The Ant In My Pants
I'm not sure why, but recently I've had wave after wave of childhood flashbacks. I think that I may be dying. I have a strange mark that has appeared on my left cheek. It's like a freckle but bigger. I'm thinking skin cancer and I'm very comfortable with this. I've been visiting the tanning bed for the last year in hopes of getting cancer. I think that it gives you a good excuse to lay down and expire. Don't you? And it's much less traumatic on loved ones. I mean, a self-administered load of double-aught to the cranium usually comes as a surprise to everyone. Whereas: "Hey, I've got cancer." kind of prepares everyone for what comes next. You know, it sort of lets them down easy. Just kidding! I'm getting the freckle looked at next week so relax. Anyways, I thought I'd take advantage of this acute hindsight and write down as many of these childhood memories as possible. Enjoy.
As I mentioned in the previous post, my cousins more or less lived with my sister and me from the time I was four years old to the time I was nearly seven. My aunt would drop them off at our house in the mornings and we would spend our days together riding Bigwheels, drinking apple juice, licking the contents of the boogie truck, and pretending to be The Dukes of Hazard and the Super Friends. We also amused ourselves with other more interesting and less conventional activities. Videlicet, after we were all potty-trained, Paul, Phil, and I would congregate at the toilet where we would "sword fight" with our piss-streams. This activity was not very popular with Mom, whom the task of mopping up misdirected sword-strokes fell to. There were other aspects of the sport that irritated her. If you've ever watched young boys attempt sword play (with toy swords and not piss-streams), you've likely noticed that the coup de grâce ( death blow ) is never dealt. In fact, their blades rarely touch their opponents and when they do, it's usually unintentional. Instead, proper sword-play from a boy's perspective, is accomplished when the swords are bashed together repeatedly until one or both parties are sufficiently exhausted or become completely bored. Paul, Phil, and I, however, pioneered a form of sword-play wherein the object was to slash one's opponent with the blade instead of simply slashing his blade. My mother failed to see or appreciate the genius of this as she was the one who had to wipe us down and change or shirts and britches after the fight.
We, being the perceptive and thoughtful boys that we were, noticed Mom's frustration and sought to lighten her burden by taking our sword-fights out into the backyard. This we felt would spare her the trouble of mopping up after us. And, to further reduce the collateral damage, we stripped down to our birthday suits before each fight. But there is no pleasing some people, chiefly my mother; who upon witnessing what would be our final skirmish, came screaming down the back steps and dispensed a very potent dose of corporal punishment. In hindsight, I can see why she reacted this way because at that time, we lived on a corner lot with the backyard facing the corner which happened to be the intersection of our street and a major thoroughfare. There, the respectable citizency of Bluff Park were subjected to the sight of three little boys in nothing but cowboy boots micturating upon each other and laughing.
As you can imagine, our activities warranted frequent bathing and, in an effort to thwart the mounting utility bills, Mom developed the habit of tossing us all ( my younger sister, Emily, included ) into the tub together. Later on, Paul and Phil moved to Florida after my aunt and uncle remarried (each other!) By that time, I had a little brother, Joel; and the three of us, Joel, Emily, and I continued this bathing tradition. We continued until I was about ten years old and a long squirrelly hair appeared on my scrotum. Emily found this to be quite humorous and she pointed it out to my mother who, with a constrained smile and suppressed laughter, informed me that thenceforth I'd be bathing alone.
Since we are on the topic of scrotums, I have to tell you about the time that I constructed a tent in the backyard by draping a sheet over an old semi-circular stone enclosure that had once been a barbecue pit. It was summertime and I crawled into my tent with a blanket in hopes of getting some unnecessary shut-eye. Things were going splendidly until an enormous black carpenter ant took up residence in my little cotton jogging shorts and decided to make a tasty snack out of my right nard. I didn't have any relevant words like "shit" or "fuck" in my vocabulary so I just screamed and started punching myself in the balls frantically. And that's how Mom found me. Of course, by that time the ant was quite gone.
As I mentioned in the previous post, my cousins more or less lived with my sister and me from the time I was four years old to the time I was nearly seven. My aunt would drop them off at our house in the mornings and we would spend our days together riding Bigwheels, drinking apple juice, licking the contents of the boogie truck, and pretending to be The Dukes of Hazard and the Super Friends. We also amused ourselves with other more interesting and less conventional activities. Videlicet, after we were all potty-trained, Paul, Phil, and I would congregate at the toilet where we would "sword fight" with our piss-streams. This activity was not very popular with Mom, whom the task of mopping up misdirected sword-strokes fell to. There were other aspects of the sport that irritated her. If you've ever watched young boys attempt sword play (with toy swords and not piss-streams), you've likely noticed that the coup de grâce ( death blow ) is never dealt. In fact, their blades rarely touch their opponents and when they do, it's usually unintentional. Instead, proper sword-play from a boy's perspective, is accomplished when the swords are bashed together repeatedly until one or both parties are sufficiently exhausted or become completely bored. Paul, Phil, and I, however, pioneered a form of sword-play wherein the object was to slash one's opponent with the blade instead of simply slashing his blade. My mother failed to see or appreciate the genius of this as she was the one who had to wipe us down and change or shirts and britches after the fight.
We, being the perceptive and thoughtful boys that we were, noticed Mom's frustration and sought to lighten her burden by taking our sword-fights out into the backyard. This we felt would spare her the trouble of mopping up after us. And, to further reduce the collateral damage, we stripped down to our birthday suits before each fight. But there is no pleasing some people, chiefly my mother; who upon witnessing what would be our final skirmish, came screaming down the back steps and dispensed a very potent dose of corporal punishment. In hindsight, I can see why she reacted this way because at that time, we lived on a corner lot with the backyard facing the corner which happened to be the intersection of our street and a major thoroughfare. There, the respectable citizency of Bluff Park were subjected to the sight of three little boys in nothing but cowboy boots micturating upon each other and laughing.
As you can imagine, our activities warranted frequent bathing and, in an effort to thwart the mounting utility bills, Mom developed the habit of tossing us all ( my younger sister, Emily, included ) into the tub together. Later on, Paul and Phil moved to Florida after my aunt and uncle remarried (each other!) By that time, I had a little brother, Joel; and the three of us, Joel, Emily, and I continued this bathing tradition. We continued until I was about ten years old and a long squirrelly hair appeared on my scrotum. Emily found this to be quite humorous and she pointed it out to my mother who, with a constrained smile and suppressed laughter, informed me that thenceforth I'd be bathing alone.
Since we are on the topic of scrotums, I have to tell you about the time that I constructed a tent in the backyard by draping a sheet over an old semi-circular stone enclosure that had once been a barbecue pit. It was summertime and I crawled into my tent with a blanket in hopes of getting some unnecessary shut-eye. Things were going splendidly until an enormous black carpenter ant took up residence in my little cotton jogging shorts and decided to make a tasty snack out of my right nard. I didn't have any relevant words like "shit" or "fuck" in my vocabulary so I just screamed and started punching myself in the balls frantically. And that's how Mom found me. Of course, by that time the ant was quite gone.
posted by Reckless at 12:04 PM
1 Comments:
LOL!
First of all if you have cancer..(which you dont by the way..you big girl) Just think of how good you will look all laid out in your best suit with that healthy glowing tan...
Secondly..I am now observing a moment of silence for your sainted Mother...
The more I hear about you and your childhood, the more surprised I am that you and your siblings arent in small shallow holes in the back yard.
*grin*
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