Because my mind wanders like a Robin Williams interview, and because a dime-store psychic once told me that it would be my fate, my precious time that isn't spent beating off to deviant forms of Asian pornography and trying to desperately coerce a chick to come over and look at my cock like its some sort of hostage negotiation, is spent imagining that I'm a highly recognizable public phenomenon. In my head I fictitiously handle the paparazzi in the best ways imaginable, knowing all the photographers by name-even asking how their children are doing, sometimes bringing them breakfast as they stake out my house, subtly dropping them hints on what night I plan on taking some young Hollywood starlet home and "fucking her fake tits off". I'd gleefully abuse my celebrity, taking the most inopportune moments at awards shows to promote my most radical political ideologies, even having death threats hurled at me for most of my career based on that one time I said "I don't care how many dead guys you try to dig up, Rakim is still the best fucking rapper ever!!" at a televised rap award show. During random conversations with childhood friends I'd shamelessly namedrop, leaving the "Clooney" and the "Pitt" off of those gentlemen's names just to add a bit of elitism like it was a cooking spice, and even though I'm from the suburbs I'd tell a childhood friend "It's always good to come back to the hood, it really grounds me!!" before leaving his residence. I'd even go out of my way to look out for the financial needs of my extended family, throwing one big "Now leave me the fuck alone!!" party, a joyous family gathering that ends by me handing some person who shares my DNA a small bag of undisclosed cash and telling them "Now leave me the fuck alone!!" before gently nudging them out of my residence with the bottom of my Shell-Toe Adidas. Man, I'm even an insufferable prick in my delusions of grandeur, the only person that I can't see abandoning me in those scenario's is my mother, despite my possible future behavior that would have gotten any other loving son incorrectly outed as a homosexual who loves getting double penetrated.
That's my mother though, she's always had my back regardless of the situation, her lifelong consistency of love and devotion makes me want to write a buddy cop script for the both of us, the tag line being "She's dealt with an asshole son and breast cancer, now she's going to deal with you!" I love my mother so much that she's the only person on the planet that I would take a bullet for, which would probably make me the worst secret service man ever, me even hopping out of the way for the most innocent of automobile backfires then uttering "I thought it was an assassin, I'm not dying for a "Cowboy" from Connecticut!!" I love my mother so much that every time I hear one of my black friends defending his interracial relationship by claiming, "A Black woman can't do anything for me!", I always feel the need to defend women of her ilk by saying "What about your mother, motherfucker?" I love my mother so much that I have kept these following incidents surrounding my childhood a closely guarded secret.
Old men used to have us fighting like male chickens: My mother was shocked when I informed her that I spent most of High School on suspension and that I had a masterful gift for recreating her signature at will, I'm sure she'd be horrified to learn that old men placed bets on me and my friends like they were attending a goddamned cock-fight. Let me explain, when I was a kid living in Naval Housing amongst the sons of degenerates and card carrying members of the Klan, fighting at an early age was like a rite of passage. The neighborhood kids would fight so much that a few of the men in the neighborhood openly bet on which kid would be the victor, an endeavor so profitable for the gentlemen that I suddenly found myself fighting kids that I didn't particular have an issue with. I didn't have to take my shirt off or anything, my visage was never embedded on some ass-hat's hard-drive somewhere, and I wasn't touched inappropriately, but I still feel exploited to some extent. I'm just glad that my mother wasn't aware of what was going on then, because I'm sure she would have kicked the colostomy bags off of all those geriactric motherfuckers
The inappropriate lessons I learned at "The Fox Trap": My father, ever the role model, used to take me along with him to this bar called "The Fox Trap" after my soccer and baseball practices. I guess he had some sort of pull there, because the staff didn't seem to find my pre-pubescent presence objectionable, they treated me like one of the regulars as I threw back fried chicken wings and soda with reckless abandon. My mother was aware that my father was taking me there, which she wasn't particularly happy about, but she has no idea the mass amount of shit that found it's way into my virgin ears. One afternoon a fight broke out between two bar patrons in which a thriwn bottle almost hit me, with one of the men picking up the broken bottle remains and stabbing the man as I watched.(He didn't die.) On more than one occasion, some lonely waitress that looked like life dealt her the roughest of hands, would inappropriately tell me what she would do to me when I reached 18 years of age. Maybe that's why I'm fucked up, grown women placing my hand on their legs and all, flashing me their tits like a rather advanced game of peek-a-boo. Jesus, I need more therapy, and I really hope my mother doesn't read this.
My Friends mom used to get high with us: My parents were funny about me staying over people's houses when I was a kid, with my mother it was a safety issue, with my old man it was a question of "being a queer" because I wanted to hang out with my friends. But the one friend that they didn't mind me hanging out with was Blake, I don't know why, but both of my parents were sold on the unproven fact that Blake's mother was a bona fide disciplinarian for some reason. Because of that I got to spend a great deal of time over Blake's house, but what my parents didn't know was that Blake's mom fucked more dudes than custody battles, and that she had a weed habit that would make Redman blush. If I wasn't smoking some street grade horticulture with Blake's mom, or laughing with her and her son afterwords as we raided her refrigerator, I was watching some random douche-bag through the crack of her bedroom door fill each hole like he was going bowling.
When I was 17 I had in-house roast beef flaps: I mentioned this a few time before on my blog, but when I was 17 years old I had the luxury of experiencing some Grade A, Nova Scotian, 29 year old in-house ass. Long story short, a friend of my parents came to stay with us a while, and within a few weeks time she made a man out of me in ways that my father's fishing trips and "tough love" couldn't. I was in love man, she threw that ass on me so hard that I still stare off into space whenever I smell someone wearing the same perfume she used to wear. Let me tell you, you look at your last year in high school with a totally different perspective when every day you walk into your first period after receiving a Hummer that doesn't have gas mileage issues, or rudely shoving your middle finger under the noses of your friends and saying "Guess what this smell is??"-giggling in the most geekiest of fashions. But that loving was a bit much for me to handle, and when we stopped having sex and she decided to date guys her own age, I openly picked fights with them and even threatened the lives of a few of them. That's the beauty of being a career asshole though, my mother had no idea that she was hearing my heart breaking, she just chalked it up to the 20 other guys lives she'd heard me threaten before.