..EVERYONE is going to hell.
REASON #237 PRM IS GOING TO HELL:
may 10th was “stamp out hunger” day. postal workers picked up bags of food left by mailboxes to donate to food pantries. i put our bag together the night before. PRM was rifling through our bag, cackling to himself.
me: what?
prm: wouldn’t it be funny if we took a sharpie…
me: no.
prm: …and changed the brand names on these?
me: i think that’s a great way to have the police come knock on our door to have a little chat.
prm: “get a job” brand chips! “fuckers say i don’t qualify for disability so i have to eat this shit” brand toaster pastries!
me: republican turd.
prm: “my back pain has nothing to do with the fact that i weigh 300 lbs, now get me a menthol” brand soup!
reason #532 EVILREDHEAD IS GOING TO HELL:
she laughed her ass off when i told her about prm’s renaming when i visited her the following friday. but we knew she would laugh; this is the woman who called me “pregasaurus rex” when i was at +60 lbs with baby #4. she accented this with reptilian screeching noises every time i approached food.
but backing up for a moment, the visit started with…
REASON #533 EVILREDHEAD IS GOING TO HELL:
she greeted me at the door with, “nice stripper boots! but i’m all out of ones.”
REASON #122 DRAMAQUEEN IS GOING TO HELL:
his penchant for playing backup chords on his guitar while i play the banjo almost makes up for this one… but when i play the fiddle, he likes to stand there quietly, listening. and when i make a mistake, he jumps, winces, snaps his fingers and yells “D’OH!”
REASON #12 MONKEYBEEF IS GOING TO HELL:
he cackles til he falls backwards out of the banjo case every time DramaQueen does it. during new, still-reading-off-the-sheet-music songs, this can happen pretty much continuously, with him not always having enough time to right himself before falling over again. turd.
reason #793 I’M GOING TO HELL:
me: we need paving stones.
prm: okay.
me: you know, let each kid put his handprint on one, shove in some marbles and pennies, write his name and shit.
prm: and spell r2d2. and c3po.
me: right. and so you’re walking down our little path, and the last stone is ours.
prm: right.
me: and it’ll be my buttprint, with your mushroom stamp headed right for it.
prm: hot.
me: and the neighbors will be too polite to comment… but they’ll stand and look at it for a reeeeeally long time.
