FatKidsLie

Once in the late 1980’s in Queens, NY where there were fully nude strip clubs on the main streets in a major city and drug dealers and pimps roamed the streets in fur coats and purple fedoras with giant peacock feathers attached to them like something out of a blacksploitation movie, my grandmother got mugged. It wasn’t really much of a mugging. The guy didn’t pull a knife or a gun or a stick with a nail in it or anything like that. It was really a snatch-and-grab type deal.

Some delinquent decided that an old lady, who was about 4ft nuthin’, wearing a mink coat would give up her sequined purse that was chock full of hard candy, a change of jewelry and a gangster roll of cash without a fight. But he didn’t realize that old people are usually not afraid to fight because they have no friends since they’ve outlived them all and are not afraid to die because they are old and get visits from the Grim Reaper every time they sit down on the toilet and will not take the kind of crap that stealing their purse in a snatch-and-grab type robbery entails from some young whippersnapper like you ya filthy punk hoodlum.

So when the guy tried to grab the bag and run away Grandma just stood there. Planted like the brick shithouse she was. The would-be robber just stopped, turned around, grabbed the purse with both hands, tried to pull it away and said what only some fucktarded criminal could possibly think of saying to a grandma that you’ve failed to mug: “Leggo th’ bag ya old bitch!”.

Grandma then reached back (like a pimp) and knocked that idiot out.

And knocked a tooth out of his head.

A construction worker was already rushing to her aid, took her by the hand and sat her down on a nearby bench. The robber started to get up and some kids said “no… you got knocked out by a grandma. You stay down now. You wait for the police to arrest you and take you away in a shameful way that you deserve.”

When the cops came they took one look at the robber, and then at my grandmother and wanted to arrest her for knocking him out so hard. So hard that he peed his pants.

When I was a kid my niece was jealous that my little sister and I would spend time with my grandma. She wanted to spend a weekend with Grandma to show how everyone how cool she was… and prove that she’s the favorite great-grandchild.

Or something.

I’m not sure.

You see, Grandma was… gross. and scary.

She used to fall asleep, snoring and cursing in her sleep while smoking and watching the “fucking Mets”. She’d actually smoke in her sleep. We’d even make faces right in her face to see if she’d wake up, but there was no way… she was OUT!

The weekend that my niece decided to stay over was during passover, when jews can’t have …. most bread products. My little niece thought that she was gonna be struck dead for eating Roy Roger’s Chicken. She begged Grandma not to make her have it, but Grandma basically forced it down her throat.

Or told her “it’s this or you eat your own farts…” whatever.

That was breakfast (at 1pm). On the way back from there Grandma had… and accident. In the elevator going back to her apartment. Without saying a word, Grandma simply pissed down her leg and left a puddle with my niece looking wide-eyed and in shock.

While Grandma was cleaning herself, my niece couldn’t take it anymore and called her mom, my sister, to pick her up. In Queens. From Staten Island. Demanded that they get her “NOW NOW NOW” (and rightfully show) or else she’d be going home alone. On the subway. In 1987. At 8 Years Old.

While my niece was waiting she decided to watch TV in Grandma’s bedroom, which was not a good idea, and led to her not being able to eat chicken cutlets for years due to Grandma getting changed right in front of her, and nakedly picking up the panties that she dropped.

My niece didn’t realize that every time we went to Grandma’s my dad was there. To sort of… run interference. And also my mom. Who would take us outta there when Grandma was too… weird…

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.

My grandma was a real JAP. Not Japanese, but Jewish American Princess. She wanted the finest things in life Goddamnit and SHE DESERVED it!

If she wanted something she didn’t care how much it cost or how much my grandpa had to work to get it and may the multi-armed gods of the Arabs help you if you got in her way. Or got the wrong thing.

My Grandfather was a college-educated man, back when that meant something, because we all know that Lisa Sparxx has a college degree and that doesn’t keep her from having sex with 3-30 dudes at once… on camera… Well, anyway Grandpa was a Pharmacist (again, when that MEANT something) but was forced to be a schlep for a dairy farm, delivering seltzer bottles (the kind that clowns use).

He’d haul cases of them out of the truck and into grocery stores and Pharmacies where he SHOULD have been working but since there was no money around because of the Great Depression he couldn’t get a job in there.

He’d bust-ass all day. Six days a week. And he did it all for Grandma. Because he loved her. And showered her with presents.

Like when she wanted a Cuisinart. The Cadillac of food processors. Well, Grandpa thought “Whatever, A food processor is a food processor” and got a… Daewoo or something.

NOT. GOOD. ENOUGH

And by “not good enough” I really meant “Not good enough to process rocks and gravel into food” which is exactly what Grandma put in there to prove how unreliable the “*Knock-off Cheep Chinese Crap” that he dared to buy him was…

Then there was the mink coat fiasco. Back in the days before PETA animals didn’t have souls and it was perfectly acceptable to wear their skins and furs as clothing instead of having to throw them out when you’re done eating the tasty meats that are inside the skins.

People really loved fur coats. It’s like how Koreans brag about how much rice their cars can burn per-mile, Jews would brag about how awesome their fur coats were and would try to out-do each other.

So when she got a mink jacket you’d think that she would be happy and grateful? Nope. She was pissed. She wanted a full-length coat. The kind that you wrap up in and go to shows and have midgets carry the tails of. She wanted something MORE.

So Grandpa said “Not right now. I can’t afford it. I’ll get you one as soon as I can, OK?” … but Grandma didn’t say a word.

No. Instead she went into the bedroom with a pair of scissors and then cut the HELL outta that jacket. Because… that makes sense. And is the ONLY logical action to take.

The reason for this post? You can’t make people happy with presents. Don’t try. Merry Christmas.

I’d like to take a moment in blogging to remember my grandmother. My Dad’s mom. The meanest, most cantankerous person ever born.

Imagine a woman: 4 feet tall, 4 feet wide with giant Madonna bulletbra boobs and a shellacked hairdo to rival Sarah Palin’s. Chainsmoking and cursing out the Yankees.

I think it was the Yankees. It could have been the Mets, but I’m not sure. It WAS 14 years ago….

My sister, Murm, just confirmed that it didn’t matter who was on. She basically just liked to yell at the game.

Most children learn cursing in gradeschool. In the playground. From the older kids (or maybe some of the teachers if you’re lucky enough to have a blatantly drunk teaching staff like i did in the 1980’s). I learned to call someone a “Shit-eating-Cocksmoker” and I totally believe that she told me that Ronald Regan was a “Fucktard”.

It was pretty useful when confronted in camp by the teen counselors who I caught making out behind the toolshed. When an 8 year old calls you a “fat-faced needle-dick” and a “flabby-titted gutter-slut” you either kill him or die laughing.

I learned a lot from grandma. Like, just because someone’s eyes are open, doesn’t mean that they’re awake. Even if they’re smoking. And cussing out that crackhead Daryl Strawberry.

Once my little sister tried to change the channel because she wasn’t blinking. We both thought she had fallen asleep in her chair while watching the game and we wanted to watch whatever crappy movie was on WPIX’s Sunday movie extravaganza. Well, the searing pain of a flicked cigarette showed her who’s the boss.

Grandma hated my older sister too. And it transfered to her kids.

Once out of nowhere Grandma took one of my sister’s daughters at the tender age of 7, sat her down in the kitchen, lit up a fresh cigarette and laid down the knowledge:

You are fat. You are so fat that you will NEVER get a man. Not ever. You’re going to be a spinstress and wind up all alone drinking jug-wine in your kitchen.

Here. Have a cookie.

Needless to say that 20 years later the girl still cringes when offered an Oreo.