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.
There used to be a newscaster on Grand Rapids TV named Dick Richards. His parents, too, should be slapped.
Naming their child Ashook was an error in judgement, sure ... but not a catastrophic one. For comparative purposes, I refer you to one Steven A. Brown, with whom I shared a childhood. Pretty normal name, it seems, until someone (say, me) gets hold of the teacher's class register and find that the A. stood for a fine Irish name, "Athol".
The most delicious coincidence: Thteven had a bad lithp.
Poor bastard never had a chance.
I work for a alcohol distributor and we have two people appropriately named for their job in our industry...
What were these parents smoking?
I also knew of a family who had two sons, one named Andy, one named Drew - isn't that the same fucking name, just split in half?
Maybe Ashook is his middle name and his first name is George. Initials: GAG.
But as funny as the story is, and as frightening as it must have been for your mom, I feel really sorry for Buster. What a shitty life to give a dog! Just because your name is George George doesn't give you the right to abuse a helpless, bone-crushing canine.
My initials haunted me in grade school. They are SAG and backwards they are GAS, so use your imagination.
You grew up in a house with a GATE?
Was your dad the fucking president?
(let me get into redneck mode) "We ain't got no houses with gates 'round these parts...we just keep a shot gun next ta ahr beds...yep"
I'll read the rest of the post again later...a gate...
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