8:19 p.m. - 2001-11-15
Being an uncle is gonna be the best. Nieces and nephews, baby! I can corrupt the little buggers, send 'em home with Sis and let them be an extension of irritation. My little agents.
Plus as an uncle, you are almost obligated to make the same corny jokes when ever the opportunity presents itself. My uncle used to greet me with "Aye, E! I, O, U!" every time he saw me. If ever I was wearing mismatched socks he'd always compliment them and suggest that I probably had another pair just like them at home. My own dad makes the same jokes all the time too, but it's not so funny when it's your dad.
Man, that's going to be fun. I wish my sister would hurry up and get knocked up already. Wedlock, shmedlock.
If I ever become a magician or genie or male witch, one of the things I'm going to do is magically give all the crazy motherfuckers a car and a washer dryer combo. That way they'll stop riding the bus and hanging out at the fucking laundry-mat. I'm serious. I have lived in this city off and on for about ten or twelve years and something about those two places draws the nuts like a hungry, artistic squirrel. (maybe I should have saved that one for the nieces and nephews)
What sucks is that I'm a nice guy. I want to be nice to everyone, especially those who are probably low on the list of citizens who get their fair share of friendliness. But fuck, once you openly acknowledge their existence, you'd better be ready to listen to their whole life story.
Take it from me, if you think it is hard to ignore someone who is obviously speaking to you, well it may be just a wee bit harder to ignore them after they begin demonstrating how they are gonna kick down the doors of the neighborhood drug dealers once they make the call to the Mayor (his private line) and he gets them a job on the SWAT team. HiyaaaAAH!
Hiyah indeed pal.
Note to self: don't acknowledge anymore you stupid, nice bastard. Don't.
What do you say to that anyway? I opted for the ol' double thumbs up and a nod (and yes, my godless ass even gave a silent prayer for the dryers to hurry up and finish, I'll fold at home thanks)
The other tactic I tried was outdoing him. Once I saw that escape was impossible, I decided to make him get sick of listening to me, beat him at his own game. I told him about my job, told him about my first car, my family, what I liked to eat, my high school baseball try-out. He just got louder and more animated. I don't like the animated style nut compared to the regular style so I shut the hell up and listened to him in silence for the rest of the time I was there.
He didn't smell good either.
You know what sucked the worst? He wanted to help me fold my clothes. Yes I know, what a sweet man, but having his hands, the ones that turned into fists the size of cinder blocks by the way, which he felt the compulsion to shake around in anger several times at the nerve of those drug dealers during the whole SWAT spiel, on Janie's panties, well, I didn't like the idea too much.
So now I know better. Luckily, I don't think he remembers me as well as I remember him because when I pass him on the street, he doesn't show any signs of recognition.
Then again, maybe he's written ten entries in his diary about the crazy little fuck who wouldn't shut up about how he shoulda made junior varsity and gave him the double thumbs up like some kind of dork.