'Hello you. How are you? Good, me too.'
Billions of people around the world watched the ball drop, or the fireworks go off, or the dancers dance or whatever it is they do in their country for New Years Celebrations. Millions of families sat around drinking eggnog, staring at their Christmas tree that by now is probably dried and desperately needing to go in the garbage before it becomes fire kindling. Millions of people were happy about the way the day turned out, they sat around making resolutions, they smiled and praised one another's accomplishments in the past year, talked about things they'd like to do in the new year. Many people vowed to lose weight, some vowed to get rich, some vowed to finish that much-worked-on novel and many vowed for something simple.
To not. Fucking. Argue.
Unfortunately I didn't get that. I didn't get that one simple god damned, motherfucking, son of a bitching, ass biting, chocolate highway driving, shit-dick-FUCK of a goddamned wish! What did I get to do for the New Year? I watched the fucking ball drop, all right. I watched it drop in my house, along with the other shoe and every other euphemism you can think of that applies. I just. Want. Peace. Can I get peace? Apparently not.
Of course, my dad staggers in here drunk as a pissed on skunk who just did a few backstrokes in the Jack Daniels vat with his nose pinched closed, breathing through his mouth; acted a fucking fool; made a dumbass of himself after saying Happy New Year to everybody . . . And then it got bad. (Somehow)
I'll note for the record that we broke a record today. Yes, the New Year wasn't here one solid hour before the family feud broke loose. I was in my room trying to sleep, I didn't even want to stay up and wait for it. Amid the many stacks of old newspaper, the old print outs and manuscripts that litter my room floor, I managed to shut my eyes through the booming sound of our living room stereo system (the one my dad only turns on when he's plowed so he can dance around and act like a jackass s'more) but sleep did not come to me. No, sleep is a fucking bitch goddess about taking you away when you really want to get away. Sleep is like the drug with no payoff. It sounds cosy, probably feels cosy too, but unfortunately . . . You're unconscious.
It's little shit like that that gets me pissed off at a lot of things, but I digress, back to the subject at hand.
So anyway, through the booming, blaring and roaring of speakers, subwoofers and the whole bit, I hear raised voices. I know simply by the word choice and altitude of those hate-filled octaves: The family feud is on. Oh, don't get me wrong, in the past it was worse, back then we had more than three people in the house. There were lots of us in a great big house in California. We enjoyed living together because, for the most part, it was fun and entertaining, never a dull moment. The holidays were a different subject all together. It wasn't always this bad of course, once in a while we had a good holiday, but ever since my Dad officially started running the household and we all went our separate ways, it's been bedlam. The old family fights were sometimes this bad, but never this violent.
No, the violence is purely a Dad Inspired Twist, or D.I.T as the folks in psychology like to call it. Don't think I'm putting this here for your sympathy. Please don't think that. In fact, I want you to laugh at this craziness as hard as you possibly can. It doesn't even disturb me anymore, if anything I'm more astounded that we can manage to do this shit every year. Call me numb, I guess.
My dad likes to mudsling, y'see, like a fucking five-year-old child, he mudslings. When his point is no longer valid and he can't argue me down (I've become a master at avoiding his bullshit logic) he starts calling mother and I all kinds of motherfucking sons of bitches and trifling assholes, bitches, whores, worthless, useless, etc. etc. verbal abuse, verbal abuse. It used to hurt our feelings, but now we just mudsling right back. Mom is such a good mudslinger these days; I can't talk for laughing sometimes. One of my favourites: "Who're you calling a bitch, you rumple-dick, white-ho-fucking, no good, cheatin', toothless bastard?"
I'll note, afterwards we give each other points for syllables. She always wins. My insults are more . . . to the point, direct and funny to a finite joy. Hers are long, exacting, cutting, agonising and deadly boomerangs that hit once only to come back and hit again. Eventually the arguments begin doing nothing more than regurgitating things that have already been done or said, talking of the past, mistakes, triumphs that went wrong, etc. etc. and it just draws to a silent close with my dad sucking down more alcohol, my mom going to bed and me sitting there staring at him in disgust until I can take it no more and go to bed as well. Notice, however, we never argue until he gets fucked up. Trend? I think so.
Anyway, I said what I had to say tonight but it won't mean shit by tomorrow, he'll still be the same ol' idiot. He'll still be preaching his will at people with vicious sentiment. Mom'll still be mom. I'll still be Black Man Without A Cause or 'BMWAC' (pronounced: Bhm'wak').
There is holy retribution though. There is such thing as bad kharma and the wrath of God. It just showed a small portion of itself moments into me typing that last paragraph. My dad, a man renown for being able to hold his liquor (just last night he drank three forty-ounces and one sixteen, then turned around and chased them with a bottle of Christian Brothers) is in the bathroom. Yakking. His fucking. Guts out!
Happy Fucking New Year! :D
Hybrid: Out.
To not. Fucking. Argue.
Unfortunately I didn't get that. I didn't get that one simple god damned, motherfucking, son of a bitching, ass biting, chocolate highway driving, shit-dick-FUCK of a goddamned wish! What did I get to do for the New Year? I watched the fucking ball drop, all right. I watched it drop in my house, along with the other shoe and every other euphemism you can think of that applies. I just. Want. Peace. Can I get peace? Apparently not.
Of course, my dad staggers in here drunk as a pissed on skunk who just did a few backstrokes in the Jack Daniels vat with his nose pinched closed, breathing through his mouth; acted a fucking fool; made a dumbass of himself after saying Happy New Year to everybody . . . And then it got bad. (Somehow)
I'll note for the record that we broke a record today. Yes, the New Year wasn't here one solid hour before the family feud broke loose. I was in my room trying to sleep, I didn't even want to stay up and wait for it. Amid the many stacks of old newspaper, the old print outs and manuscripts that litter my room floor, I managed to shut my eyes through the booming sound of our living room stereo system (the one my dad only turns on when he's plowed so he can dance around and act like a jackass s'more) but sleep did not come to me. No, sleep is a fucking bitch goddess about taking you away when you really want to get away. Sleep is like the drug with no payoff. It sounds cosy, probably feels cosy too, but unfortunately . . . You're unconscious.
It's little shit like that that gets me pissed off at a lot of things, but I digress, back to the subject at hand.
So anyway, through the booming, blaring and roaring of speakers, subwoofers and the whole bit, I hear raised voices. I know simply by the word choice and altitude of those hate-filled octaves: The family feud is on. Oh, don't get me wrong, in the past it was worse, back then we had more than three people in the house. There were lots of us in a great big house in California. We enjoyed living together because, for the most part, it was fun and entertaining, never a dull moment. The holidays were a different subject all together. It wasn't always this bad of course, once in a while we had a good holiday, but ever since my Dad officially started running the household and we all went our separate ways, it's been bedlam. The old family fights were sometimes this bad, but never this violent.
No, the violence is purely a Dad Inspired Twist, or D.I.T as the folks in psychology like to call it. Don't think I'm putting this here for your sympathy. Please don't think that. In fact, I want you to laugh at this craziness as hard as you possibly can. It doesn't even disturb me anymore, if anything I'm more astounded that we can manage to do this shit every year. Call me numb, I guess.
My dad likes to mudsling, y'see, like a fucking five-year-old child, he mudslings. When his point is no longer valid and he can't argue me down (I've become a master at avoiding his bullshit logic) he starts calling mother and I all kinds of motherfucking sons of bitches and trifling assholes, bitches, whores, worthless, useless, etc. etc. verbal abuse, verbal abuse. It used to hurt our feelings, but now we just mudsling right back. Mom is such a good mudslinger these days; I can't talk for laughing sometimes. One of my favourites: "Who're you calling a bitch, you rumple-dick, white-ho-fucking, no good, cheatin', toothless bastard?"
I'll note, afterwards we give each other points for syllables. She always wins. My insults are more . . . to the point, direct and funny to a finite joy. Hers are long, exacting, cutting, agonising and deadly boomerangs that hit once only to come back and hit again. Eventually the arguments begin doing nothing more than regurgitating things that have already been done or said, talking of the past, mistakes, triumphs that went wrong, etc. etc. and it just draws to a silent close with my dad sucking down more alcohol, my mom going to bed and me sitting there staring at him in disgust until I can take it no more and go to bed as well. Notice, however, we never argue until he gets fucked up. Trend? I think so.
Anyway, I said what I had to say tonight but it won't mean shit by tomorrow, he'll still be the same ol' idiot. He'll still be preaching his will at people with vicious sentiment. Mom'll still be mom. I'll still be Black Man Without A Cause or 'BMWAC' (pronounced: Bhm'wak').
There is holy retribution though. There is such thing as bad kharma and the wrath of God. It just showed a small portion of itself moments into me typing that last paragraph. My dad, a man renown for being able to hold his liquor (just last night he drank three forty-ounces and one sixteen, then turned around and chased them with a bottle of Christian Brothers) is in the bathroom. Yakking. His fucking. Guts out!
Happy Fucking New Year! :D
Hybrid: Out.