The 1978 fruit basket (How to ruin your parents coke party)
My friend Hal told how to make a fruit basket. ” Bend over and stuff your balls between your legs.” He also told me what a brown eye was.
My mom and dad were having a typical 1978 coke and disco party. I was in my room practicing my tricks. When i felt I had perfected both feats I walked out into the living room naked. I shoved my junk between my legs and bent over. i spread my ass cheeks apart and yelled ” Hey! Brown eye everyone!” The room was silent except for the music.
I sat like that for about 30 seconds before my dad started laughing. My mom started apologizing to all her friends saying how embarrassed she was. One of their friends said “Verne’s going to be a real swinger when he’s older. I better keep him away from my daughter!”
Laughter
I took a bow and went back to my room. My dad came in drunk off his ass and gave me half his beer. He told me how funny I was.
I was so proud.
The next morning I went to the bathroom and tripped over my dad. He was passed out hugging the toilet bowl. My mom was nude on the living room couch. I poured myself some cereal and watched cartoons.
No one ever mentioned it to me again.
I seem hell bent on alienating everyone I know.
I never allow myself to taste happiness.
I piss all over everything.
I will never be happy.
I will never let that happen.
Thanks to pops for kicking down the corn.
One thing I can say about my father was he always accepted me. I’d dye my hair pink or blue, he would laugh. It’s good to be different he’d tell me. In tenth grade I gave myself a Mohawk and died it blue. He didn’t care. As long as I went to school he was fine. I don’t think it was a matter of education, I think he just wanted me out of his hair.
He was more of a friend then a father. I would have liked a little of each. Considering the fact that some people never know both of there parents, I guess I was lucky that I had a relationship with at least on of my parents. Dad was high on his pills most of the time and overdosed a couple times. I had to call the ambulance to come get him. He had at least four different doctors supplying him prescriptions. If I couldn’t sleep he’d hand me a couple different pills and tell me to take them. I usually just tossed them out.
Every summer during Jr. High, my mom would take me to my grandma’s house and dump me off for the entire vacation. It was cool; all I did was play video games, smoke and drink coffee with my uncle. I missed my friends, I missed my super crush. Not like I would have seen her between 9th an10th grades anyway. I come back the day before school stated and it was always the same, people would ask me where I had disappeared to. Kind of a precursor to the second semester of 10th grade when mom threw me out and I basically dropped off the face of the earth. I learned later that miss super crush had asked about me.
I would sit around and listen to the radio. If I heard a song I liked grandma would give me the money to buy the tape. My mom told her not to spoil me that way. Grandma told her that I am her only grandson and she’ll do what she wanted. Which was a little different then a previous conversation, Mom called me a little asshole. Grandma told her not to ever call me that. Mom told grandma that I was her kid and she can call me whatever she wants. To prove her point, she dumped a glass of water on me.
My childhood wasn’t always shit. There were some good times. My dad used to take me and all the neighbor kids to Marineland or Knott’s berry Farm. He’d pay for all of us and we’d have fun running around the park for a day. He would get shitfaced drunk, feel guilty about it and bring me new toys.
One Christmas eve I was taking a bath with my little sister. I hated doing that. She was only one and would shit in the bathtub. My mom called up to me
“Verne! Hurry. Santa’s here.” I wrapped a towel around my waist and flew down the stairs. I saw a red leg and black boot leave the door. It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized dad didn’t show up till after Santa left and he was out of breath.
He would take me everywhere he went. If he had to take a truck to Portland, I always sat in the front seat of the diesel truck.
To end this on my usual sad note, when I was two my mom caught me picking up her cigarettes. She burnt my finger with it to teach me not to play with them. When she went back to her soap operas ( I thought she called them sew poppers) I picked up her pack and threw them in the toilet.
My gay son
My parents thought I was gay when I was little. Most of my friends were girls. I would hang out and play with them. We would put on plays and do little shows in one of our garages. My dad would say that no straight boy would do that. It didn’t help that there weren’t very many boys on our block. One of the boys would always ask to sleep over and would try to climb in bed with me. Once he asked me if I had any hair down there yet and would I show him. I tried to stay away from him. My parents thought the other boy on the block was a bad kid and wouldn’t let me play with him. So hell, who was I supposed to play with?
Once for Christmas or my birthday, I can’t remember which it was. I asked for a sewing machine. That did not help the “my son might be gay” situation at all.
