Tuesday, September 13, 2011

You Have Toilet Breath, You Potty Mouth!

I’d be lying to myself and pretty much everyone else (with the exception of my grandmother’s who think I might as well be the second coming of Christ Himself) if I said I wasn’t a hellion on four legs. Hey, at least I can admit it aloud; a perfect example of exhibiting real moral fiber (or so they say). Here of lately, my temper is easier to set off than a hair-trigger. To flip the switch from seraph to menace can be done faster than you can say, ‘you’ve-got-toilet-breath-you-potty-mouth.’ (I'm going to attribute a lot of my pent up anger and lash outs on the voice in my head/ brat on my back, Craig... you'll meet him soon enough).

You know that Jim Carrey movie, ‘Yes Man’ (and I’d honestly rather watch reruns of The 700 Club from 1979 than that atrocious film) where that goof of a human has to say ‘yes’ to everything he’s asked to do? Well, check it out: when my parents are in like stage 5 of REM sleep, I press play and let them subconsciously hear the concept of the movie. So, I’m hoping instead of hearing, “No Julian, you can’t construct a gay bar at the dog park.” Or, “No, Joe. I’d rather you not be the nude model for a college art class.” I’ll someday hear, “Joe, I think Piedmont is in dire straits for a classy yet dimly-lit watering hole for gay canines. Great idea!” And, “You know, Joe. Fat is the new skinny. Go pose nude, and make sure I get a copy of every canvas!”

But sadly, my world is converse to this. It’s always, “No Joe, don’t bust that medicine ball/volley ball/beach ball/my balls.” Or, “Julian, don’t you dare bite Grandma Sue’s plants out of anger!” Or, “Joseph, I can’t believe you ripped another set of blinds because I had to go to work and couldn’t stay home and play Taboo or Don’t Wake Daddy!”

It’s a never-ending no-fest in my neck of the woods, and I’m just a squirrel trying to crack a nut on a yes! Speaking of squirrels, I made this little novelty for a special someone :)


And yes I know, I know...It’s been a hot minute since I’ve given you guys the dirt and bones via BlogSpot—so run me over with your Prius already! (HA, that's a laughable exaggeration. A paraplegic could win that race).

One could say the past three weeks have closely resembled a nice joy-ride on Griffin’s finest fair ride, The Scrambler.

I’ll do all you homo-erectus’ a solid and fill in the blanks.

First things first: we moved...again…for the 2nd time in two months. Let’s just say change and I go together about as well as your mom’s string bikini and those luscious liver spots of hers (mmm).
I feel like I was born clutching scotch tape, old newspapers and water –stained cardboard boxes. In the past four years, we have moved a total of 12 times to four different cities! I’m fed up; I was quick to inform the odd couple that I’m not an army brat (but it’d be cool to do as the Romans do), I’m tired of changing schools, making new friends, and if she even thinks of uprooting me again, I’m calling social services. Deal with it.

Then she laughs and says, “I think you have to actually make a friend first to then make a new one, you spoiled brat.” …And there goes the wind from my sails. I’m as deflated as Ron Jeremy’s personal doll collection.

If she wants to play dirty, that’s fine. Next time she even has the idea cross her mind about moving, I’m going to beat her to the punch.

“Oh so you’re moving again, mom?”

“Yes we are, but what do you mean you’re moving, Joe?”

“Well, I was thinking you could do you and I could do me…I’d move to Mexico, start up my own business, let all my fantasies and ideas blow like crop-dust in the wind.”

“So, your future dreams and goals can be compared to flatulence, am I right?”

“No! Now you’re just putting words in my mouth! All I’m saying is: I have a splendid idea that I think would really juice up tourism in Mexico.”

“And…that would be?”

“I’m going to sell Chiclets.”

“Ummmm, you know that’s slang for cocaine, don’t you?”

“Mother, no.….I was referring to the square chewing gum. Come on, don’t be ignorant! You get like 58 pieces for a nickel at every Mexican restaurant in America. Granted they dissolve in your mouth after like six good chomps, but that’s probably why they give you a nice handful to begin with! I can see it now: Little gangly Espanola’s running to and fro in the streets, selling assorted bags of my yummy Chiclet candies. But instead of Chiclets, I’d call them Ju’s Chews… … yeah… I need to Google the translation for that.”

“Well, I can say without a doubt, I’ve never been more proud of you, son.”

Soooo that’s how the conversation would go… in my head. But, she’d probably make some smartass remark like,

“Hah. I’d give my liver to an alcoholic to see you fail in that endeavor, Josephina..You're going to need a new idea because that one's already taken, bud. ”


What else is new?? Mom got a new car; dad and I got season tickets to UGA from Gmama and Gdaddy. Both were AWESOME presents! There’s really not too much else to say other than the window at the new apartment is already getting tricky to see through due to the snot I’ve smeared on every inch of it. I sit by that damn window for eight hours every day waiting on mother’s return…and she wonders why I have separation anxiety….Hmmpph. I’ll post a video or something cool tomorrow.

See ya on the flip side! Muahahahahh!