cWell... Looky what we have here...
So, I went to Dallas on Sunday to meet up with my family and visit my dad. Nearly every weekend I go, and give him a recap of how my week has been. I’m relatively certain that the summation of my weekly shenanigans scares the piss out of him, but he laughs nonetheless, and continues on his weekly rant to convince me to write it out as a sitcom screenplay. I laugh at this thought, he gets frustrated, and my brothers discuss what I could do with the inevitable billions of dollars I could make from said sitcom.
His tone became much more serious when I gave a great character story about a drunken exchange between Brosa and Thumper. As I have expressed before, Thumper is a hypochondriac. Recently, her anxiety has been put to the ultimate test as she has been feeling ill, and undergoing a multitude of medical assessments to determine the underlying cause. But this story is NOT about whether or not she is actually ill. Rather, it is a delightful story about why I love my friends, and how I should never leave them alone when they have been drinking…
So, Brosa and I had a brief conversation once about Thumper’s medical anxiety. I contended that her hypochondria is merely anxiety that is manifesting itself in that form. Brosa believes it is something deeper and that Thumper is afraid of dying. She continues to discuss this for a bit, but I’m not terribly sure what all was said because I had changed conversations in my head, and was already thinking about where to get chicken tacos. I mutter, “Hmmph,” and continue my search for food.
The next day, I leave town and return to find a delightful story about the weekend. You see, Brosa and Thumper proceeded to drink themselves into an emotional stupor with a few of our friends. Your Mom (YM) is at the bar, and overhears drunken Thumper getting worked up about a medical result. She turns to order a drink and turns back around to see Thumper in tears talking to Brosa. YM doesn’t really know what to do. We haven’t known her very long, but I believe our brief friendship is already making a memorable impression. Please make a mental image as I go through the dialogue. Thumper is drunk and in tears. Brosa is drunk, with her arm around her, and trying to be supportive… aaaaaand go:
Thumper: I don’t want cancer!
Brosa: Thumper, you can’t be afraid of dying! It’s going to happen.
Thumper sobs harder: AHHHH!!
Brosa: Everyone dies. If it’s your time, it’s your time. God will take you and there’s nothing you can do about it! You can’t be afraid, Thumper! You can’t!
Thumper then goes into hysterics… at the bar.
YM is incredibly perplexed at this exchange, and has no idea what to do. She tells Brosa that she may be making it worse, to which Brosa exclaims, “She has to confront her fears!”
God help us. Why do I EVER leave town? It’s probably for the best though. I am an asshole when I’m drinking and when I heard the story, all I could think about was standing next to both of them and telling Thumper to go towards the light. It may not have helped, but it definitely would have been funny.
I call Brosa the next day, and ask her what the hell she was thinking. In hindsight, I believe she realizes that was neither the time nor the place for that conversation.
But back to my previous point, my dad hears this story, and becomes frustrated with me that I don’t believe I could write a successful sitcom. He asks for more, so I proceed with a delightful tale about the weekend:
On Friday, a massive concerted effort was made to embarrass another friend of ours, Boyda. He plays hockey for a local social club, and is Canadian (I don’t really think that last part was necessary for the story, but the sentence sounded like it needed a conjunction, and who am I to argue with that?). So about 15-20 of us travel to North Austin to watch his game. Now, this isn’t your typical run-of-the-mill show of support. No no. It definitely was not.
The group shows up with giant signs, crowns, Boyda faces on a stick, and beer. There were signs that said, “We Pucking Love you Boyda”, “Boy-DUH!!”, “D-Fence”, and “D-Bag.” There was also a large sign with a bunch of cutouts of Boyda’s face placed into the shape of the #9. Then, there were a multitude of pictures of Boyda’s face cut out and placed on sticks for the crowd. There was a captain Boyda, and even Boyda crowns. I know… it was excessive, but that was the beauty of it.
Poor guy. Every time he came onto the ice, touched the puck, or looked our direction, we went nuts. And when he had to sit in the penalty box, the crowd booed like we had never booed before and chastised the ref and other players. Not only were we fans, but we were bad fans at that (often making football references instead of hockey, and booing other players). It was about an hour of pure Boyda-mayhem. Luckily, he’s a good sport, and stuck around for the autograph signing session after the game.
As you can expect, we went downtown after the game. Everyone proceeds to drink heaps, and the show goes on. Anna becomes a drunken floozy (sorry, Anna… it’s too funny not to talk about!), Your Mom hits on every man over 6 feet, and I do the robot.
I remember several things about that night: 1) I spent a significant portion of time trying to convince some people that I took Tony Romo’s V-Card, 2) I offered a thug on the street $500 billion to “beat the crap” out of my guy friend. Luckily, he didn’t take me up on my offer. I mean, I didn’t have $500 billion to actually give him, and I doubt very seriously he would have taken a credit card. That would have been sweet if he did though…
At any rate, I stayed in bed the next day until 5 in the afternoon. Yes. You heard that correctly. I stayed in bed till 5. The rest of the day proceeded as normally as humanly possible. I took a shower, and went for dinner and a movie. End of story.
I woke up Sunday around 4 in the morning to head to Dallas to meet up with my family. I really love seeing my brothers. For the past 17 years, every time I have seen them, they always look like they need a nap. Mom says I do too, but I contest that. Actually, she saw all of us yesterday and said she was embarrassed of our appearance because we all “look like a bunch of damn orphans I picked up off the street.” Anyway, Anthony rolls out of the car with his eyes half closed and a grumpy look. Robert stumbles out with his head tucked into his hoodie and needing the restroom. Grumpy Anthony looks down at his feet and stares for a bit before asking, “Dude… is this right?” Robert peeks out of the hoodie, “Yea man. You’re cool.” I then realized that my 17-year old brother had just asked my other 17-year old brother if his shoes were on the correct feet. Not only was he unsure of which foot goes where, but he was also needed to ask another person if his foot assessment was correct. Like I said, I love my brothers.
So us three children are sitting around waiting and bored, which makes for a TERRIBLE combination in my household (I should probably repost the old story about when my brothers set a tree on fire in my grandma’s backyard). Thus, we begin the tradition of calling out douchebags (Basically, we chant “Doooooouchebag” when someone walks by, and state one reason why.). This one always makes mom mad because she thinks someone’s going to hear us, but to be honest, it’s one of the lesser damaging things we do when we’re bored. I remember one time when there was nothing to do, I decided to give Robert a haircut. He had pretty long shaggy hair, and I asked if I could chop it off. He said, “I don’t see why not.” So we went out back and I stuck my fingers through his hair and cut off all the hair that stuck out over my fingers. We came back into the house about half an hour later and Dad was not happy. To say that he was “pissed,” would be an understatement. He tried to ground me. Literally, he tried to send me to my room. I am 24 years old… the days of grounding me are over. Sucker.
And duh, the haircut looked pretty damn sweet, if you ask me.
Anyway… it’s been a good weekend, and it’s now time for me to end this and become a productive member of society. In closing, I leave you with a picture of my grandmother after my brothers and I gave her a fart-flavored jelly bean. I hope it makes your day as good as it made mine. Toodles.
His tone became much more serious when I gave a great character story about a drunken exchange between Brosa and Thumper. As I have expressed before, Thumper is a hypochondriac. Recently, her anxiety has been put to the ultimate test as she has been feeling ill, and undergoing a multitude of medical assessments to determine the underlying cause. But this story is NOT about whether or not she is actually ill. Rather, it is a delightful story about why I love my friends, and how I should never leave them alone when they have been drinking…
So, Brosa and I had a brief conversation once about Thumper’s medical anxiety. I contended that her hypochondria is merely anxiety that is manifesting itself in that form. Brosa believes it is something deeper and that Thumper is afraid of dying. She continues to discuss this for a bit, but I’m not terribly sure what all was said because I had changed conversations in my head, and was already thinking about where to get chicken tacos. I mutter, “Hmmph,” and continue my search for food.
The next day, I leave town and return to find a delightful story about the weekend. You see, Brosa and Thumper proceeded to drink themselves into an emotional stupor with a few of our friends. Your Mom (YM) is at the bar, and overhears drunken Thumper getting worked up about a medical result. She turns to order a drink and turns back around to see Thumper in tears talking to Brosa. YM doesn’t really know what to do. We haven’t known her very long, but I believe our brief friendship is already making a memorable impression. Please make a mental image as I go through the dialogue. Thumper is drunk and in tears. Brosa is drunk, with her arm around her, and trying to be supportive… aaaaaand go:
Thumper: I don’t want cancer!
Brosa: Thumper, you can’t be afraid of dying! It’s going to happen.
Thumper sobs harder: AHHHH!!
Brosa: Everyone dies. If it’s your time, it’s your time. God will take you and there’s nothing you can do about it! You can’t be afraid, Thumper! You can’t!
Thumper then goes into hysterics… at the bar.
YM is incredibly perplexed at this exchange, and has no idea what to do. She tells Brosa that she may be making it worse, to which Brosa exclaims, “She has to confront her fears!”
God help us. Why do I EVER leave town? It’s probably for the best though. I am an asshole when I’m drinking and when I heard the story, all I could think about was standing next to both of them and telling Thumper to go towards the light. It may not have helped, but it definitely would have been funny.
I call Brosa the next day, and ask her what the hell she was thinking. In hindsight, I believe she realizes that was neither the time nor the place for that conversation.
But back to my previous point, my dad hears this story, and becomes frustrated with me that I don’t believe I could write a successful sitcom. He asks for more, so I proceed with a delightful tale about the weekend:
On Friday, a massive concerted effort was made to embarrass another friend of ours, Boyda. He plays hockey for a local social club, and is Canadian (I don’t really think that last part was necessary for the story, but the sentence sounded like it needed a conjunction, and who am I to argue with that?). So about 15-20 of us travel to North Austin to watch his game. Now, this isn’t your typical run-of-the-mill show of support. No no. It definitely was not.
The group shows up with giant signs, crowns, Boyda faces on a stick, and beer. There were signs that said, “We Pucking Love you Boyda”, “Boy-DUH!!”, “D-Fence”, and “D-Bag.” There was also a large sign with a bunch of cutouts of Boyda’s face placed into the shape of the #9. Then, there were a multitude of pictures of Boyda’s face cut out and placed on sticks for the crowd. There was a captain Boyda, and even Boyda crowns. I know… it was excessive, but that was the beauty of it.
Poor guy. Every time he came onto the ice, touched the puck, or looked our direction, we went nuts. And when he had to sit in the penalty box, the crowd booed like we had never booed before and chastised the ref and other players. Not only were we fans, but we were bad fans at that (often making football references instead of hockey, and booing other players). It was about an hour of pure Boyda-mayhem. Luckily, he’s a good sport, and stuck around for the autograph signing session after the game.
As you can expect, we went downtown after the game. Everyone proceeds to drink heaps, and the show goes on. Anna becomes a drunken floozy (sorry, Anna… it’s too funny not to talk about!), Your Mom hits on every man over 6 feet, and I do the robot.
I remember several things about that night: 1) I spent a significant portion of time trying to convince some people that I took Tony Romo’s V-Card, 2) I offered a thug on the street $500 billion to “beat the crap” out of my guy friend. Luckily, he didn’t take me up on my offer. I mean, I didn’t have $500 billion to actually give him, and I doubt very seriously he would have taken a credit card. That would have been sweet if he did though…
At any rate, I stayed in bed the next day until 5 in the afternoon. Yes. You heard that correctly. I stayed in bed till 5. The rest of the day proceeded as normally as humanly possible. I took a shower, and went for dinner and a movie. End of story.
I woke up Sunday around 4 in the morning to head to Dallas to meet up with my family. I really love seeing my brothers. For the past 17 years, every time I have seen them, they always look like they need a nap. Mom says I do too, but I contest that. Actually, she saw all of us yesterday and said she was embarrassed of our appearance because we all “look like a bunch of damn orphans I picked up off the street.” Anyway, Anthony rolls out of the car with his eyes half closed and a grumpy look. Robert stumbles out with his head tucked into his hoodie and needing the restroom. Grumpy Anthony looks down at his feet and stares for a bit before asking, “Dude… is this right?” Robert peeks out of the hoodie, “Yea man. You’re cool.” I then realized that my 17-year old brother had just asked my other 17-year old brother if his shoes were on the correct feet. Not only was he unsure of which foot goes where, but he was also needed to ask another person if his foot assessment was correct. Like I said, I love my brothers.
So us three children are sitting around waiting and bored, which makes for a TERRIBLE combination in my household (I should probably repost the old story about when my brothers set a tree on fire in my grandma’s backyard). Thus, we begin the tradition of calling out douchebags (Basically, we chant “Doooooouchebag” when someone walks by, and state one reason why.). This one always makes mom mad because she thinks someone’s going to hear us, but to be honest, it’s one of the lesser damaging things we do when we’re bored. I remember one time when there was nothing to do, I decided to give Robert a haircut. He had pretty long shaggy hair, and I asked if I could chop it off. He said, “I don’t see why not.” So we went out back and I stuck my fingers through his hair and cut off all the hair that stuck out over my fingers. We came back into the house about half an hour later and Dad was not happy. To say that he was “pissed,” would be an understatement. He tried to ground me. Literally, he tried to send me to my room. I am 24 years old… the days of grounding me are over. Sucker.
And duh, the haircut looked pretty damn sweet, if you ask me.
Anyway… it’s been a good weekend, and it’s now time for me to end this and become a productive member of society. In closing, I leave you with a picture of my grandmother after my brothers and I gave her a fart-flavored jelly bean. I hope it makes your day as good as it made mine. Toodles.
Poor Gean. I would throw something at you for that. I agree with your dad. It would make a good sitcom. What you need is a publicist to pitch it to a producer.
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