Archive - January


Those Halcyon Days

     My little sister recently went to her high school reunion.  Why?  I don’t know.  We’re fairly certain she’s slow.  After all, my mother was, er, older, when she was born, and you know the risks of an older woman getting pregnant.  I was in third grade when my sister was born, and so, medically speaking, that makes her an accident.  Though my parents will swear to this day that’s not true. 

     These are the same parents who swear that my oldest sister, who was born some eight short months after their wedding day, was premature.  Please, I know a shotgun wedding when I see one.  At their age, my parents must be getting tired of blowing all that smoke up our asses. 

     Upon hearing of my sister’s (the slow one) reunion plans, I tried, but was ultimately unable, to attend as well.  No, not with her.  In disguise, at the back, so as to reload for the upcoming holiday “You’re Such A Loser” festival.  (It’s what we do.)  I was tempted to call her the next morning, in the hopes of catching her in the midst of a super-awkward “Dear Jesus, what is that dude from freshman year Econ doing in my bed and where the hell are my pants?” moment.  Lucky for her, I’m lazy.

     I’ll inject here the apology I’ve owed my sister for some time.  Though she quickly established herself as a scofflaw in her own right in high school, she never really had a chance.  I got a call from my mom the evening of my sister’s first day of high school, several years removed from my own attendance.  Her day had been peppered with the following question from her teachers – “Wait?  Are you Buddy’s sister?”  This was not good.

     To her credit, my sister denied any knowledge of “this Buddy person.”  Sadly, her friend Kelly was there to set the record straight.  “Yes she is!”  She’d call gleefully in each class - forcing teachers and administrators to relive some of my more . . . colorful antics.  (Singing Three Dog Night’s “Joy to the World” louder than the choral ensemble’s Christmas Carol by the same name during assembly comes to mind.  Don’t play like you don’t remember, Danny J.)

     So, I’m sorry, Tricia.

     But I digress.

     Her reunion got me thinking.  It occurred to me that they do this whole reunion thing wrong.  What they need to do is post a list of people who have already RSVP’d to the reunion.  That way, you know whether you should even bother.  You don’t want to go if you’re the only person you liked in high school who shows up.

     Which is precisely why I’ve yet to attend one of mine.  Of the five people I’d actually like to see again, three I know don’t go.  And I’m not sure it’s worth the risk of going if neither of the other two might not be there.  I’d spend the entire evening trying not to have the following conversation:

     High School Dick:  Hey, Buddy.  Long-time no see.

     Me:  Yeah.

     HSD:  So what have you been up to?

     Me:  Nothin’.

     HSD:  Nothin’?  In all these years?

     I offer a shrug.  An awkward silence ensues.

     HSD:  Hey, remember that time in Trig.  Man, that was funny.

     Me:  Yeah.  Oh, and remember that time when you were a douche-bag for four straight years?

     So let me know who’s going.  And if one of the five people I want to see are going, or even a couple of the ten people I wouldn’t hate seeing, maybe, just maybe, I’ll be there.  Drunk and belligerent, but there.


Dear All Knowing Llama,

I have a dilemma :(  You see, I am a Drewish American princess (like a
Jewish American princess only not Jewish).  As such, I was raised with a huge loot under the Christmas tree on Christmas morning.  I have somehow managed to marry a very cheap guy, though. (I guess opposites attract.)  He says he doesn't want me to spend money on him for Christmas.  And I am fine with that.  But, I need to make sure he doesn't think it is ok for him not to get me a Christmas present.  If I don't buy him one (and, after all, that is his wish), is he going to think it's ok to not buy me one?  How can I let him know that that's not ok with me?

Thanks,
Desiring A Lot of Presents
 

Dear Desiring,

I'm going to answer this question even though I'm 90% certain it's from my wife.

Here's how it's going to play out.  This year, you may or may not get a present.  Nothing you can do about it now, so just steel yourself.  Even if you do get a present, it will NOT be the financial statement of love you are hoping for.  Again, the die is cast, so don't fight it.

You will, of course, not mask your disappointment come Christmas Day, you might even look around and ask "Where are my other gifts?"

There are no other gifts.

For the next month you will be mad at your husband, and he will, for a change, know why.  Because you will tell him every three and a half hours.  Then your anger will turn passive-aggressive, and you will take every opportunity to subtly "slip in" just how much you like getting gifts and how important it is to you.  These opportunities will be times like - when you're excusing yourself from the table, when your leaving to go to work, when you forget to flush the toilet, when you remember to flush the toilet, when your friends are over, when his friends are over, when you're alone, when he wants a blowjob, when he wants to go to sleep, when he's leaving for work, when . . . well, you see my point.

Then, next Christmas, you'll have a bevy of gifts under the tree.  Assuming, of course, he's hasn't divorced you, or murdered you in your sleep and dissolved your body in a tub full of sulfuric acid.

Hope that helps,

Grumpy

PS  What the hell is "Drewish?"


Grumpy,

My ex-boyfriend showed up at school yesterday with 3 visible hickeys on his neck and when he lifted his book bag, two more could be seen oh-so-close to his belt.  Tell me how to get back at him.  Oh, and his new blonde girlfriend. 

Thanks,

The Ex

 

Dear The Ex,

It all depends on how you want to be.  I'll give you some options, and you can pick the one that suits you best.

1.  "Regular Bitch" - Tell everyone the hickeys are courtesy of a Sears Wet and Dry Vac.

2.  "Crazy Bitch" - Perform "Regular Bitch," then Roofie your ex-boyfriend, and photograph in compromising positions with said Wet and Dry Vac.  Publish photos.

3.  "Tramp" - Let him "accidentally" see the webcam striptease you performed for a creepy older guy who runs a website featuring a satirical advice column. 

4.  "Whore" - Sleep with all his friends.

5.  "Super Whore" - "Whore" + also do his brother(s), and father if possible.

6.  "Even Paris Hilton Would Be Embarrassed" - "Super Whore" + make a YouTube video of you giving his wheelchair-bound Grandfather a hand-job.

7.  "Jesus Christ!  What the Fuck Is Wrong With You?!" - All of the above, then castrate him and make him watch as you force feed his penis to his mother, whom you have duct taped naked to a table in your attic.  Then beg his forgiveness, telling him that he made you do it.  When he does not accept your apology, butt rape him with a strap-on and make him live in a small cave on the outskirts of town, chained to the wall and forced to subsist on whatever small rodents wander too close.  You'll visit him twice a month for more butt rapings, and a "best of three" Mancala tournament.  On three separate occasions, you'll be forced to murder hikers who have discovered your dirty little secret.  Fortunately, your ex will be so hungry, he'll dispose of the evidence for you.  Your angst and guilt will eat at you like a cancer, and thirty years later, on your death bed, you'll confess all to your long-term care nurse, Consuela, who will lead police to the cave.  The ex will have reverted to such a feral state by then, that upon his release, he'll attack Consuela, seeing her as the symbol of the evil bitch who did this to him.  He'll bite off her ear, and stab her in the vagina with a raccoon's femur.  The police will riddle him with bullets, and he'll cling to life in a near-vegetative state long enough for his family to be notified that he's been found.  He'll die three minutes before they get to the hospital.

Hope that helps,

Grumpy


©  2007 GrumpyLlama.com

All Rights Reserved.