Posts Tagged ‘Childhood’

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Life on the Lake: A Tale of B&E

March 28, 2008
Lake Shot

There’s nothing better than a “lobstah” meal with the family. Cracking shells and shooting lobster shmegma all over family members’ faces are some of those small things in life that bring me ultimate joy. It’s especially entertaining when it shoots right near the eye, but I digress…

Lobstahs

The lobstah dinner was only the beginning. I’ve only had a handful of chances to get to know my Uncle Fester. He has a family of his own, and it’s pretty difficult to get together when I live 3200 miles away. On this special night, I not only got to go to a local watering hole and “people watch” all the townies as they drank away their sorrows, inhibitions, marriages and bladder control, but good ol’ Fester made sure I got the full hometown experience.

As we drove home from the bar, we were reminiscing about when I was little and how he used to torture me (or as he calls it being a good uncle.) The one memory that stands out the most is the Wine Bottle… When I was a little “husky” kid, any food or drink in sight was fair game for consumption. Fester took advantage of my youthful gluttony and set out a wine bottle on top of his fridge. Whenever I’d come over the house, he’d say, “Hey snappahead, you wanna try this wine?” Without a second thought, I’d nod my head emphatically, licking my lips and waiting for that sweet nectar. He’d hand me the bottle, making sure it was right up to my face, and uncork it, releasing the smelliest, raunchiest, most pungent fart right into my nostrils. It seriously singed my nose hairs, but I digress…

So we’re driving, reminiscing about family and farts, and Fester pulls a quick louie, almost running the car into a ditch. We pull to a stop:

Fester: “Hey Butthead… you hungry?”
Me: (somewhat intoxicated) “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
Fester: “That’s what I wanted to hear. This is what I like to call Life on the Lake!”

Without waiting a minute longer, we walk up the stairs and pull our own B&E right in the neighbor’s house. Fester b-lines it to the fridge, pulls out a bunch of plastic containers and throws me a jug of apple cider, “Make it a good chug, nibblenuts.” I down a good quarter of the cider, as he starts shoveling left over Chinese food into his mouth. “Food kinda sucks,” he musters between bites. He looks in the fridge and has a look of total disgust on his face, “Where’s the frigging beer? Screw it! Leave the fridge door open and follow me.”

Downstairs we open the fridge to find an open case of Milwaukee’s Best (ugh) and a brand new case of Miller Lite (ehhh). “Beast? What kind of shit is this?” he says as he throws the case of beer across the basement. He rips open the new package of Miller Lite hands me two and takes two for himself.

Back upstairs, we’re digging into Chinese, as he starts to nibble on a sparerib. All of a sudden I hear an enormous belch accompanied by the sound of a sparerib bone bouncing off the window. “You good, buddy?” he asks as he places the empty Chinese containers back in the fridge.

I nod, and we head to the car, driving a good 20 feet to our own driveway. Fast forward about 30 minutes when we get a call from the neighbor, Kenny, as we’re sipping on Grand Marnier: “Hey I’m having people over. Get the hell over here you sack of shit.”

We walk inside the door, looking at the kitchen we had just raided no more than 30 minutes earlier. It’s full of people, laughing and drinking. Kenny walks up to Fester, double fisting a Bloody Mary in one hand and a beer in the other. “What can I get you assholes? Beer? Some Mary Mix?”

Uncle Fester, with a completely straight face, looks at Kenny and says, “Got any spareribs?”

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Husky Moments

March 25, 2008

My parents were fat kids, thusly I was blessed with the genetic gift of childhood obesity (or as I like to call it Fat Shit Syndrome). Growing up, I was always in a constant battle with the fat gene, gaining weight even when I’d eat a plain salad. I was the kid in class that had a Jenny Craig lunch and considered it a treat when my mom packed 2 Snackwell cookies in my lunch. I carried around a calorie counter in my pocket and only weighed myself after bringing the Browns to the Superbowl because it gave me an advantage. I smiled and looked Asian because my jowls pressed my eyes closed so much. I was such a little butterball that I passed clothes down to my older brother.

Fat Champion

I couldn’t run the mile because of my giant Old Country Buffet legs and my 70-year-old chain smoker’s lungs (a.k.a. asthma), but I got really good at speed walking. Every term, it was a race between me and the fat girl that hoovered a bag of Doritos as she circled the track. (I blew that puta out of the water with a record of 8 wins and 2 losses.) I was that weeble that waddled around the hallways of school, the whole time chafing the hell out of my legs. Gold Bond was a good friend of mine.

Fat Running

Don’t be mistaken… I was a cool fat kid. The majority of fat kids figure out at an early age that we need to be funny out of necessity. When you’re younger, kids are so damn cutthroat. The only defense to hecklers and skinny assholes that get off on pointing out your rolls and asking you when you last saw your dong is to be funnier than them. And I was damn good at it… still am.

Those of you with fast metabolisms have no idea what it’s like to walk into Marshall’s or JCPenney and walk to the “Husky” section. No, it’s not the “Pleasantly Plump” or “Big-Boned” section. The Husky section is our school clothes Mecca. Husky is a sugar-coated way to say “Congratulations, you’re the fat kid.” I’m a proud patron of the Husky section, and I’m sure my kids will be the same way.

Whenever you see a “Husky Moment” post, look forward to a story about my days as a little corpulent shit and enjoy laughing at my misfortune, you asshole.