The time I destroyed my nephew's childhood

...so I said, “No, of course horses don’t have to pay taxes!”

            Anyway, here’s something less formal.

            My sister is an idiot. The day she was married (trapped an unsuspecting victim is more accurate)  was one of the happiest days of my life, as that meant that I no longer had to share a last name with such a sea-beast, thus no formal proof existed of our relation. This blissful season of my life was shattered, however when my niece and nephew were born (or rented from the wolves that raised them; it’s still not clear) and every holiday, every birthday, and every time they “forget” to pay the bills, my life is turned upside down. I have had 4 cleaning services refuse to come to my house after seeing the devastation her demon spawn inflict upon my home and its contents. Honestly, I’d rather wake up to find gorillas sewn to my carpet than to feign pleasure at entertaining these pests. I guess what I’m trying to say is that these people seriously annoy me. 

            Well, over the summer my sister and brother-in-law neglected their responsibilities (as I’m convinced that that is the reason for their “visit”) and needed a place to stay for the weekend. They attempted to cleverly disguise their accounting error as a desire to visit me, but I suspect otherwise. After the initial and obligatory greetings were exchanged, I was told that my niece was spending the weekend with a friend, but I suspect that her wolf family had repossessed her due to my sister’s aforementioned financial handicap. I, of course, feigned disappointment but was actually quite relieved, as only one ape-child could inflict only half as much property damage as the matching set. As they settled in, I quietly excused myself and placed a call to my insurance man to give him a reason not to jump, as I wouldn’t be making a claim this time. 

            After giving my nephew a set of Chinese handcuffs and a large lollipop to keep him occupied (read: quiet and out of my things) my sister and brother-in-law were ushered to the patio for libations and chat. This was all going fairly well (I cleverly steered the conversation away from any subject which would afford my sister the opportunity to segue into a request for money.) until the little gum-smacker made his way outside carrying my butcher’s knife screaming like an idiot about how smart he was for getting out of the handcuffs. (I would later discover the lollipop spit-glued to my pillow with the comforter cleverly concealing his little trap.) After finally shutting him up, we were able to resume talking, as he was temporarily mesmerized by my bug-zapper, something for which I cannot fault him, as bug-zappers are the most awesome piece of technology ever invented, after bendy straws and bomb pops. Soon, however, even this proved to be a distraction from his quest to use all of the words at all of the volumes, while running in endless circles. This was, as you may can imagine, quite annoying. Due to a recent rain we had received, I had noticed several frogs hopping about, so I cleverly enlisted cracker-face to catch me a frog, in attempt to distract him long enough to finish a sentence. Well, it seemed as though I had stumbled upon the one skill he possessed, as he came running around the corner, not 30 seconds later, carrying “Gilbert” his new (and probably 1^st & only ) best friend.

     

Over the next hour he made for Gilbert, with his own Kool-Aid stained hands, a home (my humidor that he had somehow managed to drill holes into) and had created an entire life story and developed quite a relationship with this frog. I, in a strained attempt at pretending to care at all about what the little tape-eater had to contribute to the world, asked to see Gilbert. Since night had fallen, I lifted the frog to the light to get a better look at it. 

            At this point, I feel I must state that frogs tend to be quite slippery, if only in defense of what happened next.

            No sooner had I lifted the frog to the light, he suddenly decided to jump and I was unable to stop him from doing so. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as I realized what was about to happen. Maybe it was the wind, maybe it was a subconscious act on my part, or perhaps it was the frog’s desperate final attempt to be freed from the rock-swallowing idiot nephew of mine, but the frog slipped my grip and flew through the air like a kamikaze right into the bug-zapper. 

     With a painful squeak and a popping sizzle, Gilbert fell to the ground with an unceremonious thud. Scissor-runner rushed to the smoking pile of blackened crust that once was his BFF and immediately burst into tears. I was torn between feeling sorry for the play-dough-brained kid, and jumping with excitement at the sheer awesomeness of what I had just witnessed (Shenaniganery in no way endorses throwing creatures into bug-zappers and will not be held liable for any who choose to do so. Shenaniganery cares.) but sympathy ultimately prevailed. 

            After bribing him with candy and promises to get him a new frog (No way that was ever going to happen.) we were able to sit him down in front of his favorite movie (“Finding Nemo”) to calm him down. After he-who-cannot-properly-fasten-his-velcro-shoes had finished his movie, I decided that he might enjoy watching me feed the fish in my aquarium, one of which was a clownfish which pixie-stick immediately decided was, in fact, Nemo himself.

    

This proved to be quite entertaining to the idiot-monkey-boy, who had by this point smudged up the entire front side of my aquarium with his jelly covered hands and snotty nose. We had not eaten jelly, so this was, as you may imagine, quite a mystery. I fed most of the fish and was preparing to feed the pure evil and rather ugly toadfish, who didn’t eat as regularly as the other fish, so pogo-stick was in for a special treat. To do so, I had to skewer a small shrimp on the end of a long feeding stick and place his meal right in front of his evil lair to allow him to snatch up his “prey” then return to his dastardly ways. 

            

This had gone on for months without incident, so I had no reason to suspect what was coming. I dangled the shrimp deliciously in front of the villainous fish, just as I always had, only this time “Nemo” who spent the bulk of his time near the surface, decided he wanted seconds, and made a dash for the shrimp. Just as he snatched away the toadfish’s dinner, the dastardly fish decided that he was hungry, but would prefer something a bit more fresh than the freeze dried shrimp. In an instant, he exploded from his lair and tore into Nemo like Rosie O’Donnell at a Golden Corral. 

    

You wouldn’t think that such a small fish would have so much blood, but evidently he had been saving up for just such an occasion. After a few short moments, the silence was shattered by slinky-head’s wails of misery and between heaving sobs, he accused me of killing Nemo. (Which, of course was not true! I paid $20 for that fish! If anybody was going to eat him, it was me!) The night was, of course over, and skittle-breath cried himself to sleep, believing that his beloved uncle had killed the only being he loved less than Santa Claus. After such an eventful day, we made the decision to go to bed. Maybe tomorrow would be less eventful.

            I was awakened the next morning by mop-head’s new kitten clawing at my ear, and screaming like its tail was on fire. After removing the lollipop and a good bit of hair from my head, I benevolently decided to make breakfast for my unfortunate guests. We all gathered in the kitchen as I cooked bacon in an iron skillet (the only proper way to cook bacon) and ninja-turtle annoyed us with all of the “tricks” his new kitten could do. As the kitten demonstrated his greatest skill (clawing at my ankle) I noticed the bacon beginning to burn, as I had been distracted by my attempts to kick the stupid cat away from me while talking to my somewhat-less-annoying-than-my-sister brother-in-law. Without thinking, I grabbed the skillet to get it off of the fire and literally, save my bacon. (See what I did there? LOLZ.) Now, for those of you who don’t know, skillet handles can get very, very hot, much as was the case this time. No sooner had I picked up the pan, my brain told me that I should not be holding so tightly this piece of lava-fire, so I did what any rational person would do when faced with similar circumstances. I threw the skillet up in the air, and weaved a web of expletives that would make a sailor blush, to catch it. Of course, you cannot catch things with swear-nets…. Amidst the flurry of salty language and salty bacon, our ears were met with a quick yelp and a clang as the boiling grease blazed a trail for the heavy iron skillet right to the not-so-innocent kitten, which of course did not survive the fiasco. 

     

Juice-box reacted just as any idiotic kid would, and began another round of screaming and crying, only this time a few of the choice words I had recently exclaimed were now being directed at me as I stood, trying to ease the pain of the blister mitt that was now my hand. His poor (financially speaking, of course ) mother whisked him away from the scene of the accident, in attempt to calm him as his father and I cleaned up the mess. This marked the only time in my life, so far, that I have ever considered eating a dead kitten, as it reeked of the heavenly odor of tasty hickory-smoked bacon. In case you were wondering, I did not eat the cat.

       After we disposed of the evidence, I soon was overcome with feelings of guilt, even though it was not my fault, so I offered to get a new cat for little apple-sauce, but was assured that it was not necessary. Too soon….too soon. Unbeknownst to me, sippy-cup and his mother had rejoined us in the kitchen, and for the first and only time, so far as I know, remained silent. Had I known this, I likely wouldn’t have said what I said next. I offered to wait until Christmas to purchase a new cat and told my brother-in-law that he and my sister could tell squirt-gun that it was from Santa. I then stated that my own mother still gives me gifts “from Santa” even though I’ve known since I was nine that he isn’t real. (Virginia, if you’re reading this, I’m kidding. Of course Santa’s real!) Well at that moment sloppy-joe made known his presence with a very loud and painful, “WHAT?!” then looked to his mother to refute this blasphemous claim I had just made. She being quite stupid herself, and not too quick-witted, managed only to stutter and stammer, which gave grass-stain all the answer he needed. He began to cry (seems like he does that a lot doesn’t it?) and gave me a look that portrayed his feelings for what had just happened, which I have illustrated below. 

           

     We were eventually able to calm booger-breath down, and after a short time, it was decided that the time had come for my family to return home (the wolves probably demanded that scooter-head be returned for non-payment) and everyone to get back to their lives.

  

      I don’t pretend to be proud of destroying my nephew’s childhood, but I am fairly certain that it will be a long time until I am subjected to their company again. If that’s what it takes to keep me sane and my insurance guy alive, then I’d say it was probably the best visit we’d ever had. Of course, these are the same people who rent children from wolves, so it was probably like a day at the water park for them. Crap…..

Gay Birds

......and that's the story of how I ran over my Grandmother the second time.

         Now onto a more topical subject. As you know by now, I like many things. One of the things that I like is a good old-fashioned ridiculous news story with no context. Not only do these stories provide hours of entertainment, they also afford me much delight when I hear people talking about them as though they themselves are experts on the subject. Thank you, stupid people, for keeping me entertained. Here's a bag of Funyuns. Enjoy.
     Recently, just such a story made its way through the series of tubes we all know and love as the interwebs. Evidently, scientists have recently determined that certain hazardous chemicals have the power to turn birds gay, if they are exposed to them. First off, I'm happy to know that scientists have been able to have the time to study such fabulous things, as this can only mean one thing. Scientists have obviously found a cure for AIDS, and developed a method to actually cancel a membership with Colombia House Record Club!! With these two thorns in the side of humanity eradicated, scientists obviously had plenty of time to focus on gay birds. I would have expected to hear more from the media on these revolutionary advances, but I've been drinking a lot lately, so it's been pretty difficult to pull me away from the bug zapper. I missed this one, but I'll be watching you....science!
     Now I'm no Nobel Prize winner, but I am pretty much the most brilliant person writing about gay birds these days, and I come from a fairly substantial position of authority, as I see birds almost every day. You can clearly see from  my credentials that I am, in fact, qualified to speak to this issue.

     I'm not saying that there is no such thing as toxic sludge that makes you gay, but those of us who are of a certain age are keenly aware that most toxic sludge does nothing more, nothing less than turning whatever or whomever is exposed into pizza slurping ninja crime fighters. I think I remember something about that in Darwin's book. Maybe poison does have the capacity to turn birds gay, but I just don't see birds being stupid enough to drink the Kool-Gayde. Don't get me wrong; birds are, of course, very stupid.

     Why else would they let themselves be so tasty and delicious? But drinking poison gay-torade? I don't think so. Would you give up all of that sweet sweet bird action just for a beak full of gooey highlighter sauce? Of course not!  I don't want to tell these supposed "scientists" that they are wrong, but hey, let's be honest; white coats don't exactly boost intelligence. If they did, butchers would have more than one thumb.
     Birds aren't turning gay from sipping toxic cosmos. I submit that they always have been gay, and are just now comfortable enough with their sexualities to come out of their little birdie closets. They've been gay for a long time, but we are just now noticing it. (Remember when I told you about the recent advances in science, earlier, and how much free time scientists now have? And you thought I was just saying something stupid!)
     "But Professor, (as you are no doubt calling me by now) how can we possibly know that birds are gay? They can't wear earrings to indicate their sexual preferences, as we the humans do."  An excellent point, for sure. Now if you'll just shut up and stop interrupting me for a minute, I'll gladly tell you.
     There is an armada of evidence to prove my brilliant point. The most obvious of which is on full display this time of year. All you must do is look to the sky to see what has been cleverly disguised for generations as "migration." The mass movement of birds southward is, in fact the largest, most well choreographed pride parade outside of San Francisco. Thousands upon thousands of birds unified for a singular cause, singing to one another with no regard for those around (or underneath...) them is evidence enough. But even more damning is the destination of the parade route. They are all heading to the tropics to wait out the winter, which is another thing gay birds LOVE.

     You may also have noticed that every morning your alarm clock is rendered useless by the obnoxious cacophony of birds singing right outside your window, as if it had been planned at a secret meeting the night before. This is, of course, infuriating. Unless, that is, you are a gay bird. No straight creature is THAT thrilled to be up and bubbly that early in the morning. It's just unnatural to be so thrilled about another day. Unless, of course, your day consists of shopping, low carb fro-yo, and techno ab-dance workouts with the boys. It's not that the gayvians are up and thrilled at such an hour, though that is reason enough to suspect them, it's that they incessantly belt out show tunes at the top of their lungs, and dance through the trees (their Broadway) non-stop from 4 AM until brunch.




    

     

     And when brunch does finally come along, what do you suppose gay birds eat? Bacon and eggs? A nice omelet? No. Of course not! Most of them just opt for a salad with no dressing, or even go so far as opting for only the salad toppings, which have WAY fewer carbs! (Yes, I am aware that both of the dishes I mentioned include eggs, which are to birds what flour and milk are to biscuits, but as we've already established, birds are quite stupid.)
     After only a single year of intense ab workouts and sunrise musicals, birds never fail to treat themselves to an entire new and colorful wardrobe, because.....well, the deserve to look FABULOUS when they are busy looking for an ADORABLE new bird house in the Spring! After all, no self-respecting homosexual avian would DARE be seen wearing.....dare I say it? Last year's fashions!! Although they are not colorful, penguins are a perfect example of fashion forward fowls, with their impeccably pressed formal wear (you just NEVER know when you'll be invited to a masquerade ball!) every day of the year. Morgan Freeman may have told you otherwise, but penguins are actually the first animal to institute gay adoption.
     I think I've made quite a strong case for the existence of flirty-birdies, but I sense that you have but one question remaining. "But Professor, what about the lady-birds? They can't possibly be gay too, can they?"
     Of course they can! Allow me to destroy your doubt as painfully and quickly as possible. All you must do to see how deeply "lesbianic" (your move, Webster...) birdie bitches are, is to merely look at their wardrobe. Unlike their FABULOUS male counterparts, lady birds are the lumberjacks of the animal kingdom. No other creature wears so much tan without being sponsored by Carhart and making an impressive showing at the STIHL Timbersports Series. They can't sing and have nowhere near the skills of getting a worm in their beaks as their "male" counterparts. Half of the year, they just sit around in the nest all day because "eggs need heat to hatch!" I'm not buying that though, and neither should you.
     Yes science may have discovered retarded birds that love nothing more than drinking toxic sludge, but that doesn't mean that the sludge is turning them gay. If that were true it would mean that bird gayness is a disease of sorts and not a genetic trait. We all know how science feels about that. (Suck on that logic, you greasy hippies!) Whether birds are born with the gay gene, or drink sludge that makes them want to put on the gay jeans, it really doesn't matter. I say we support them and accept them for who they are. This winter, as they parade across the sky to their tropical retreats, simply look skyward and give them a nod as they pass you by, and chant their noble slogan, "Feathered skins want cocks, not hens!"
     But if they don't stop shitting on my car, I'm writing my congressman to have gay bird marriage banned!