Sodomized by Captain Morgan!
Went to visit my mom and brothers on Saturday, as I haven’t spent time with them in ages, at least not alone, without kids running around and husband yawning in not too subtle boredom. I hadn’t been able to see Mom on Mother’s Day, either, or my Grandmother, whose birthday is right around Mother’s Day, so I felt the need to go over there. It was great. Until Captain Morgan decided to shove his perpetually raised leg down my throat.I would recommend to anyone reading this, anyone who drinks alcohol, that is, to avoid drinking six beers on an empty stomach if Captain Morgan is at the party, for you will, with the help of your youngest brother’s enthusiastic urging, believe that it's a terrific idea to down five shots of CM while devouring pork chops and macaroni salad.
This is not a terrific idea.
Everything will seem fine -- at first. You will regale everyone with hilarious stories, will offer sisterly advice to your youngest brother's girlfriend, perhaps dance idiotically to Eminem's Tin Soldiers, much to the delight of those around you; it will seem like you're having the time of your life. But after your sixth shot, you will come to realize that all is not well, that objects about the room are beginning to spin, that your mother's dog, to whom you'd been offering lots of ear-scratching and face-kissing, has breath that smells like human excrement, and you will vomit up whole pork chops into your mother’s laundry room washbasin, and you will horrify your eighty-nine year old grandmother by shrieking “fuck you, Captain Morgan! Fuck you, bastard of the seas!”
And your brothers will laugh and laugh and laugh, and your mother will wring her hands with worry between intermittent slaps to your youngest brother’s laughing head.
Eventually, with the assistance of some guy named Shaggy (presumably, a friend of your youngest brother, but one can’t be sure at this point) you will collapse onto your mother’s couch, something you probably haven’t done since you were nineteen, and you will lie there wishing that you could go gently into that good night, but you won’t. No, you will pass out for maybe ten minutes, then awake to the unholy pain of Captain Morgan’s sword piercing your skull. You will sit there in the darkness and watch old Saturday Night Live programs, too disoriented to truly understand just what an ass you made of yourself, yet happy to be alive despite the agony, and so, you go make a bad cup of coffee, drink it without milk or sugar -- perhaps you forget to pour boiling water over the Folger’s crystals and just eat your coffee -- and watch John Belushi and Jane Curtain until three or four in the morning, whereupon your brother will emerge from his basement bedroom, still drinking and needing company, so you will eat your third, fourth, fifth cup of bad coffee as your brother cackles till the break of dawn.
Of course, the hell continues well into that morning as you must do the polite thing and dislodge pork chop from your mother’s washbasin with the brand new plunger she purchased just for this occasion, and you will almost die, not only from the humiliation, but from the bleach fumes as you furiously scrub away every last bit of evidence of your infantile behavior.
I didn’t return home until Sunday afternoon. To a house full of kids, many of them not my own, mud all over my floors, poop in my son’s new SpongeBob underpants (he‘s resisting potty training, which is just fabulous), and cat puke on the family room rug (she ate the lovely bouquet of forget-me-nots and lilacs I'd picked and arranged myself). Husband went off to do a job for some wealthy woman with no kids and 60,000 square foot of glorious tile, brickwork and professionally tended gardens, the bitch, leaving my PMSing fourteen-year-old in charge. So I broke out in a John Denver song, of course:
Hey it’s good to be back home again - yes it is
Sometimes this old farm feels like a long-lost friend
Yes ’n’ hey, it’s good to be back home again
Oh the time that I can lay this tired old body down
Feel your fingers feather soft upon me
The kisses that I live for, the love that lights my way
The happiness that that livin’ with you brings me
It’s the sweetest thing I know of, just spending time with you
It’s the little things that make a house a home
Like a fire softly burnin’ supper on the stove
The light in your eyes that makes me warm
Hey it’s good to be back home again
Sometimes this old farm feels like a long-lost friend
Yes ’n’ hey, it’s good to be back home again
And how was your weekend?
posted by Ms. Lori @ 10:28 AM
7 Comments:
hehe. Well, the Evil One (the real estate lady who is supposed to be selling my house, but instead is dedicated to making me wrong and trying to cajole more commissions out of the deal (a very BAD contract that I have for SIX months) sent over ONE looky loo over the weekend, a guy who didn't spend more than five minutes and I am sure I am going to support TWO houses for the rest of my life. I didn't have anything as exciting as booze or sodomy. I DID allow myself one glass of wine each night over the weekend (I'm on the diet from hell, have lost ten pounds, ALL of it red wine, I am sure)...and that was almost enough to make me smile.
She says, wincing.
You are feeling better today? You are very funny today.
Ahhhhh, the Cap'n. . .that evil seafarer from hell. . .I know his older, and stupider brother - Vladivar Vodka (sold only in the seediest of off licenses) extremely well. So well in fact that he made me do rather naughty things this weekend. Hey, if you are eating coffee at 5am, you know you had a good time. . .xxx
A year ago, recoiling from stepmother's evil barbs, I allowed friends of mine to make me and my husband "White Russians." The title should have been cue enough for me, the lightweight. When have I been able to handle anything Russian?
Too many later (hubby should have been on lightweight watch, the fob!) I was taking off my pants, crying and there is even a snapshot of my friend Sarah sucking on my tit.
I puked for 24 hours straight.
Oy.
Gawd, Bev, not a...looky loo! ;-) Aw, I'm sorry about the shithead realtor. Why is no one looking at the house, I wonder? Might you sell it yourself, throw the shithead her 3% and call it a day? She sounds awful.
Alexis, I love vodka. It's never, ever sodomized me, and it loves me back.
Peter, are we having a "who is in need of the most therapy" contest or something? If so, just you wait till next week's blog about placenta and marachino cherries...you'll weep.
Jordan! I think I just spewed refried beans out my nose.
G-Man, one of these days: you, me, and Corona with lime. Corona's my favey fave of all, but it's damn expensive here in sin-tax-up-yer-ass New York. So I hit the Coors, usually.
Jas, a navy man, eh? I love you even more now.
Oh, Joshie, at least you learned a lesson from ol' Asshat. Me, I never learn...
I've never liked CM... ever. But that didn't stop me from imbibing room temperature CM and Dr. Pepper in the days before we were old enough to buy the alcohol ourselves. You know, we drank what we had.. but I remember it being VILE.
You say vodka loves you, and I would have said vodka loves me, too, only I remembered that two of the occasions where I returned the contents of the bottle back to the earth, it was vodka. The first time I got so wasted I puked (I was 16 and in Europe, ha ha), guess who was standing beside me laughing. Vodka. My last birthday or the birthday before, I can't remember because the night was so foggy, I ended up being driven home, post-haste, with my head hanging out of the car window. For whatever reason, I wanted to throw up in my own bathroom, and actually managed to hold it the entire drive.
Ugh.. I'm making myself sick just thinking about it. Your story was great... though I feel a bit sorry for you. ;)
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