home is burning

I woke up a bit sick and hung over and I walked upstairs to find my brother, Greg, and my Mom slowly starting the day, my Mom by perusing through a stack of bills she doesn’t understand and Greg by pouring a very gay glass of orange juice.

“Good morning fellow remaining family members,” I said while walking towards the paper, hoping it contained some Utah Jazz factoids that I didn’t already know. I picked it up and read the top right corner of the sports page.

Me: Holy shit.

Mom: God we have so many bills.

Me: Did you shitheads hear about this?

Greg: What?

Me: [Reading] Utah Jazz owner Larry H. Miller underwent surgery Friday morning and had both lower legs amputated, starting six inches below his knees. According to a press release issued by the Jazz, the surgery went well and Miller is recovering in a local hospital. The double amputation is the latest in a series of diabetes-related health issues that the 64-year-old Miller has endured since June. [Stopping] So like I said, holy shit. Poor man.

Greg: Jesus. That is so crazy. How can a man that rich lose his legs? I mean, couldn’t he pay for some sort of surgery to save them?

Me: And he has the same middle initial as Jesus H. Christ, so there’s that too.

Greg: God, I wonder if he’ll still go to Jazz games.

Me: Probably, but it’s going to be pretty ironic when The Bear comes out with that, “Everyone on your feet,” sign.

Greg: I would hate that. I mean, is there really anything worse than losing your legs?

Mom: [Staring at a bill with squinty eyes] Fuck Larry H. Miller’s legs. Losing your father when you’re 23 is much, much worse. Fuck his legs. 

Me: [Walking into the house]

Mom: [Meticulously folding clothes] Hi Dan.

Me: Hi.

Mom: Did you get any pussy last night?

Me: No.

Mom: Oh that’s really too bad. I was hoping you would. 

Chelsea picked up one of the many Christmas cards we recently received, read it silently, and then began to giggle.

Me: What Chelsea? Is there a picture of a tit in there or something fantastic?

Chelsea: No. It’s just, well some of these people are such dumbasses.

Me: Explain.

Chelsea: [Holding  card up close to her squinty eyes] This one says, “I hope you all are getting along alright and that you continue to find the strength and love to take great care of Bob.” [Emphatic laughter]

Me: You find that funny?

Chelsea: Yeah, because Dad’s dead. Its like, “Hello, he’s been dead for three months now. Get your heads out of your asses.” [Emphatic laughter]

My brother, Greg, and I were talking about how to attract mates, as we are both getting to that age where we realize the importance of peacock feathers. We noted that our feathers had been weakened by the whole, “Dying Father,” thing, as most potential partners don’t list, “Watching significant other wipe ass of Father,” under their “desired traits” heading. We also noted that it’s tougher now because relationships can turn serious fast, and then can morph into that strange, life-long commitment we call marriage. Thus potential mates need be approached with caution. It’s not like college anymore, where the health of a relationship was based on how many times a week the couple pumped away at each others genitals.

“But gays can’t marry, so you don’t have to be as worried,” I told Greg.

“Well, fat, fart-machines without a clearly defined future have a worse chance of marrying than even the Gays,” he quipped.

“Maybe some gays, but not ones with receding hairlines,” I said pointing at his diminishing blonde mop.

We both agreed that the twenties are a difficult time because it is the figure-shit-out-and-establish-yourself-as-a-legitimate-member-of-society phase. Guys in there thirties are much better off because their peacock feathers are fully flared, as light straight from God’s balls make their faces effulgent, while the twenty-something fumble around, renting lofts and overspending on cars, hoping someone takes note and is impressed.

We then got to talking about how it is harder now because woman are our equals, even better than our equals in many cases.

“Fuck you. I can provide for myself,” one female may say.

“I make twice what you make, fatty,” a stripper might add.

As is usually the case, Greg put it best, “Listen, these days you pretty much need to become the person you’re trying to fuck. If you want to fuck a professor, get your PHD. If you want to fuck a body-builder, start going to the gym. If you want to fuck a K-Mart worker, pick up a night job.”

“What if I want to fuck a Chinese chick, Greg? What then?” I asked.

“Don’t be a fucking smart ass.”

“Well, what if I want to fuck a smart ass?”

“The point is that you can just float through life and hope your dream mate lands on your cock. People are vain. People are attracted to themselves. Become who you want to fuck.”

I pondered his cogent words for a moment and said, “Fuck, I’ve got to get back into clown school.”