Enlightening Nonsense

A picture of my sister-in-law the whale jumping up to grab in her fat mouth a wad of cash from my brother’s upstretched hand

My brother takes off from work on Wednesdays, doing a half-day on Saturday, and I only work enough to feed my dog once a week and ask my parents to pay my rent, so we both happen to be free for the meet and go hiking with our dogs. It is one of Abandon’s favorite things to bound through wooded areas, exploring all the sights and sounds and smells and places to shit and piss; that and chewing up my adapter plugs.

Our itinerary usually consists of walking in this wooded nature trail in Yuppieville where he lives, where we occasionally bump into other richies who talk about their fifth generation Vizsla dogs and how to keep the blacks out of Weston. Following the hike, we make a fruit shake and sometimes he puts on his panties as he does chores for his wife who doesn’t work but may be taking a tennis lesson or going to the gym or spending his money getting her nails done in the false deception that red nail polish will somehow make her increasingly fattening ass unnoticeable in some house of mirrors refractive illusion.

Usually she’ll ask me, “So what’s going on?” in a way that appears friendly but doubtful that she’s paying attention to my answer. One time I answered, “I contracted AIDS from fucking an infected gorilla,” and her response was, “That sounds good.” I wasn’t sure whether the “good” referred to me getting some action, albeit with, literally, a hairy mother, or picking up a mild case of the AIDS and hopefully dying and relieving her family of my dependency.

This time I told her about how my martial arts school is doing really well and expanded to a new space that is over double the size of the last school and how I am now teaching regular classes and plan to start teaching yoga there as well and blah, blah, blah. She responded with something like, “And what’s the gorilla’s name?” to which I didn’t really have anything clever to say and the only thing I could come up with was, “Samantha.”

She then said, “Well, maybe now you can contribute something to the house, such as some food when you come.”

I said, “Maybe you should start to contribute something—besides stress to my brother and even throw him a bang once every few months.” I didn’t actually say this, as she had already applied a vice-grip of stress on my brother’s balls today and I didn’t want to rev her engine and possibly add more stress to my brother’s testicles.

Apparently there was some stress in the household because their high school aged son was home sick from school and she was going for some breast test because her uncle came down with breast cancer, the fag, and she was paranoid in part because his breasts are larger than hers and in another part because she was hoping for a drag-out case of cancer so she would be given an excuse not to work, as opposed to not working without an excuse. Heck, I’ve been wishing cancer on myself for years now to provide a justification I could present to others in for my lazy work ethic!

Their 15-year old son took off from school because he had some diarrhea last night and wasn’t feeling perfect today. It is a reflection of the pussy society we live in with its pussy parenting and pussy kids. When I was a kid, I walked 5-miles to school each morning with cardboard plugging the holes in my shoes. Oh wait, that wasn’t me. But, regardless if I was a spoiled little bitch or not, this little bastard has allowed his parents’ water jug of money constantly pouring on him to give him the belief system that his shit doesn’t stink. And as someone who has gone to the bathroom right after he’s popped a squat, let me tell you—his shit stinks.

My brother gave his son one of those lessons that kids just ignore, telling him that he really has to eat better. My Dad used to give me similar useless advice like, “Son, you can’t go lighting the temple on fire!” I think parents just like to hear themselves talk at times.

I then found it amazing the nutritional ignorance of most Americans expressed in my sister-in-law’s lunch meal for her son: she handed him a bowl of pasta shells. That is basically like handing someone a candy bar, the only difference being it doesn’t taste quite as good and the pasta companies have done a better PR job of convincing us that what they are selling is not junk food, which it is.

“Why don’t you read a book on nutrition while you’re lazing around the house all day doing nothing but sucking at the non-cancerous teat of my brother?” I questioned my sister-in-law, well, in my head that is, only mildly worried that she might have taken a psychic development class on my brother’s dime and I would find my balls in the VitaMix and part of our next shake. ‘Ah, what do I care if their son has to deal with disease,’ I thought. ‘As long as the pantry is still stocked, either way I’ll sleep well.’

I raided the pantry like I always do, because I am definitely a freeloader, and poured myself a bowl of Grape Nuts, raisins, almonds and white chocolate chips. Hey, at least I jerk my brother off once in awhile, which is more than I can say for her!

I remember in college when the guys were going on a panty raid, when we got to the girls’ dorm, while they were marauding through their underwear drawers, I was in the kitchen eating their food. The guys all looked at me like I had just eaten my own feces and I was like, “Oh, you said PANTY raid. I thought you said PANTRY raid!”

My brother said he was going out to do some shoveling of snow or something and I pretty much ignored him and continued to eat my cereal. Halfway through the cereal, I thought to myself, “That selfish ass! He really needs to shovel snow now when he could be spending the time bonding with his brother?” As much as I tried to avoid the next thought from popping into my head it did. “These white chocolate chips ain’t no dark chocolate chips!” And then the following thought: “Maybe I should stop stuffing my face and spend the time with my brother.” I spent the next 10-minutes frozen like a deer in the headlights as I stared at my half-eaten bowl of cereal which seemed to have some mesmerization over me. “Damn you, let me go!” I shouted and the spell was broken and I joined my brother outside.

Since I was working most days last week helping my martial arts teacher move to the new place, paint walls, sweep, mop, lift lockers and what have you, I have been slightly brainwashed into a mode of being where working is considered a constructive thing; the years of therapy I am going to need to clear that thought from my brain is just mind numbing. But since no therapist has yet signed me up for a Lifetime Enrollment Plan, where they’ll prescribe something for me in order to keep the pharmaceutical Madam of his or her whorehouse satisfied, I just grabbed a shovel and started breaking down ice on the driveway.

My brother told me to chisel away at some of the ice near the big mound of snow that was piled at the sides of the driveway, saying that this would help him back his car out of his driveway unscathed. I thought that he had plenty of room but I needed to burn off the white chocolate chips that had already started its work on adding cellulite to my ass and so I started to wack away, that is, in the non-masturbatory sense.

After I helped to clear a certain amount of the icy snow, my brother gave me my next assignment. “Why don’t you clear some more of the side ice there so I can get out easier?”

I surveyed the wide area that even an 18-wheeler could pop some donuts on without even a nick added to its body and said, “Why don’t you take a fuckin’ driving course instead? I mean, seriously, you have to be a totally shitty driver if you can’t pull your car out without setting off your air bags.”

I was chopping ice in one area of the driveway and my brother was way away from me doing some more shoveling. I thought to myself, “What a douche! Shouldn’t he be near me so that we can at least talk and bond while we’re doing the work of a Puerto Rican?” I then thought how I could just as easily go over to where he was. I then thought that I was kind of enjoying the quiet time not having to listen to him wish his wife a sudden, although painful, death and fuck bonding. I did a little more but after a bit, because of union rules, I took a mandatory, “I’m done” break and went back inside and finished my cereal.

His son was watching sports on television while sending messages to his friends through his iPhone. I thought to myself that if I have a kid and don’t drown him in the bathtub as a result of the pharmaceutical drug that my ‘work is a good thing’ deprogrammer is going to prescribe for me, I would have a Sick Room which would consist of nothing but a room with a bed and the Holy Koran. If my little brat said he was too sick to go to class but his thumbs could still type messages to his friends on his iPhone at 250 words a minute, I would send him to the Sick Room where he could see that his bullshit wouldn’t be paying off in dividends. I would also give him so many herbal and natural remedies that he would beg to be taken back to school, rather having another enema tube shoved up his ass. I guess my kid would have to be adopted after the court’s mandatory vasectomy decision. I suppose I could kidnap him.

Osho said how when kids get sick they should be given the bare essentials to take care of them but they shouldn’t be treated with the nauseating Mothereze of, “How is my little floopy-doopy doing? Can mommy rub your feet and tickle your ass?” This goes against a lot of a parent’s natural tendency when a child is sick to tickle his ass. Osho says that when a child learns at a young age that they are rewarded when they are sick, it builds in them a pattern where they will become manipulative little bitches, which can only result in them growing up into manipulative big bitches.

Now before you think he’s getting all Dr. Ferber on us, he is not saying that you ignore the little bastard or disengage your love valve, he is just saying limit it to the essentials and don’t be a retard about it. Your “love” is not love at all but you pathetically feeling either “important” once again as a parent to a child who seems to have little emotional need for you anymore, or trying to relive a dead past where your child was a baby and you would wipe his ass and whistle Dixie.

It was not the first time I have seen my brother look like the life was drained from him but it did upset me a little that he works so hard for a bunch of spoiled freeloaders (of which I include myself) and holds onto a lot of stress, much of which would be relieved if his frigid wife just blew him once in a blue fuckin’ moon. And then I saw a Greenie health bar in the fridge and forgot all about my brother and his tortured life.