chemical X into the mix. I also starred in 14 films, though only 14 of them were pornographic. I've read a lot of catalogs.

After the pleading of so many, I began to wonder just what I should write about, and a few ideas trickled into my mind. The most tempting thought was a rather long study of douchebags, but then I realized people don't want to read that much about feminine hygine products. So I kept thinking, and no ideas seemed to drop in. I was stopped left and right on the street by passersby asking, "When is the new blog coming?", or "Pay the god damn child support, Reggie needs to eat." I was often rudely inturrepted while at the barber shop, annoying both me and the greasy Italian man who was shearing my pubes.

So I kept considering returning to the trusty ol' "Create Post" screen. I realized Chritmas was but a few weeks away, and my usual gift of Herpes never seems to be what people want, so I decided that maybe if I shot a new entry out of my body, people may be pleased with my behavoir. But I was still strapped for ideas. Then something came out of left field (or right, depending on your vision), and struck me right in the face. What hit me was not enjoyable. The enjoyment was comparable to opening a large red box on Chritsmas morning only to find a Japanese man inside.

Allow me to finally tell you what it was that so rudely struck me in the head. Roughly two weeks ago, I enter my usual place of residence to find my mother chatting it up on the phone. After she hung up and made me three sandwiches and prepared my bath, she explained what all her talking was about. Her friends are staying over at my house on Saturday night (Which is right now, as I'm writing this). I find no problem with that and give her a nod of approval. She then lets me know that their friend's children are also staying over. Not cool in the least bit. I neared striking her, until I realized we were almost out of peanut butter and there was no way I'd go to the grocery store to get more. She also informs me that she has donated my bed to whichever messy kid wants to put his nasty paws upon my pillows. This angers me. I've never met these kids, or even seen a picture of them. I do not want them getting into my bed and making a mess. I don't think my sandwich-maker realizes how creepy it is to enter someone's house whom you've never seen, then slipping deep into their slimy bed, of which you don't know what, or who, they've done in there.

She then continues to inform me of who these children are.
1. An 8 year old boy.
2. A gal in college.
3. A 16 year old alcoholic boy.

Now, when I say "alcoholic", I don't mean "Occasionally has a taste of some really old grape juice". This kid has attended AA meetings. Right now I'm not so hot on the idea of him getting into my bed, or going into my room where he will most likely leave with a pillowcase full of my things. So for the next week or two I continue to object to having this fellow over to my house, especially not near my collection of Encyclopedia Brown books. I plea to my mother about the situation, but she insures me he's no thief.

So now, today, around 2p.m. the whole crew pulls up to the house. In walk the gang. The 8 year old boy needs braces badly, or just a solid kick to the mouth. I have nothing against the college gal. Then in comes AA boy. He's about 16 feet tall, appearing to be the son of a brontasaurus. He wears a white hoodie, with squinted eyes, both saying, "I'm a bad ass", and "Where is the alcohol?". He sits on the couch and proceeds to watch television. After awkwardly standing around with the creators of this beast, I make my getaway and dart to my room, my arms full of notebooks, ready to get my study on.

While in my room I not only got my study on, but I also befriended, and saved the life of, a ladybug. I cracked the widow so the smoke from the four trashbags of pot I was burning could escape, and in flies this little guy. He immediatly falls in love with the light, repeadetly trying to mount it, only to be faced with intense heat and a very hard surface. He tried to dry hump the light for 10 minutes or so before giving it one last go and then falling to his near-death. He landed next to me, where I then picked him up and delivered him to his outside home. Mission accomplished. His family will be happy to have him back, but then again, he could have been a huge dick, and I only fueled his pissing off all of the other ladybugs. But tha was a risk I had to take.

After three hours of hardcore studying and saxaphone playing, I was called down for some dinner. Thanks to a poor decision, I rode in a car with the three clowns and my brother. During the ride, Dr. DrinksALot insisted on playing his gangsta rap. This rap was beyond horrible, and he had an 8 year old child in the back of the car. Now, I haven't written any parenting books, but I am under the impression that it is not good for an 8 year old to be hearing about "Running from the mutha****in' cops". Mr. Alcohol disagreed and played several rap selections from his very gangsta iPod. One of which was "Laffy Taffy". I could write several volumes of words about that song, but now isn't the time.

After we arrived from the awkward car ride, we entered and sat down. Most people look at the menu at a restaraunt. Instead, Senor Sauce looked at the beer menu for about 10 minutes before realizing he had a food menu. Here's something to keep in mind for my future parenting book. Sprite is not a good drink for 8 year olds with ADD. This kid is a psycho, running around a restaranut and skating on his cool "Heely's", which have probably caused more broken necks than professional neck breakers in the last 10 years. I tried to ignore him as best I could, but every time he opened his mouth I expected a flock of doves to emerge from the gaps in his teeth. We ate an awkward dinner, and promptly returned to the car for another awkward voyage home. We arrived, and the parents continued to chat while I sat around not doing much. Then came the turning point, who was going to slumber in my room? In my bed? Do they realize how many African-American ladies have been in that bed?

The ruling was that...

Excuse me while I urinate.

I am back, and only got a little on the seat.

Now where was I? Oh yes, the ruling was for the gal to sleep in my room, the 8 year old also on my room on the floor, and for Commander Coors to slumber in the basement. I was pleased with this ruling, assuming that Professor Pilsner has stickier fingers than the other two parties.

So the day wears on, with the 8 year old kid eating his weight in food. He has 15 pieces of candy, which is probably due to the subliminal messaging of his broter's sugary rap music, and then at 11:30pm requests a peanut butter sandwich. I nearly went upstairs and took a leak on the floor where he was going to sleep, but then I realized that is the room I sleep in. He ate his sandwich and then ran at roadrunner speeds around the house, tearing up carpet and creating dust storms left and right. I would have asked him to stop, but his crazy mind would intrepret that as "Eat a lot more candy", which would have only worsened the situation. After his marathon runs, he enters the basement, where his brother is probably working on his home-made Meth lab. He comes back up the stairs and requests for me to play some of those videogames with him. I had nothing else to do, so I accepted.

I find his brother downstairs, and I tighten my hole out of fear. We fire up the game, where I proceed to gently let him win by one point, so he didn't cut me and wear my skin. After our game we go upstairs to again do a whole lot of nothing. The psycho kid decided it's time to watch a feature film. He selects "Napoleon Dynamite". I put it on and leave the basement, where him and his siblings watch the talking images. They again return after the talkie is over, and stand around listening to interesting conversation about digital camera with our parents.

After this, it is declared night time. Brewmaster Bud enters the basement, and Admiral ADD and the college gal file into my room. I mount the couch ready for the evening, when I was drawn to the computer and proceded to write this enormous entry. The gang is expected to leave at 10a.m. Sunday morning, and I hope they stick to the plan.

If you read all of that, the next time I see you I'll call you an inappropriate name.