Mom-a-dukes: Judge, Jury, and (Lousy) Executioner
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Mom-a-dukes: Judge, Jury, and (Lousy) Executioner
If you want a letter published in Elk’s Run #4 either post it in the comments section or email it to me by tomorrow at around 5PM. Putting the book together now.
Also, just sort of feeling this out. “Moose in the Comics”. Four sixteen-page stories where four artists adapt their favorite MITC stories. Someone suggested it recently (not a publisher, unfortunately, so I’m not all yay-yay-gun-ho); I’ve obviously thought about it in the past but decided against it. But I kind of like the idea of not actually doing a lot of work for it, just signing off on the final product, editing it, maybe providing some guidance and reference for the artists – not having to actually write anything. I don’t know, thoughts?
Before I get to the story for today I wanted to share a humorous little story from the Orlando trip. Robin and I found a bar on Monday night where they had five-dollar pitchers of Bud Light – needless to say we got thoroughly sauced while watching the Angels kick the Yanks’ asses (and this was after a bunch of top-shelf margaritas with our dinner).
So we’re walking back to our hotel and there’s this little man-made swamp looking thing with mushrooms all around it. Robin (who’s wearing sandals, mind you), runs into this swampy area and kicks the biggest mushroom as hard as she can and it fucking explodes. Not only does it cake her foot in mushroom gunk but her sandal flies off into the swamp and a bunch of lizards that were hiding in the grass book it and run all around her causing Robin to freak the fuck out because she’s afraid of reptiles. In between my uncontrollable laughter I manage to ask her why the fuck she decided to do that. She told me she thought the cap would fly off like a discus.
She walked home, one sandal on, her other foot covered in absolutely fucking disgusting mushroom pulp. It was the funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. Life would suck without alcohol.
______________
The mother has to lay down the law because the father hates to be the bad guy. When a boy spends his childhood blowing shit up, breaking things and cutting elementary school he’s going to get caught every once in a while. And when he does, the responsibility to punish rests firmly on the mother’s shoulders.
At least in my house it did.
It wasn’t that my father didn’t get involved, he was just working two jobs most of the time and it was my mom who tended to get the bad news first when it came home. So in order to make the consequences of my actions immediately known my mother had to gauge what I done, decide how bad my decision was and set the appropriate punishment, even if it was only a temporary “go to your room and wait for your father to come home.”
My mom was good at getting me to confess to shit, too. My first time drinking alcohol was at my friend Dave’s house – we were around eleven or twelve. His parents weren’t home and we raided their liquor cabinet. We mixed Bacardi with cherry Kool-Aid, quite possibly the worst combination possible but what did we know? We were so paranoid that we would be discovered that we were mixing around one-part Bacardi, one-hundred-parts Kool-Aid. It was like a quarter of a thimble of alcohol poured into a souvenir sized cup of Kool-Aid. My mom’s chicken rollatini had higher alcohol content.
Well, I get home and ring the bell to be let in. This was before I had keys – my mom kept tabs on my comings and going by making sure I relied on her to get back in the house, a wise move I might add. She comes down and I play it cool (I think). As an adult I realize there was no way that I smelled like alcohol and no-way that I was even slightly buzzed. But, nevertheless, the instant my mom looks at me she says, “You were drinking!”
No idea how she does it. I just fucking freeze and stutter out a “no” but at this point she got those hot eyes, the ones that burn my fucking soul, and she presses on.
“Where were you drinking? What were you drinking? Where were his parents?” And I try to fight it, I don’t want to get Dave in trouble, but it’s impossible – my mom has a built in lie-detector like no other. When I lie she pauses, stares at me with one eye cocked, and very quietly says, “Liar.” The most intimidating shit imaginable.
So she got it all. What we drank, how much, where we got it from – everything she needed to know to get Dave punished. She comes back from Dave’s house after ratting him out and tells me what my punishment is.
Two weeks. No TV, no playing outside. In my room for two fucking weeks.
Later that day she’s sitting on the stoop with her friends. All my friends are outside playing football. This was in Junior High School when I was in the band, baritone player. I sat in my open window and played the fucking baritone. My mom was ignoring me although her friends kept looking up, wondering if she was going to say something. Finally she turns to me and says, “Just put that thing away and go out and play!”
Victory.
But, you see, it was always like that. I can’t recall a punishment that ever lasted longer than a day. Because besides my mother’s amazing detective and crime-fighting skills she couldn’t stand me being in the house and annoying her all day. So I’d just find something to do that annoyed her, baritone was always a good call.
Singing was also a good call. As was breaking something, reading out loud, sighing at the dinner table while she peeled potatoes. Punishments never stuck no matter the crime.
Even when Ross and I got caught ring-and-running this old lady, sent home by our school and forced to come back with our parents where cops met with us and told us that the lady wasn’t pressing charges but how Ross and I are going to turn into “bad apples” if we’re allowed to keep this up – even then the punishment lasted a couple of hours.
She wouldn’t talk to me for a couple of days or she’d give little jabs here and there but nothing that really threatened my schedule of fun and games. She was like Judge Judy mixed with Jesus Christ (Mathew’s Jesus, not John’s)
If you want a letter published in Elk’s Run #4 either post it in the comments section or email it to me by tomorrow at around 5PM. Putting the book together now.
Also, just sort of feeling this out. “Moose in the Comics”. Four sixteen-page stories where four artists adapt their favorite MITC stories. Someone suggested it recently (not a publisher, unfortunately, so I’m not all yay-yay-gun-ho); I’ve obviously thought about it in the past but decided against it. But I kind of like the idea of not actually doing a lot of work for it, just signing off on the final product, editing it, maybe providing some guidance and reference for the artists – not having to actually write anything. I don’t know, thoughts?
Before I get to the story for today I wanted to share a humorous little story from the Orlando trip. Robin and I found a bar on Monday night where they had five-dollar pitchers of Bud Light – needless to say we got thoroughly sauced while watching the Angels kick the Yanks’ asses (and this was after a bunch of top-shelf margaritas with our dinner).
So we’re walking back to our hotel and there’s this little man-made swamp looking thing with mushrooms all around it. Robin (who’s wearing sandals, mind you), runs into this swampy area and kicks the biggest mushroom as hard as she can and it fucking explodes. Not only does it cake her foot in mushroom gunk but her sandal flies off into the swamp and a bunch of lizards that were hiding in the grass book it and run all around her causing Robin to freak the fuck out because she’s afraid of reptiles. In between my uncontrollable laughter I manage to ask her why the fuck she decided to do that. She told me she thought the cap would fly off like a discus.
She walked home, one sandal on, her other foot covered in absolutely fucking disgusting mushroom pulp. It was the funniest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen. Life would suck without alcohol.
______________
The mother has to lay down the law because the father hates to be the bad guy. When a boy spends his childhood blowing shit up, breaking things and cutting elementary school he’s going to get caught every once in a while. And when he does, the responsibility to punish rests firmly on the mother’s shoulders.
At least in my house it did.
It wasn’t that my father didn’t get involved, he was just working two jobs most of the time and it was my mom who tended to get the bad news first when it came home. So in order to make the consequences of my actions immediately known my mother had to gauge what I done, decide how bad my decision was and set the appropriate punishment, even if it was only a temporary “go to your room and wait for your father to come home.”
My mom was good at getting me to confess to shit, too. My first time drinking alcohol was at my friend Dave’s house – we were around eleven or twelve. His parents weren’t home and we raided their liquor cabinet. We mixed Bacardi with cherry Kool-Aid, quite possibly the worst combination possible but what did we know? We were so paranoid that we would be discovered that we were mixing around one-part Bacardi, one-hundred-parts Kool-Aid. It was like a quarter of a thimble of alcohol poured into a souvenir sized cup of Kool-Aid. My mom’s chicken rollatini had higher alcohol content.
Well, I get home and ring the bell to be let in. This was before I had keys – my mom kept tabs on my comings and going by making sure I relied on her to get back in the house, a wise move I might add. She comes down and I play it cool (I think). As an adult I realize there was no way that I smelled like alcohol and no-way that I was even slightly buzzed. But, nevertheless, the instant my mom looks at me she says, “You were drinking!”
No idea how she does it. I just fucking freeze and stutter out a “no” but at this point she got those hot eyes, the ones that burn my fucking soul, and she presses on.
“Where were you drinking? What were you drinking? Where were his parents?” And I try to fight it, I don’t want to get Dave in trouble, but it’s impossible – my mom has a built in lie-detector like no other. When I lie she pauses, stares at me with one eye cocked, and very quietly says, “Liar.” The most intimidating shit imaginable.
So she got it all. What we drank, how much, where we got it from – everything she needed to know to get Dave punished. She comes back from Dave’s house after ratting him out and tells me what my punishment is.
Two weeks. No TV, no playing outside. In my room for two fucking weeks.
Later that day she’s sitting on the stoop with her friends. All my friends are outside playing football. This was in Junior High School when I was in the band, baritone player. I sat in my open window and played the fucking baritone. My mom was ignoring me although her friends kept looking up, wondering if she was going to say something. Finally she turns to me and says, “Just put that thing away and go out and play!”
Victory.
But, you see, it was always like that. I can’t recall a punishment that ever lasted longer than a day. Because besides my mother’s amazing detective and crime-fighting skills she couldn’t stand me being in the house and annoying her all day. So I’d just find something to do that annoyed her, baritone was always a good call.
Singing was also a good call. As was breaking something, reading out loud, sighing at the dinner table while she peeled potatoes. Punishments never stuck no matter the crime.
Even when Ross and I got caught ring-and-running this old lady, sent home by our school and forced to come back with our parents where cops met with us and told us that the lady wasn’t pressing charges but how Ross and I are going to turn into “bad apples” if we’re allowed to keep this up – even then the punishment lasted a couple of hours.
She wouldn’t talk to me for a couple of days or she’d give little jabs here and there but nothing that really threatened my schedule of fun and games. She was like Judge Judy mixed with Jesus Christ (Mathew’s Jesus, not John’s)
Labels: mitc
posted by Jason at
11:59 PM
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