Monday, April 5, 2010

Happy Easter, Bitchtits

Here's the thing about my father: I really truly do love him, despite his complete lack of conscience, or his inability to feel shame or embarrassment. The man is essentially Bernie Madoff on a budget. Not to mention he has this thing for referring to himself as "Daddy," which sort of has a weird connotation at this point.

"How's Daddy's boy?" asked my father, standing over a hot stove.

"There are literally millions of things you can call me," I said, dropping my bags off at the front door, "But that is so not one of them."

It's not that my dad is a giant dumbass; Mind you, he pretty much is, but that's only a small part of it. As far as I can tell, the moment a man becomes a father is the moment when the part of the brain responsible capable of rational thought and reason dies out and is replaced with the part of the brain that thinks installing TVs in the bathroom and wearing Ed Hardy shirts that show off your sagging bitchtits is anything but fucking stupid.

"Have you said hi to your Grandma yet? She's in the living room," said Moobs.

"No, and I was kinda hoping I wouldn't have to."

I know that sounds mean, but you should probably know right now that my Grandma is, to put it lightly, completely bananaramabatshitinsane. Not only this, but she has a propensity to eat and drink anything in arm's length. She also happens to look a little bit like a penguin, and if you pour enough red wine into her, she'll even waddle like one.

"GERMY! HOW ARE YOU?!" screeched Grandma in a voice that set off dogs and car alarms in a 5 mile radius. Obviously, someone had beaten me to the rum punch, as Grandma was now waddling like a one-woman performance of March Of The Penguins. I was sorely tempted to stick her in a tuxedo and dub her over with Morgan Freeman's voice.

"I'm fine, Grandma," leaning into her doughy frame for what I'm assuming was supposed to be hug but quickly devolved into her wrapping her body around mine so she wouldn't fall on the floor. For those of you wondering where my alcoholic nature comes from, there's your answer.

"Why don't we go into the backyard and dig up dinosaurs?" she asked. On top of being a first-rate glutton, a raging boozehound and completely bonkers, my Grandma is also under the impression that I'm still five years old and interested in fossils. Although to be fair, considering that my current job also involves giant bones, it probably isn't too far from the truth.

"You know, I think I'm good. Besides, Dad is serving supper, so I think-"

"Supper," said Grandma, with the sort of sociopathic, single-minded focus seen only murderers, rapists and Kruezers. The good news is that dinner is usually pretty uneventful, since everyone has their mouth full, which puts a damper on the whole communication thing. In case you're wondering why I never tried convincing my parents to just make it dinner 24/7...Well, then we'd end up with bitchtits as big as Dad's.

Anyway, long story short: gifts are given to Patrick for his birthday, chocolate is exchanged for Easter, Dr. Drew is brought in for Grandma's alcohol dependence (Just kidding! Dr. Drew is a douche!), and I decide to high-tail it out there so I can remind myself why I love these people.

"Well before you go, you want some pork?" asked Dad. "Daddy likes to take care of his boys."

"I will literally pay you money never to say that again."

"How much?"

Long story short, I drive home with half a hunk of ham wrapped in tinfoil while I keep getting calls from a guy I once made the sex with and with whom I have absolutely no desire to make anymore sex with. Finally, I cave in and text him, "Look, just because Jesus rose today, doesn't mean I have to."


Anonymous said...

I always misread "bitchtits" as "bitchitis" - a devastating but all too common disease known to affect certain professors who shall remain nameless until my marks are final, and about half the people in almost any room you care to name.

Drake said...

that was hilarious