George George of the Jungle.
Anyway, the George's had three kids, Jodie, Sam, and Ashook. WHY IN GOD'S NAME they gave one of their children the dreadfully ethnic name ASHOOK while the other ones got completely normal, Americanized names is totally beyond me, but I can say that we exploited poor Ashook and his culturally diverse moniker to the best of our childlike abilities. Ashook was my brother's age, possibly a little younger, and he made no secrets about the fact that he perceived my brother to be his "best friend". I think his reasoning for this was that our family was one of only two in the entire neighborhood with a large trampoline in our backyard, and ours was the only one without the enclosed mesh walls used to prevent a brave juvenile from backflipping head first into the cement driveway or flinging their frail body from the rooftop onto the trampoline in an effort to bounce high enough to land on a tree branch six feet above (sure my family valued safety, but not enough to pay the extra $50 for that snazzy feature). In fact, because of our trampoline MANY kids wanted to be our friends; and what other reason could there be, really? Shea was most mortified by Ashook's friendly advances, though, and rightfully so. Often times, we would come home from a family outing and open the driveway gate, only to find Ashook, playing contentedly alone in our backyard. One time, he even managed to get into our house. We came home and found him sitting in front of the TV, with a juicebox and a pile of barbies at his feet. Ashook called our house so often that we had to open a second phone line and hire an answering service just to accommodate his calls. For this reason, plus the fact that Ashook alerted the entire neighborhood to their BFF status, Shea truly despised Ashook and tried at all costs to avoid him.
In general, the George's were not a social family. Not that we minded; since they lived on Jubilee, we would not have invited them to our Fourth of July Bar-b-que's anyway. We used to spy on the George's from our vantage point on the trampoline, but because they usually kept their blinds shut and rarely let their children out to play, the only glimpses we ever really caught was of their enormous Rottweiler, Buster. Poor Buster was a giant of a soul, and they kept that dog caged in a tiny, chain-link chicken coop. Because we felt sorry for dear Buster, my siblings and I made every effort to try and provide him with some sort of entertainment and stimulus. In other words, we spent our summer afternoons jumping on the trampoline and flinging useless items at Buster's cage in an attempt to get him to bark and/or attack. These items typically included broken toys, action figures, trash, our sister's most prized possessions, and on more than one occasion, my brother's skidmarked tidy whities that he didn't want our mother to discover. Most times, we would find these items returned the next morning, strewn across our backyard like so many decrepit lawn ornaments. Needless to say, Buster's father did not enjoy our antics.
One day Buster actually ESCAPED from his chain-link prison. Of course, first item on his list of "Things To Do When I Bust Out of This Joint" was to violently attack our family, which he did with much gusto. My mom was in the backyard, innocently sweeping the porch of my brother's pet animal carcasses and venomous bayou marine life, when Buster lunged at the fence, causing it to splinter and break, and immediately bounded towards my mother's delicate 5'2'' frame at roughly 100 miles per hour. Within seconds, he had her pinned to the ground and was viciously licking her face with his deadly canine tongue. After a violent struggle, my mom escaped from Buster's Clutch of Death and ran into the house, slamming the sliding door behind her. Buster then began flinging his 100+ pound physique against the glass door, which immediately became covered from top to bottom with dirt and saliva. It was like Cujo relived. We were prisoners in our own home, waiting for our neighbor's insane dog to tire of his assault upon our patio door. Meanwhile, my mom was frantically trying to call the George's to inform them of their pooch's escape, but their line was busy. Suddenly I got this visual of Ashook sitting in his room, drawing hearts around Shea's photo in the yearbook and repeatedly pressing redial on the family phone.
"Mom," I said, "Just hang up and wait for Ashook to call."
Sure enough, about five minutes later the call came. "Hello, this is Ashook, can Shea play?"
"No, Ashook, Shea isn't home, but..."
"Oh, okay, goodbye."
"DAMMIT, MOM!" I yelled, "You should have told him Shea is waiting for him in the backyard with matching Batman and Robin costumes, that way he'd come running and the dog could attack HIM, and then we could kick the two of them over to the other side of the fence and then they'd both be on the George's property and therefore not our problem."
Just as the foundation of our house began to crumble, the seismic activity caused by the earth rattling under Buster's enormous girth must have drawn the attention of Mr. George, who emerged from his house with... wait for it... A SLICE OF CHEESE.
That's right, Mr. George was standing in his own back yard, looking directly into ours through a hole in the fence shaped like Buster's mammoth torso, donning nothing more than a pair of shrunken boxers and a Kraft American single.
"Buster, Buster!" He timidly cooed as the beast's hot, acrid breath began to melt our metal door frame and the pavement began to crack and bow beneath his massive cloven paws.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" My mother screamed from behind the glass door. "HE TRIED TO GNAW OFF MY APPENDAGES, I SERIOUSLY DOUBT A SLICE OF FUCKING CHEESE IS GOING TO SATIATE HIM!"
But Mr. George persisted, dangling his limp processed cheese-flavored square from 100 yards away. Eventually, his ploy was a success and Buster went galloping towards his owner, who propmptly grabbed him by the collar and was subsequently dragged around the back yard in circles until his legs were nothing more than mangled and bloodied stumps. Meanwhile, he beckoned my mom to emerge from the house so that he could discuss the situation with her. My mom was hesitant of course, but agreed to risk further exposure to bodily injury because she wanted to make sure she told Mr. George in no uncertain terms that he'd be responsible for any repairs necessary, and to also find out what type of steak Buster would prefer with his lye.
I stayed indoors since it was my duty to use the broom handle to drag my mother's mangled corpse back inside in the event of a casualty, but according to my mom, Mr. George took that opportunity to HIT ON HER. That's right, he told her all about his marital problems and asked her questions about her job, her hobbies, her education and her cup size. ALL WHILE THE MONSTROUS BEAST FROM HELL WAS TRYING DESPERATELY TO GET CLOSE ENOUGH TO SNAP HER THIGH IN HALF AND GRIND ITS BONES INTO SAND WITH HIS COLOSSAL FANGS. Eventually, my mom excused herself after informing Mr. George that he'd be receiving a bill for the fence repairs in the morning.
"Oh, call me George, please," Buster's father protested.
"George?" My mother asked, slightly confused.
"Of course, we are neighbors, we should be friendly enough to call one another by our first names."
"Your name is... George George?" My mother was stifling her laughter at this point, so she just ran inside and left the two low down dirty dogs in the yard together, wallowing in pity over their dually unsuccessful attempts to mount my mom. Meanwhile, my family spent a pleasant evening sitting around the fire and bonding over our love for judging others, especially persons unfortunate enough to be named George George.
Bloggers Gone Wild
The hilarious thing is that as I pulled into their super nice suburban neighborhood, I could see Miss B standing in the front yard, pretending to be interested in her bike which was laying abandoned in the grass. As I drove up, she was absentmindedly trying to pick up the bike, but her eyes were instead focused on my car, trying to decipher whether the driver inside was a complete freak and estimating how long it would take her to make a run for it if need be. Once she realized that I appeared to be a well-groomed and acceptably hygienic person (which isn't saying much, considering the fact that it took four false attempts and the threat of setting fire to her entire Hilary Duff collection to get her to brush her teeth), she tentatively waved in my direction. I emphatically waved back, grinning and flapping my hand around like the kids at the zoo who walk in a single file line, tied together by rope. She immediately grabbed the bike and fled indoors, while I sat in the driveway waiting for the garage door to slam shut and all of the house lights to go out while the entire family pretended not to be home. But, according to Nessa, she was racing around inside screaming, "SHE'S HERE! SHE'S HERE!", which I think is so damn cute that I named her as the beneficiary on my life insurance policy right then and there.
After a delicious dinner and some tasty wine, made tastier by lots of steamy gossip, the night came to an end shortly after Nessa once again began showing symptoms of the infamous Look. That's right- oops, you did it again, Britney. I'm still waiting for MY turn to get embarrassingly drunk and say things about my college-aged sexcapades that I might later regret. But before the night's excitement came to an end, I discovered an interesting piece of memorabilia: The Silly Family Color-Coded Calendar.
Do you see that, America? I AM ON THEIR CALENDAR. Now all I have to do is get them to adopt me and my plan will be a success.
As soon as I left Nessa's house, not five minutes after she instructed me to, "DRINK UP! YOU HAVEN'T EVEN FINISHED A WHOLE BOTTLE YET! I AM TOOOOOTALLY BEATING YOU," I was immediately pulled over by a cop. Oh, fucking great, I thought. He can probably smell the stench of wine and excessive gossip all over my shit. Quick, eat a piece of gum. No, that would be too obvious. Just play it cool.
Turns out the dude pulled me over because I don't have a front license plate. I consider myself lucky that I've driven all around the state of Texas for two years without ever been cited for this violation. Despite what some of you might have heard from my probie officer, I am not an intentional law-breaker. When I purchased the MINI S brand new in late 2003, the dealership told me that the manufacturer did not drill holes in the front bumper of the car, which would be necessary in order to affix a license plate to that general area. Instead, they tossed my plates in the trunk, snatched up my money, and sent me on my merry way. So when the Po Po asked me why I had no front plate, I informed him that he could check the junk in my trunk and he'd find his answer there. He asked if I purchased the car new, and I told him, "Yes, sir, and they didn't even bother to drill the holes so I simply CAN'T put a front plate on!" He nodded his head sympathetically.
After Officer Brilliant determined that my white blinker lights were a result of an electrical miswire (actually, I had new tail lights installed with white blinkers but was not about to admit this), he asked for my license and insurance. I was still trying to play it cool and had been holding my breath for approximately 2 1/2 minutes at this point. I began rummaging through my glove box and then panicked when I realized that my insurance card expired August 7th and the new one IS SITTING ON MY DINING ROOM TABLE AT HOME. Then I had to launch into a huge diatribe about how I always keep my car insurance current because there are too many illegal immigrants in this city that not only drive aesthetically offensive hoopties, but don't even bother to insure said hoopties. Then in an anoxic state of confusion, I started to blame uninsured motorists for clinical obesity, property taxes, terrorism and Ricky Martin. Finally, the cop had no choice but to take my word for it and issued a warning for not one but THREE blatant traffic violations. I went home and carefully placed it in my pile of "Thanks For Wasting My Fucking Time" documents. Stay tuned for photos of the offending tail lights and nude bumper, as well as explicit images of me wiping my ass with the citation.
I Got Soul But I'm Not A Soldier.
Friday night, Kam and I and a few friends went to The Killers concert at a small venue here in Houston. As we got in line to enter the theatre, I was repeatedly shocked by some of the individuals we were surrounded by. I mean seriously, when did it become socially acceptable for guys to wear eye makeup, and can one of them please show me how to apply liquid eyeliner without smudging it all over my eyelids because I've had 10 years of practice and still can't get it right? And let me also say that I hope that Avril Lavigne gets attacked by a gang of rabid Hoary Marmots for starting that stupid wife beater/neck tie fad the girls are sporting these days. Oh, and one more thing, can someone please tell me when black mesh, side ponytails and denim cutoffs made their official comeback, because I never got that memo. I honestly kept looking around for the Vans photography crew because I could have sworn I got caught in the middle of their commercial shoot.
You might be saying to yourself, "Well, Deja, that's what you get for going to the live stage performance of a band made popular by Fox's hit prime time teen drama series, The O.C.", to which I might reply, "I liked The Killers long before they sold out to network television. Besides I only watch that show to make fun of the deplorable acting and outlandish plotlines, not because I secretly wish I were a wayward teen living with a kind and wealthy couple in the Newport Beach community, struggling through everyday, run of the mill teenage moral and legal dilemmas with the help of my highly attractive and exceptionally thin friends." In truth, I had no idea that we would quite possibly be the oldest people in attendance of said concert, not counting the parents of the many 11- and 12-year-old wanna-be rockers. My first indication that we might be considered the elders of the crowd was once they opened the doors to the droves of screaming O.C. fans. We immediately headed to the tiny bar in the corner of the theatre, only to find that there was NO LINE. Do you hear that, America? THERE WAS NO LINE TO BUY BEER AND YARD-LONG FROZEN DAIQUIRIS. Smells like teen spirit.
After procuring an overpriced margarita in a pathetic attempt to impress some of the young juveniles with my frozen alcoholic beverage chugging skills and with the far-fetched hope that they might ask me where I got that awesome fake I.D., we began looking for the best vantage spot from which to view the show, since it was a general admission event. Our choices were: a) in the pit, two feet from the stage and likely within sweat-splattering range, or b) in the back of the theatre, on the risers behind the sound booth. Do you know what words actually came from my mouth while we were debating this decision? "I don't really want to get trampled in the mosh pit." That's right folks, consider my AARP application signed, sealed and delivered because I don't want to get trampled in the MOSH PIT AT THE KILLERS CONCERT. And Kam? He was concerned about the area which would provide us with the safest access to an exit in the event of a fire. What did I tell you? Fucking geezers.
Once we were settled into our seats and finished gawking at the blue mohawked sound technician who possessed the ginormous juevos to have his iPod within clear eyeshot, downloading the entire show to peddle on ebay for way more than the price of admission, I started looking around in desperation for anyone who might be older than me and/or not wearing an undershirt with the words "Mrs. Brightside" stenciled in pink glitter. I found none, unless you count the creepy middle aged man-couple in front of us with their matching khaki shorts, black dress socks and tennis shoes. I'm not exactly sure WHAT that was about, but if I wanted to see a couple of 50-year-old fashion oblivious honkies get wasted and try to "dance" to popular indie-rock songs while attempting to mouth the words that THEY DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW, I'd watch home videos of my parents from last Christmas. Or the past twenty Christmases, if I'm being honest. Christmas with my family is like the party of the century- BYOBestofMeatloafCD.
To further confirm my suspicion that we were the Golden Girls of the concert attendees, when we approached the bar for our second round, THE BARTENDER DIDN'T EVEN CARD US. It was at this time that I began demanding my senior citizen's discount whilst shaking my fist at all of the raucous young whippersnappers.
When did this happen? When did I become too old to rock? Thinking back, I should have seen it coming. A few summers ago we attended a Weezer concert, where we engaged in a conversation with a young lady who asked us, "What's your favorite Weezer song? Yeah, I totally jam that song on the way to school every morning with the windows rolled down, I don't even care if I'm late to homeroom." Shortly after this, we encountered a young fellow whom had sought out refuge in our area in order to smoke his fat J without inciting the suspicion of security personnel. I can only imagine that his logic must have been along the lines of, "I'll stand here, by these old people. Surely the cops won't suspect THEM of anything." I recall lecturing said boy about the perils of drug abuse and am ashamed to admit that I used the slogan "stay in school" more than once.
I suppose those memories were rendered obsolete by our next concert experience, a music festival hosted by the local classic rock station. At this event, we were the youngest attendees- by a long shot. I'd be willing to wager that I was the only individual within a 1 mile radius donning a functional bra and my own teeth. Also, leather + soft bodies + Houston summer heat does not equal fun for all, and I have a sneaking suspicion that the above equation might be responsible for all of the puddles of vomit I saw in the grass. Oh, and for the record, I was not there to see Blue Oyster Cult or Peter Frampton, I swear. My allegiance is pledged only to Styx and Kansas.
At any rate, after I spent some time mourning my youth and my ability to blend in with a crowd of young concert-goers, I was able to get drunk enough to forget that people were probably making fun of me and proceeded to have a good time. The Killers were killer (especially on my sensitive ear drums... OH GOD DID I JUST SAY THAT?!) and the show was simply spectacular. Afterwards, we were walking back to the parking garage when Kam began harassing a pair of young girls with matching homemade t-shirts which read, "Smile Like You Mean It"- so original that I'm sure the band's lawyers will subpoena them for a violation of copyright law in short order. Following an exchange of witty banter between their entourage and ours, one of us mentioned the fact that they shouldn't be interacting with the likes of old folks such as ourselves. One of the girls turned around and quipped, "Yall aren't that old," which belies the unspoken implication of well yeah, you're old, but...
In fact, I am SO OLD that when I flashed my tits in an attempt to get backstage and have sex with a member of the band and/or road crew, I was scoffed at and turned down by the bouncer. He just shook his head and said, "Hey lady, your liver spots are showing. Please put your girdle back on." When I threw my panties onstage, the band used the tip of a drumstick to throw them back, informing the entire audience that they had no use for my wetness protection liner. Psha, what was I thinking? A rock band who wears matching tuxedos on stage is not the kind of rock band I want to have gratuitous sex with, anyway. They did me a favor. Only rockers with dragon tattoos and raging heroin addictions get to tap this old ass.
Let The Record Show That I Told Them They Should Never Post Pictures Of Their Publics On The World Wide Web.
And Their Parents Never Even Had Me Arrested!
I have been meaning to tell some of my countless stories of the girls on my blog for awhile now, but have not gotten around to it. However, there is one story that I simply must share, if for no other reason than the fact that it is so fucking cute it makes my barren uterus weep in despair.
When JJ was about 4 and SS was 6, I started to notice that JJ began to develop a keen interest in her nether regions. I knew this was normal for kids, especially at her age, but was slightly disturbed and taken aback to witness it. Her sister never went through such a phase at that age, but I assumed that it was merely a brief and passing cycle in JJ's young life and tried to ignore it. Needless to say, it made what was typically an uneventful bath time TONS of fun.
One evening after a long day at the country club pool, I brought the girls home for bath and bed time. JJ stripped down immediately, which was her usual routine, and then began intently inspecting her mini-muffin. I tried to ignore this behavior and went about my business preparing their bath, but could not help but notice when she began talking to her little cabbage patch. She called it Charlie. And that's when things got weird.
"C'mon JJ, get in the tub!" I called out.
"Just a minute, I'm talking to Charlie! He's being a bad boy," she informed me.
After extensive verbal and tactile interaction with Charlie, JJ got into the tub and we proceeded to have a fairly normal bath time, which typically consisted of 13 references to my enormous boobs, on average. Afterwards, JJ sat in the tub until all the water was drained out, while her teeth chattered and her extremities went numb, which was her ritual. Finally she climbed into the outstretched towel and was carried into the bedroom to be dried off and attacked by the Tickle Monster, which was also ritual. This time, however, she was particularly bashful as I dried her off.
"Deja," she chided as she covered her tinky winky, "you're not supposed to look at my PUBLICS."
I immediately burst into laughter, unable to disguise my amusement at the absolute and utter cuteness of that statement.
"JJ," her big sister curtly informed her, "they're called PRIVATES, not publics, and it's totally okay for you to let GIRLS look at them."
I couldn't help but think how those two were SO ready for college.
Dear Ambiguous Starbuck's Employee,
VH1 Behind The Organs: How I became Nighty
I know that you are all fully aware of my good friend Fats and the many antics we have engaged in together. But there is a third member of our group who, before now, has never been mentioned on this blog. This friend is often called Fats as well, but for the sake of my readers' sanity we will refer to her here as Nighty. Nighty and I became fast friends when I first moved to Texas in the fourth grade. She was tall and lanky like me, except slightly more geeky because she wore bright red glasses with thick lenses and had a bounce to her walk, which made her an acceptable friend in my book. We were such nerds that when we were forced to copy several hundred Boys Town Strategy phrases as a punishment one day, she and I actually RACED to see which one of us could finish first, while the other kids slept and sniffed glue to make the time pass faster.
Nighty and I went our separate ways in junior high, but were reunited in high school, Peaches and Herb style, where we had both managed to maintain our nerdy lifestyle long enough to find ourselves in marching band and honors classes together. Then the fun REALLY began.
Somehow we managed to procure our own section in the band's weekly newsletter (how very ambitious of us), and in some ways I think of it as my very first blog. For us it was like Christmas; Nighty and I were allowed to vent our random, insane, stream-of-consciousness rants in a written form of public media. That is, of course, until our director caught on to what we were doing and told us that we'd better stop putting shit in the marching band newsletter that had nothing to do with marching, band or news. But not before we were able to crank out our most prized literary masterpiece, which I will share with you now. Please keep in mind that what you are about to read was written by a couple of 16-year-old band nerds. I think after you read this brief article, you all will have a better understanding of why we have both been known as Nighty for many years since, and also why everyone thought we were complete and utter freaks. I can't fucking WAIT for my high school reunion.
The New Revolution: Inner Organs in Today's Society
It has come to our attention the many uses for inner organs, bones and other assorted body parts in modern society. It must have all started with our pet kidneys this summer: one named "Kid," the other "Ney". You see, pet kidneys are very low maintenance (no maintenance, actually). All you have to do is buy a tag in case it gets lost (because, let's face it, it won't be running away anytime soon), get a leash so you can drag it around (this prevents blood and formaldehyde from getting on your hands), and occasionally rinse the collected dirt from the surface. That's it- no feeding, petting, playing or beating! HOW EASY! So we thought, wow there must be a million uses for inner organs! For instance, you can take a liver, plop it in a pot with some dirt, and viola!- a liver sprouting in your home. And it even makes for great bookends!
Then, there is the rib. Oh, the marvelous wonders of the majestical rib! First, there is the predecessor of "The Club" for your car, known simply as, "The Rib". Just position it over the steering wheel, and you've got a self-made anti-theft device. And for you drummers, we've got the "ribstick", rather than the regular ol' drumstick. It creates a louder noise (which tends to be your ultimate goal as a drummer), conveniently aids in one's never-ending quest to break the drumhead, and thanks to the latest colors and styles, you can now order your "ribstick" in a variety of the latest fashions. And finally, our favorite use for this bone is for all you nightstick users. The "Night Rib" is a self-protection apparatus that fits comfortably and accessibly into the handy "Night Rib harness", replacing the now outdated nightstick sling. It's helpful for many uses: a little old woman being robbed in a side alley can mercilessly beat her unsuspecting attacker; a grocery store clerk can easily and effectively defend his produce against evil produce snatchers; and in any situation of an unruly psychotic band of hooligans with guns, an unarmed officer can ward off impending bullets with the newest epitome of police defense, the "Bullet Proof Night Rib". After shielding his scrawny physique from hazardous death pellets, he can then proceed to beat down his offenders with the blunt end of the rib, OR stab them heedlessly with the razor sharp edge of the other end.
As we have made prominently clear, there are countless uses for your inner organs today, most of which consist of violent acts of indecency (which we thought you'd enjoy). So keep an eye out for the new wave of rib and organ product and accessories coming to a store near you!
Me, Nighty and Fats. They called us The Three Naibsel's. If you knew, heard, saw, or dated us back then, you'd know why.
Everybody Must Get Stoned.
I have much better contraband to stuff into my bong when I wanna get waaaaaasted.