Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.


SEPT. 24, 2003: Last night I go to my dead aunt’s house to help my mom and my live aunt move this futon. My mom, who is crazy, had told me on the phone that if she decides to take the futon – an event that was in question for reasons I’ll get to in a minute – it would necessitate moving the three other futons she owns to make room for it.

"Why the hell do you need another futon if you’ve already got three?!" I asked her.

"There’s nowhere to sit in my apartment," she replied. My mom lives by herself in a small, one-bedroom apartment and has no regular visitors, or friends of any kind for that matter. But whatever.

I go to the damn house, wait for my batshit insane family to show up and let me in, and then carry this futon and frame outside so my mom can smell them. Yes, smell them. Someone smoked cigarettes in the house back in like 1963, so my mom thinks everything in the house is tainted with deadly poisons. She cannot abide by anything that carries any sort of perceptible smell – perfume, cigarettes, paint, detergent, etc. You know, all the stuff every sane person in the world slathers over themselves on a daily basis with no notable ill effect. You could probably douse my mom in some kind of scentless military neurotoxin that’s designed to boil human flesh right off the bones (for legal reasons, I should mention that I am not seriously considering doing this) and the loony old bat wouldn’t blink an eye, but heaven forbid she has to be exposed to any kind of fume.

So I’m standing in the yard while my mom and my aunt start sniffing the wood frame – the fucking wood frame! – of the futon, debating over whether or not it smells like cigarettes, despite the fact that nobody has lit one up in that house for more than 20 years. I decide to take a sniff myself, just out of curiosity. I can’t smell a damn thing, except crazy.

The futon is deemed unfit, which is fine by me since that means I don’t have to go to mom’s lair and play the fucking futon shuffle. There’s a lot of discussion about how at some point the stinky futon can be taken over from my dead aunt’s house to my live aunt’s house and exchanged for a theoretically acceptable futon there which can be brought over to my mom’s, only we can’t do it now because someone is sleeping on it and blah blah blah. I had received a Godzilla DVD in the mail that day that I wanted to watch and finally bellow at my family to shut the hell up and get out of my way so I can put the damn futon back in the House of Many Awful Invisible Fumes and Poisons and get the hell out of there.

Before we all leave, my mom and aunt inquire about my visit to the doctor that day. I had gone to an ear-nose-throat specialist about two post-sinus-infection nosebleeds, to make sure I didn’t have a polyp or varicose vein or shiny quarter lurking around up in there, and the verdict came up negative. I mentioned that the doctor wanted me to get that allergy test where they inject you with stuff to see what makes you swell up. This set both my crazy relatives off and running:

"You don’t want to do that! They’ll inject you with chemicals! And then they’ll just prescribe more chemicals to fix what they've done! What you need to do is get some herbs, or look into this alternative treatment where they inflate something inside your sinuses to reshape them, because these problems are often the result of deformities caused by sleeping on them wrong and…"

It was at this point that I completely lost my mind and started ranting, raving, waving my arms and dancing around like George Burns with a habanero pepper up his ass:

"No! I do not need to get my fucking sinuses reshaped! Because you cannot deform them by sleeping on them! Because there is a bone called your skull there that keeps this from happening! And I do not need to eat any fuckin’ herbs, because I am an American living in the 21st century, where we have a little thing I like to call science! Look! Look at that elbow! You see any psoriasis there? No! Hell no! It’s all cleared up! That’s because I’m a real American, not some cosmic fuckin’ hippy, and I went to the nice doctor and I took the goddamn medicine they gave me! I don't eat any fuckin’ herbs unless they’re in my spaghetti and I don’t break out the crystals and the flute when I get sick! And I get better, unlike your crazy asses!"

They just laughed and drove off. Fucking bitches will probably outlive me, too, just out of spite.


This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?