Last night, out of sheer boredom (I assume), she decided to tell me the story of HER birth, not mine. Figures she would embellish and make her earthly entrance more thrilling than how it actually occurred. I was trying desperately to tune one ear to the Newlywed Game
(Sherri Shepherd, you are one hell of a funny lass), and one ear to mom’s verbose poppycock. As soon as she told me she was born at 7:27 on 727 and weighed 7 lbs and 27 ounces, I suddenly lost interest, called her a liar and decided shaving my face with a cokehead’s pinky nail would be a drastic step-up from listening to her elaborate birthday fabrications. I tried to calmly and tactfully remind her that no one cared if she was born on a Wednesday twenty-three years ago, and that I’m positive she’s had a few other birthday’s fall on Wednesday due to the earth’s orbiting path. With a quick whip of her hair, she got in my face and insisted I put a lid on it with the nerd talk. Not to mention she threatened that if she caught me watching The Sci-Fi channel again, she’d hack my Facebook and list it under my interest.
“Go right ahead, Bee-otch. Guys appreciate men with a point a view and superfluous knowledge of all things space! It’s a nostalgic reminder of childhood games such as capture the Ewok and assembling Jobba the Hut forts out of masking tape and cardboard boxes!”
Just as I was trying to simulate in my head a remote control to mute the babbling broad, my phone rang. It was dad, and he needed my help to surprise mom. I told him it would cost him and gave him the following wish list:
1. a Red-Velvet Cheesecake Blizzard…XX-Large!
2. The VHS of The Adventures of Milo and Otis (always had a crush on Otis…might be the name of my first born).
3. A license plate that reads, “DNIS DA MNIS” for my red Mini Coop (though the nickname dubbed by my dad was theoretically given to hold a negative connotation over me, I’ve grown to like it!... soooo, you’re dumb!).
4. DivaGel (for my new Faux hawk I’m working on....props, Sanjaya).
5. Pajama Jeans… acid wash. (Mom rants about them, and I think I might trust the hellcat on this one).
Although I was only halfway kidding about most of those, I knew good and well what to expect from his response:
“Dream big, Gayboy. A mini-coop? Wow, son. You know how I know you’re gay? Because you strive to be on the Canadian Olympic Curling Team…. The Women’s Canadian Olympic Curling Team.”
“I don’t need your harassment, lesbian! Stop stealing lines from my favorite movie!”
“It’s Lebanese, Joe. And you would like the 40 Year-old Virgin…probably because of all the gay references.”
“Whatever. You know that huge hole in your manties? Yeah. You’re welcome.”
You know if I didn’t love my mother as much as I do, I would have spoiled it for her and just told her dad was on his way over. BUT, I figured, what the hell. He’d probably sulk and cry if I tinkled on his dream, and
I didn’t feel like hearing his terribly loud, screetchy voice on repeat “JOE! JOE! JOE!.” I’ll pass.Enough about birthdays, because the only one that really counts is mine and that’s in October.
Here are a few things on my mind at the moment:
--Why won’t the Indian boys downstairs ever ask me to play cricket with them? I’m a fast learner and a speedy runner… whatever. Not to mention, I love anything British.
--How many balloons would I have to inflate to get myself on the doorstep of Vern Yip…The man can decorate. Ok?
--I know what G-mama means when she says run-and-run, so maybe I can ask her if I can dig-and-dig when I’m there this weekend?
--I can’t take it anymore: I have GOT to get Uncle Mauricio a new boyfriend… that’s top priority.
Well, I really have nothing more to say today. I’m busy plotting how to keep my parents from going out of town this weekend. Any suggestions? I’ve already tried to fit myself in dad’s man-purse (fail), tirelessly attempted to bite through a few cords under the hood of the Camry, and developed a huge sebaceous cyst on my butt…please tell me all this effort hasn’t gone unnoticed?!
Speaking of the cyst on my back, as soon as mom heard the doctor say “sebaceous,” her eyes were wide with this crazy look in them. I’m suffering from the aftermath of her meticulous plan to pop it and leave me with a hideous scar.
Oh! And speaking of scars, I have a huge one of on my face. Ever since Cooper ripped me a new one, I feel I’m channeling Scar from the Lion King.
Not too shabby considering he’s one of my many idols, following close behind Neil Patrick Harris and runner up, Sean Hayes.
I’m done here.
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