Part of my Book

This book is based (loosely) on my life.  There are a few things changed to protect the innocent, but not as many as you might guess.    I put a sample of it on here to see what you guys think.  I need feedback!

So what do you do when you've grown up in a double wide with a bunch of giant-headed, afro-wearing, Guinea Pollocks with no credit? Hey, cash might not have been plentiful, but we had a pool and a 75 inch satellite dish. And if times got really hard, we could always put the wheels back on the house and take 'er somewhere else. It may not sound like much, but I had a helluva childhood. We lived way out in the country past a little Baptist church with one of those blue glowing crosses on top. Mom used to call it “Freddy Fender's Church”. I still don't know what the hell that's supposed to mean. And, although we were technically a Lutheran family, we respected the Baptist traditions by keeping a beer fridge stocked in the barn at all times. Jeb and I had a hideout under the house too, where we would stow away Little Debbie snack cakes and orange Shasta. That's also where we kept our emergency stash of old bricks, just in case we were ever attacked by Nazis. Constant vigilance!

We had lots of friends too. When Mom and Dad were working, Jeb and I would torture the little neighbor kid by throwing him up against the electric fence or tossing him over into the field with the psychotic bull that lived on the next farm over. At night, we would sneak over to his trailer and tap on the windows to scare the shit out of him, making hooting and growling noises since his parents were never home. His mom and dad owned a pot farm at the top of the hill about ½ mile away. Their entrepreneurial/agricultural business took a lot of their time, but Jeb and I didn't mind helping out. I bet that poor kid never got a full night's sleep. I can't remember his name exactly—Sammy Binlodden, or something like that. Love thy neighbor—that's what Gramma Spagetti the Second used to always say.

We also learned pretty early on how to tune in the dish to the Playboy channel. Not really that hard at all. You just had to go out and crank that baby about eighty degrees to the right. We'd keep the curtains in the living room open to watch for Mom's headlights coming down the road on her way home from her upholstery-making job, so one of us could uncrank the dish. By the time she made it into the house we were sitting in the living room eating popcorn and watching MASH. The old folks never found out.

I'm not worried about it now. Dad died last year, and Mom lost her marbles almost a decade ago. She thinks she's a robot and she only speaks in bleeps and weird computer-y sounds now. If she does speak English, IT IS IN THAT MONO-TONE VOICE THAT SOUNDS LIKE THIS, EARTH-LING. We found her a safe place to live, Boca da Costa la Viva Loco, wear she spends her days making crochet coasters and swapping out dentures with her friends. It's a nice place in the inner city. Padded walls. On Saturday mornings some blue-haired battle-ax named Margorie from the neighboring church comes in and plays old Bobby Vinton hits on the piano. Mom usually busts a few breakdance moves from the eighties, walks like an Egyptian, and then pays for it the next day with left hip pain. Overall, I think she's happy. She quit setting her room on fire or throwing fecal matter at the staff, which I would say is a drastic improvement over the first couple of weeks there.

If we weren't watching porn/MASH, we usually spent our days playing around in the woods. We had a little creek by our house with a shit-ton of snakes and other deadly creatures in it. There was a homemade bridge close to the house that had a couple of those large metal corrugated tubes running parallel to the river to allow the water to run through. That was a work of fucking genius now that I think of it. I'm pretty sure that two farmers built that bridge with a dump truck and a back hoe. They probably had like four big hay-baling, overall-wearing goons that held the metal tube things in place and then some other dip-wad just dumped a shitload of concrete into the creek until it took hold, and VOILA, a road! Not your typical masterpiece constructed by the Missouri Department of Transportation, so I'd lay bet that that fucking bridge is in perfect condition 35 years later. Anyway, twigs and bark and dead animals would get all caught up in those tubes and eventually the creek would flow straight over the road. This was good news for us kids, because that meant the school bus couldn't cross the creek, and it would have to go four miles out of the way on a gravel road to pick us up which made us thirty minutes late for school. Score!

The only way to clean the tubes out was to put the neighbor kid in upstream and let him float into the tube to try to kick out the debris. He was such a pansy about it at first, crying like a little baby bitch that he was “afraid he might drown”. He struggled for a while, but didn't put up nearly such a scrappy fight once we tied his hands behind his back and tossed his ass in the freezing cold water. Sammy got really good at holding his breath. And boy was he happy to see us when he finally made it to the other end of that tube, where we pulled him out of the creek bed! I'm pretty sure he liked playing with us. I don't know. We didn't let him talk.

Sammy never really did very well in school. I'm wondering now, after 13 years of medical school if it had anything to do with anoxia. Maybe it can be blamed on his hippie-freak parents that didn't show him adequate, unconditional love and affection. Weird. I guess we'll never know. Last I heard he'd grown a beard and started his own service fraternity. I think they've taken their posse to Afghanistan. I suppose taxes are cheaper there and they probably don't have to file the 501c3. Pretty ingenious, I'd say. Anyway, I should Facebook him. Wonder what he's up to after all these years? I'd love to regale old times with him. You know, make sure he's not holding a grudge.

Getting in touch with nature's goodness is healing to the soul. (Or so the Germans would have us believe.) At night after our baths, Mom would inspect us for those little brown ticks with the white dots on their back. I usually scored a lot more ticks than Jeb because of my bushy Tonette. Jeb had me beat if you went strictly on cranium surface area, but I had a built in honeycomb. Poor little blood suckers would get in my hair and they couldn't get out. Then they'd latch onto my skin and itch like a mother! The joke was on them though. If you have really great pinch strength, you can squish them between your thumb and index finger and spew blood all over the place. Dog ticks are the best. They get really big and grey and when you squish them, you can easily splatter blood a good six inches away. This is also a great earth-saving alternative to latex water balloon fights. Mother Earth is our home. We must treat her with respect not only for ourselves, but for our children and our children's children. Oh God. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

The ticks never bothered me, but one thing I never liked were leeches. Holy hell. Those bastards hurt when you'd get out of the river and have them stuck all over your legs and back. One time Jeb got one stuck to “Jeb Jr”, if you know what I mean. A bunch of us kids were playing down under the bridge near the highway, swinging off ropes into the creek bed below. We had to dive there since it was deepest part of the creek, probably all of about 3 feet. Even as kids, we knew how to protect ourselves from cervical injury. No one wanted to be a frigging gimp the rest of their life. So we hung out there all afternoon, drinking beer that Jeb's best friend Tony's older brother Danny's girlfriend's step dad bought us. He'd put it in a cooler under the bridge the night before. I loved that guy. The step dad. Not Danny. Danny was a douche. Tony was ok, but Danny was all porn-stache-ish and wore this shirt that said “I fucked Rainbow Brite”.  I mean really? Who wears that shit? Creep.

So we're drinking the beer and having a great time, and all of a sudden, Jeb comes out of the water and he has three leeches on his legs. No big deal. He's walking up onto the shore and he kind of gives his family jewels a scratch, and then stops dead in his tracks with this horrible look on his face. He looks down into his swimming trunks and starts screaming like a sissy girl. He rips his trunks off and starts hopping up and down like he's on a bed of hot coals, screaming “There's a leech on my junk! There's a leech on my junk! Jesus Christ, someone help me!!!” Well, in this situation, what you need is an adult. And the closest thing we had to an adult was Creepy Dan, who was 19, and, sadly enough, not a trained EMT. And, unfortunately in this situation, his sexual escapades with young cartoon characters wasn't of use to us either.

Once everyone got an idea of what the hell was going on, the boys all ran up onto the bridge. I think back on it now and realize that they were all terrified that another blood sucking monster was going to leap out of the creek, heave itself 15 feet onto shore, and grab onto the nearest available shlong. Shit. Who could really blame them for running? We were all at least a mile away from home, so this emergency called for quick action and first aid. Seeing that no one else was running to help, I immediately pushed Jeb down to the ground, screamed “Annie Annie! Are you OK? Someone call 9-1-1!” and then demanded that someone start a bag of D5W with Ringer's Lactate. Since that was the extent of my medical training at the age of 13, (cheesy prime-time television), I made a pre-teen management decision.

There was no way I was going to grab that leech. Not for all the tea in China. Not for a trampoline in the back yard or a barn full of ponies. Not for my own 8-Track of Johnny Cash or 500 foil rainbow stickers. So I did the next best thing. I straddled my brother, and peed all over the leech. Sadly, this particular method is only useful for jelly fish, (and I didn't have internet access in 1982 to help stimulate other ideas), but the events that followed were quite effective.

My brother was so grossed out by my actions, that he picked up a large rock laying near him and fired it at my head! Mother fucker! I dodged out of the way, using my mad-dog ninja skills, and then righted myself. How dare he? I am over here trying to save this guy's social life, and he has the audacity to try to kill me? So I backed up and gave him the best kick in the family jewels that I could muster. Oh yeah, that felt GOOD! (To me. Not so much to him.) But, gladly, when my webbed toes met with his ball sack, they latched onto the leech and I bet I kicked that baby a good 35 yards! The leech, and my darling brother, had been set free!

I had offers from three D1 colleges by the time word got out. Not only did I save my brother's future fatherhood-making abilites, but I was able to score the extra point in overtime to win the game! Forty seven minutes later, when Jeb could stand unassisted, he actually thanked me, albeit with a voice three octaves higher than usual. I replied with, “No problem. That's what sisters are for.” Heartwarming tale, huh? Poor son of a bitch still walks with a limp to this day. I often think of that moment as my first “save” of a human life—even if it was only my brother.