FatKidsLie

My girlfriend has a five year old son who decided to tell us how babies get into their mommy’s bellies. “The daddy puts it there with his balls!!!” he said with great enthusiasm while pointing to his own personal parts.

This is a little better than how I learned it’s done.

You see, when I was his age in 1985 there was a HUGE AIDS scare thing going on. There were commercials on TV even during the afternoon reruns of Diff’rent Strokes when kids were watching. Because it was THAT important. I guess. Since gradeschoolers in NYC were constantly boinking.

It just seemed that every other commercial was an AIDS or anti-drug PSA. I could be wrong, because I tend to exagerate in my mind and then eventually that egageration becomes the reality of my world. It isn’t totally the worst way to live, by the way. Since I have a firm memory of Lion-O High-fiveing me at a friend’s birthday party. And it was the REAL Lion-O. Not his uncle in a Lion-O costume.

Anyway… the AIDS commercials were fairly vague because god forbid you actually give real information to kids that they can use to learn the realities. So I was curious and I asked the one person who I knew knew EVERYthing.

My friend Charlie’s older brother. Who was in the fifth grade.

He was TWICE as old as me, and knew all the cheats and tricks in every Nintendo game. And he had a skateboard. And could do a little jump and that thing where you stomp on the back of it and it flips up and you can catch it and you look cool!!! He was the bestest!

So I asked him what AIDS was and he told me that it’s when you pee when you have sex. That’s how you catch AIDS. Also? If you let a dude look at you while you’re in the bathroom you can catch it too. Which is why Patrick McHeely used to try and jump up and peer over the stalls while I was pooping at school.

That, and I think he was disturbed.

I have some gossip about Clairebeast, the girl that mortally and psychologically wounded me 23 years ago, at the tender age of 7. I know that this is one of those “Urban Legend” style tales. Too wild and loony to believe. However, I saw it with my own eyes. And I have other witnesses. Witnesses that aren’t fat kids. Who don’t lie.

For reasons that escape me, and are also not truly important, Clairebeast publicly masterbated with a hotdog. In my highschool cafeteria. In front of a crowd.

I saw it.

With my own two eyes.

She pulled off her panties, lifted her skirt and did the nasty deed.

Which caused the hotdog, uncooked mind you, to break in half. And lodge its self inside her.

The look of panic (manic panic, like the hairspray, only scarier) was priceless. As was the waddle-walk-of-shame that she took to the nurse’s office…

I think that a couple pieces even fell out of her on the way, but… you know.. this was over a decade ago and I’m a little brain damaged due to a head-bump I got from her…

This became a daily torment for her for a couple of months, until everyone forgot about it and started to make fun of LaFonda’s water breaking in the auditorium during the music department’s performance of “Jesus Christ Superstar”…

Basically, I guess the point of this is that what comes around goes around. Or maybe the point is that hotdogs don’t always plump when you cook them? Or… maybe there’s no real point. At any rate, I’m off to bed…

When I was in first grade i was super smart. I got to sit at the head of the class, and when all the other turdlings couldn’t answer the questions it was my fat ass that got called up to the blackboard. This caused jelousy from some of the other students. Like ClairBeast.

ClairBeast’s real name is not too important, but suffice it to say I will hold a grudge against her for the rest of my life. I’ve been holding it since 1987, so .. 23 years and counting.

One day, after answering a question on the blackboard, I go to sit down in my chair and… it’s not there. Now, before I sat down I did the standard check of “is there a chair here? Y/N”. It passed the test, so I proceeded to sit down, when ClairBeast pulled the chair out from under me, causing me to smash my face on my desk (which was made of enameled ceramics, a standard desktop material at the time).

I was gushing blood out of a hole in my cheek that was caused by a tooth popping through. Teacher, a 30 year old drunken whore according to my mother, told me to go rinse it out at the fountain. The fountain with the high lead content.

Eventually my mom got called, ran from work (3 blocks away) and got me to the hospital. Where the doctor decided that it was a case of child abuse and called the police. Who, as I’m being operated on by a recent medical school graduate from the college of Banglore Provence, decide to interrogate my mother about how often she hits me, why she hit me so hard and what she used to hit me with this time.

Meanwhile I’ve got a sheet over my head, don’t know what’s going on, and the doctor’s telling me to “Quit squirming, you little fucktard”. Or at least that’s how I remember it.

At any rate, I hate doctors, can’t stand dental work and want to punch ClairBeast in the throat. 23 years later.

I found her on Facebook. I wanna befriend her and then ask her if she remembers pulling the chair out from under me.

While going through some old photos and family memorabilia, I came across some of my dad’s old report cards. From gradeschool.

Yeah. He was a slacker. Now while I’m pushing 30 I realize that my dad was a hypocrite, at least when it came to school stuff. He had a worse homework record than I did! And I pride myself on the fact that I haven’t done homework since I was 8.

Well, I was going through them with my big sister, Suzan, who told me a story that my mean mean evily mean grandma told her about my dad’s fist day in Kindergarten.

In the late 1930’s my family was living in Queens. My grandfather had already gone off to work (hauling seltzer bottles) and my Grandmother’s job was to get my dad all ready for school. He was excited! He was ready to start his education! He went in, did the whole pledge of allegiance thing and sat down for class.

At some point, around 11am or so My grandmother is in the kitchen, doing Laundry (because they were poor and that’s where poor people used to do their laundry) when she hears a knock on the back door to the apartment, she walks over thinking that another housewife had come to either gossip or borrow some sugar or gin (it was 11am afterall). But it was none of that. It was my dad.

My dad had gone on a bathroom break, as evidenced by the giant wooden paddle that had the words “BATHROOM PASS” hand carved into it. When questioned he said that he had had enough. That school was boring and that he didn’t want to go any more. He did say that he’d go back in the morning to return the bathroom pass. He would’ve done it right away but he didn’t want to get in trouble for wandering the halls.

Although he had thought all this through, made a few good points, such as other students being boogerbutts, poopooheads and just in general basically schmucky, Grandma wasn’t buying it. You see, for the first time in 6 years Grandma had the house to herself. To drink gin and fart into the couch all morning. And nothing was going to ruin that.

She grabed my dad by his ear, drug him, crying, back to school. Back through the neighborhood. Past the Butcher. Past the Baker. If they had one, they’d’ve gone past the Candlestick maker. But there hasn’t been one of those outside of an historic town like Williamsburg for over 100 years. But that’s neither here nor there.

Made my dad apologize to the teacher. Who he then called a “shithead”. His favorite insult ever since.

Like any fatkid I LOVE snacky cakes. I have to, however post a protest against Little Debbie’s price increases. It’s obscene that they went from 25c to 35c in 2007 and now? they’re 50c!!!

I used to be able to fill the emptyness in my life by eating $1’s worth of the cute girl’s discs and bricks of lard and sugar. Now $1’s worth makes me feel just as empty, but sad and embarrassed that I ate something that I KNOW is just bloody awful for you to eat. But I do it anyway. And yeah, I can pay $2 and get all 4 cakes but seriously? How’m I gunna get chips too?

Or Shasta?

New Yorkers always rant and rave over things like pizza prices and subway rides going up too much too quickly but nobody’s lobbying for price caps on Zebra Cakes.

IT IS BULLSHIT!

When I was in second grade you could get 2 Little Debbies and 2 quarter drinks for a dollar, and share them with little Sally and you could hold hands in the schoolyard until she got pissed at you for putting dead bugs down the back of her shirt or you got embarrassed because your friends called you “gay” for hanging out with a girl!

But then you still had a secret girlfriend and would leave each other notes in each other’s desks when nobody was looking. And then when Ms. Willobie found you passing notes and you’d have to stand up and read them to the rest of the class where they’d laugh like the pack of retards they were and throw spitballs and glueballs (wads of paper mashed with Elmer’s white glue) and then you start crying and peeing your pants and you had to go to the principal’s office where you had to stand with your head against the tile wall in the hallway until your pants dried….

Then when you got to go home you’d get some change out of your parent’s change jar and try to feel better with a Fudge Round and a Star Crunch and an Oatmeal Cream Pie and another Fudge Round because the bodega’s selection was limited.

But kids can’t do that now! NOW a days it costs $2 for the same shit that 20 years ago cost a single buck!

OUTRAGE!!!!