Paper Towels. In my house we used the White Trash Secret Weapon: paper napkins. Little, balled up paper of crud. May explain why to this day I don’t like when people play with little wet, dirty pieces of paper (like from straws.) Though it doesn’t explain why my big dream is to have a beautiful women who is slightly crippled, maybe only a puppy foot, fall in love with me and sticking with me even after the corrective surgery cause I stood by her when she was afflicted, loved her for HER and not just for her model’s face, Carmen Elektra rack and extreme sense of permissiveness when it comes to introducing German dead kitten scat porn into the boudoir.
Soft butter. I don’t think I even knew this existed until I got a girlfriend and had dinner at her house. A stick of butter could not enter my house unless it was frozen solid as if hurled from a comet. And good luck actually spreading this shit on a piece of bread; after 3 seconds the bread would be shredded, and 99% of the butter was still piled high on one spot. Great. I remember trying tricks such as putting the butter on top of the toaster while I toasted my bread or shoving it up Raoul the stockboy’s ass from Sunnyside Grocery down the road. Zero luck. Although on a side note I did learn how to milk another man. Thanks, hard butter!
A second tv/vcr/cable. Any combination of these, I assumed your dad owned NASA or something. It was always awkward the first time I was over at a friend’s house and he’d say “let’s go watch tv in my room” and I’d instinctively go to the one in the living room, pick it up and start carrying it to his room. Sweet, awkward youth. And a vcr, forget it. Every other kid I knew had a vcr and cable and his parents had the inevitable stash of porn under their bed. My parents had time for each other and the inevitable sense of right and wrong, love and family. Obviously I’m still pissed at their choices.
A father. I’d get jealous whenever I’d go to some kid’s house and he had a father – the last time I saw my father, he was kicking my pregnant mother on the floor of our kitchen before walking out yelling at us to go fuck ourselves.
I’m kidding! I’m a kidder!...but seriously, is the only thing funnier than domestic abuse infant rape fueled by racism? It’s close, anyways.
More than one bathroom. People wonder why I take so long on the shitter. The fact is, I’m actually shitting about 1% of the time; the rest of the time I’m sitting, relaxing in the peace. Okay, MAYBE jerking off to pictures of Denise Rich. In my house there were 6 of us and one bathroom. And somehow through the laws of genetics my “cycle” was lined up perfectly with my dad’s. I’d hafta shit my brains out and the second my young, rock-hard, tautly sinewed with just a baby’s breath of hair rippling (did I mention young?) buttocks would hit the porcelain BANG BANG BANG!! “how long you gonna be in there??!! Godammit!!!” I learned how to shit a whole Thanksgiving meal in the time it took me to drop my pants. And things got even dicier the summer my grandma lived with us...guess who had the exact same cycle that she had passed onto her son and grandson? . I’d hafta shit my brains out and the second my young, rock-hard, tautly sinewed with just a baby’s breath of hair rippling (did I mention young?) buttocks would hit the porcelain scratch scratch scratch (154 year-old fingernails barely scraping the door) ”hello? is...anyone...in...there...I think I...left my Magnum fuck-rubbers in there....hello?...” AAAARRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! So when I went to your house and there was more than one shitter, I’d be like WOW....if I lived here, I’d be sitting on the pot ALL DAY!
Obviously, it was very hard to impress me as a youth.
2 comments:
Could she drink you under the table too?
"My grandmother is over eighty and still doesn't need glasses. Drinks right out of the bottle." ~Henny Youngman
My grandmother's (Nonna's) bathroom was right IN the kitchen. The door was next to the stove where she'd be cooking up the sauce.
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