The Rising Tide of Color Against White World-Supremacy

It’s time for a very special Thanksgiving Dead Parents, which is like saying it’s time to put some fun Photoshop filters on a cancerous MRI scan. Let’s get warm and fuzzy you beautiful sluts!

Thanksgiving used to be the coolest holiday in my house, mostly because it wasn’t in my house. It was our chance to hang out with Cool Aunt Lois, who threw the illest T-giving (by lower middle-class Midwestern standards). All the Lundqui rolled up to her sweet house with the high ceilings and the patio, where she lived with her Ron Swanson-‘stached architect husband and their kids, who introduced us to video game cheats and Napster.

free music?

"A million bad Sean Parker jokes isn't cool. You know what's cool?"

The coolness didn’t stop there. Sure, we had your usual holiday fare, but tradition called for family members to bring over whatever life-ending “food” they could stuff in their vans on the way over. Our Thanksgivings regularly featured cases of White Castles, buckets of Popeyes, and big aluminum trays of Chicago-style Italian beef.

You don’t know what that is? Or, worse, you ordered one at an UNO off the Interstate and weren’t impressed? Shame on you. Stop reading, go to northern Illinois, and don’t come back until you’re out of stroke rehab. I’ll wait.

hurricane Ditka

I know that I'm "that guy" now and I feel nothing.

Was it white-trashy? You can bet your meth it was! Good thing none of us went to liberal arts schools and got all irritating and self-aware about it. Plus, we were always too busy unhinging our jaws and tripling our body weights to start fights, so these were our salad days (minus the salad).

The Lundqui took the actual giving-thanks part of Thanksgiving pretty seriously, and I might as well not break the streak. One thing I’d like to give thanks for is that, although this blog often makes me out to be a pity case, I’ve never had a year as bad as my aunt Lois’s 2001.

if I knew how life was gonna be I wouldn't wanna grow up either, pal

Like I was really gonna write a whole entry without misery. Grow up.

First, her dear mother died. Then her son was murdered. Then her husband blamed his death on her, revealed a long-running affair, and took off. Also, 9/11, but who didn’t have a 9/11 in those days? Anyway, if she’d hosted Thanksgiving that year, the cranberry sauce would’ve been cigarettes and the turkey would’ve been a game of Russian roulette.

"Lois, where are the potatoes?" "I am the potatoes."

"I'd say pass the salt but I'd just lose that too!"

Cool Thanksgiving was dead. Long live Old Thanksgiving. From then on, we celebrated the holiday with my great-aunt Char, an impossibly sweet elderly Swedish lady who can’t help but sound like someone I made up just to kill off before midterms. The crowd at her place is small and polite; sure, everyone has forty years on me, but they aren’t bad.

“They,” of course, means everyone other than the Hannibal Lecter of anti-Semitism.

"I ate his liver with some lox and a nice Manischewitz."

"Hello, Horowitz."

His name is David Laske, he’s brilliant, insane, and boy oh boy does he hate him some chosen people. I don’t know his connection to the family, but I do know that he has a PhD, two bachelor’s degrees, and eight master’s. If any of that sounds like an exaggeration, check his Board of Advisors profile from the Astrology Learning Center:

if I don't update Monday, it's already too late to find my remains (see below)

And he's single. Female readers, take note.

Notice anything funny, other than that he’s the guy from Ghost Hunters gone even more to seed?

see also the jump to conclusions guy from Office Space and the guy from Pawn Stars

They're different people. OR ARE THEY?

Last sentence, first part: “He has extensive knowledge of practical ritual via membership in several fraternal orders.” From what I remember, he’s a Mason and a Knight of Pythias, but two ain’t several, so there’s definitely more. Note: upon publishing this, I plan to avoid windows and laser pointers until further notice. Their eyes are everywhere.

I learned all of this within minutes of meeting the guy, and, being 11 and in my politically correct phase, I got upset and tried to fight him. Not physically, since he’s three hundred pounds of Caucasian purity, though that would’ve been hilarious—I took him on with my sparse mental faculties. If only I could tell my younger self that old racists are comedy goldmines who should only be halted mid-ramble when you need to find a pen.

y'all can bring tea bags, I'm bringin' POPCORN

Hope the other sign's as well thought out!

A few choice bits of Laske:

  • “Why watch sports? You’re paying to watch black millionaires have fun.”
  • “There’s nothing anti-Semitic about T. S. Eliot. In fact, he was probably a  British spy in World War I.”
  • “I’m not racist, I’m culturist. There’s nothing wrong with other races, but the people who choose to follow the culture of the inner city make me sick.”

And so it was for several years. He’d make some remark about how a Goldstein was rude to him at the bank and then we’d have sweet potato casserole. After getting shot down the first couple years, I gave up and took it in stride.

while researching this image, I found the worst website in the world. It's just a guy putting up pictures of every Jewish girl who's ever been naked and then saying that their tits run banks and destroy civilization. Good read!

"I get it, you can't face what you're into. Quit blocking the game."

Tensions only boiled over twice. The first time was in response to a book he sent my dad, T. Lothrop Stoddard’s The Rising Tide of Color Against White World-Supremacy. What a title! You know, so many people focus on the contemporary hate that hardly anyone’s paying attention to the classics. Good to know ol’ Dave’s keeping the fire lit for 1920s eugenics.

Speaking of which, my brother and I tried to burn it. Our dad wouldn’t let us, not because he was a big fan of white world supremacy, but because he didn’t want us to set the house on fire. We never had any fun.

those eyes could smoke the melanin right off you

Wait, this is T. Lothrop Stoddard? Cougar noise.

Far worse was the next year’s face-stuffing. We were shocked when he spoke favorably of a black former student of his, so my dad tried to get his whole POV on the race thing by asking what he’d do if he saw a black stranger on his lawn. “I’d ask him to get off, but I’d ask that of anybody.” Fair enough. What if it were a Jew?

Bad questions get bad answers, pa! “If it were a Jew, I’d shoot him.”

“Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…………. sooooooooooo, hoooooow bouuuuuut theeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…….. uhhhhhhhhhhh………” was all that came out of anyone’s mouth for the next ten minutes, because really, where the fuck do you go from there?

both of these men's tongues made me feel the same way

Nowhere but down.

The postscript to this is that my brother and I are stealth-Jewish enough that he’d probably have to burn down a synagogue in penance if he ever found out how much bread he broke with our kind. We weren’t bar mitzvahed or anything, but somewhere down the line on my mom’s side we’re dirty Jew rats. Take that, guy I’m afraid of!

Anyway, the point of all this is that if you’re having trouble dealing with your overbearing family this Thanksgiving, just be glad that you haven’t been told you’d be murdered if your wacky uncle found out what you are. Unless he did, in which case you shouldn’t have come out on Thanksgiving. Have you ever seen a sitcom? Jesus. Also, you probably didn’t lose the three most important people in your life recently.

Either way, I don’t give a flying fuck how tough your flight was or that your parents’ internet is slow. Don’t be an asshole today. Suck on Christmas, see if I care, but today is the day to brush your whining aside—don’t spend it enumerating why not everything you feel entitled to is happening. Cram disgusting shit in your face without calling it disgusting; just for today, be okay with the fact that you have a lot and you can enjoy it without complaining about all that cholesterol that’s killing you. That’s what Cool Thanksgiving is all about.

Thanks. I still love you. How did that last paragraph happen.


The Crutch Waddle

Like any fat kid living in one of the few parts of the country where most kids aren’t fat, I was insecure about everything. Southern kids are lucky: every day they can find a vein for their insulin, they get eight free brownies. The neighborhoods I grew up in had bigger things to worry about, like not getting deported/murdered, and fat Hispanic kids are adorable anyway so who cares?

When I was 11, though, we Made It Out, and suddenly I was the fattest person in any room I failed to walk into because they don’t grease the doors in neighborhoods that get fresh vegetables.

am I the only one who hears angels when I see this?

"I ate a taco today. It was an edamame taco, but still. Kitsch!"

By the way, I do mean I was insecure about everything, not just the fatness. Suddenly becoming the fattest kid means you take a chute down the social ladder, and you notice shit about yourself you never thought of when you were all the way up at the third-lowest rung. I stopped smiling in pictures, first because my mouth made me look like a shark that just lost a fight with a boat, and then because my braces looked like a post-earthquake railroad.

hope you go outta business, shitbag

Now it's because my orthodontist did this without asking me. Thanks Eric Liedtke!

Some other choice new insecurities: I sweat the entire Dead Sea daily, my hands are barely big enough to palm a baseball, I have the same face-ruddiness as a Norwegian alcoholic, my tits are so perky that I’ve seen them throw straight guys into identity crisis, and all hats look weird on me.

Maybe worst of all, though, was my waddle. I’ve got duck feet and my knees are crazy double-jointed—from the side, I look like an upside-down question mark—so when my thighs were thicker, I had no choice but to flop around like an obese baby turtle.

Now take that image, put it on crutches, and tell that voice that tells you not to laugh at kicked puppies to shut up.

"Are there gonna be chicks there? You know what, doesn't matter."

The difference? He takes his shirt off at the pool.

The only kids at White Privilege Middle School (Asians, You’re Cool If You Know Your Place) who ever used crutches were all future white-sport champions. Volleyball players who took a hard dive, skiers who over-slalomed, cross country runners who’ve gotta condition better before trying 10Ks on back-to-back weekends—if they had a French tutor and a guest room, they’d get at least one cool extracurricular injury to complete the set.

Technically speaking, my what the fuck, is my ceiling leaking? Dammit. Hold on.

Technically speaking, my injury was extracurricular too. My sport? Spelling bees.

there's a tall white dude in the back who looks lost and scared, which was appropriate because seconds later we all asked him what sports are

Pictured: future moderators of internet SAT prep forums

I tried to compensate for being the town Quasimodo by focusing on my skills, like spelling, clarinet, and self-loathing. I won my first spelling bee in first grade and never looked back, winning at least once per year all eight years I was eligible. After coming a word away from nationals three times, I got ready to rock my last shot by doing, well, nothing, because I was old enough to get that spelling bees are for queers.

notice the jarring difference between nerdy and showbiz-nerdy

They have a musical, dude. A musical.

As bad as I am at preparing, when I’m actually up against someone at something I’m good at, I flip my Kobe Switch and get competitive as a motherfuck. It’s bad. When I was eight, I got grounded for yelling “SUCK MY DICK!” at a library computer upon beating a level of a Learn 2 Type game. Any time another bicyclist dares to occupy the same lane as me, I will swerve into traffic just to beat him to a red light. When high and playing Smash Bros, I am convinced I have the right to call anyone who plays as Kirby a “buster-ass nigga.”

etymologize my DICK

"Naw I don't need a definition. Back the fuck up and lemme spell this shit."

Naturally, I brought this fire to the 2004 Indian Prairie School District Spelling Bee, pictured above. As the two-time defending champ, I had a legacy to uphold: the winner got to compete in the regionals, whose winner went to nationals. Let me tell you, as soon as I walked through the door, the thing was over. I smoked everybody. And I was really shitty about it.

It’s tough to explain, but here’s my attempt: I didn’t say anything, but it was clear I wasn’t saying anything so that I’d appear better than everyone, and also clear that I was aware that I was giving off this appearance and half-heartedly trying to undercut it, so really the message was that I was too good to seem too good.

get a education

It's not my fault if you have to read that paragraph again.

Anyway, they gave me my trophy (that I would throw in the pile with all the others! Ha!), and after a few photos, I stepped outside into the Chicago winter and slipped on some ice, badly spraining my ankle and shattering my new trophy. I didn’t bother Googling it, but I hope for the sake of every other pathetic K-8 in America that this was the first and only spelling-related sports injury.

I was so unathletic that I got hurt at words. That doesn’t make sense. I don’t care.

"Get the fuck outta my Athens with that."

This isn't a logic bee.

So I waddled around on crutches for the next three weeks. It was horrible and I was bad at it. Since the only people I’d seen on crutches were all at least passable at the athletic feat of walking while holding something, I didn’t know what was in store for me. Remember that puppy-kicking voice? Show it this image:

A sweaty, red-faced fat kid with man-tits stopping to catch his breath halfway down a hallway while the guy assigned to carry his books between classes stands there awkwardly and says, “uh, d’you need some water, or, uh, something?”

This story doesn’t have an ending or a message. Happy Monday. I got you a GIF.


It's okay, laugh at the fat. It's our fault like 97% of the time.

PS: Dead Parents is moving to a regular schedule. Updates every Monday and Thursday. The mystery is gone, but at least you know when to show up, which is good. I love you.

The Elephant in the Room, Part III: The Bittersweet End

If you throw out panic attacks and onions, I’ve cried four times in the past ten years. The most recent time was the only one in that period anyone’s seen me: I got hit by a car while biking and lost my shit at the blind old Russian guy driving it. One of them’s another story, and the other two were at movies, the names of which I guard like dragon treasure. (Weakness is death.)

Jews did my bike accident, it's all in this documentary "Loose Chain"

Didn't cry on 9/11. I was saving my tears for a real tragedy.

Side note: the panic attack thing is pretty broad, but it was an extra-mile situation that would unfairly inflate my cry count. I dropped some legal hallucinogens during my semester abroad in the Netherlands and had a bad trip on one of them. I cried then and a few times over the next couple weeks because my ears kept ringing, which made me think I was hearing things and drugs had made me schizophrenic. (It was just wax.) Don’t mean I’m not a thug. What evidence do I have to support this, you ask?


Other than this picture, of course.

Here are some of the things I’ve never cried at: girls, death (nonfiction), music, sports, books (fiction and nonfiction), birth, theatre, boys, nature, TV finales, the Holocaust (fiction and alleged nonfiction).

to-do list: be better at comedy

Here is one thing I rarely laugh at: list jokes.

When it comes to crying over big events, my dad and brother are like me. First of all, being a pastor’s kid, you go to a lot of funerals. It’s not that we can’t feel sad, but we got desensitized to the shock part of loss by being around it all the time. That’s all just icing on the prinsesstårta. His side of the family is stoic, Scandinavian, and notoriously blasé towards death. At one of her first Lundquist events, our gallows chitchat horrified a newly married-in aunt: “You guys are, like, the death family! It’s all you ever talk about!” We, of course, laughed in her face.

way to ruin the swastika, dude, it's a symbol of peace

I think this guy's got the lock on "death family."

She wasn’t wrong, though. A few years ago, my cousin died in her early 20s. This didn’t surprise anyone; she and her sister were crack babies that my aunt and uncle had adopted from the inner city, and she had health issues all her life. Most of the family made it up to their tiny upstate New York town to attend the funeral. (I wasn’t there, but have heard the story so many times that detail barely matters.) There to perform the eulogy was the sincere if under-educated town pastor.

Most everyone in town loved my cousin, including the pastor, who decided to express this love with an emotional, climactic eulogy. “I know,” he croaked, “that Annie’s up in heaven now, with the Father, basting in the light of his glory.” Not a typo. “Basting.” Every head in the front row ducked for cover. My family must not be seen laughing, en masse, at a funeral, especially not a relative’s, especially not if that relative was young, especially not if that relative had Down’s syndrome. The guy couldn’t leave well enough alone, though, working himself into a red-faced froth: “She’s basting in heaven! Basting with Christ! Basting with all her lost loved ones! Hallelujah!”

basting actually dries out turkeys because the heat lost from opening the oven decreases temp & increases cook time (not a joke, just a Thanksgiving tip)

Truly, this is a time for Thanksgiving.

Many drops of lip-blood had already been shed, but my uncle couldn’t resist adding his own punchline: “They’re eating the black ones now?”

So, yeah, we laugh in the face of death. My dad cries at anything fictional with puppy eyes, but little in the real world gets a rise out of us. Fave example: in 2001, more of us cried at the end of Shrek than at the news my cousin was murdered (1-0). The one exception was the wacky sitcom ending to my parents’ marriage. Strap in, y’all.

My brother and I got the news from our mom in May 2005. We were actually pretty happy–we knew they were miserable and hadn’t had common ground in years. Plus, she’d been cutting her hair short and wearing denim jackets for some time, and if we needed help figuring that one out we would’ve spent most of our teen years investigating reports of stains just below our chins.

one of the top search terms leading to this blog is "cholo porn." Hoping to diversify.

You mean this doesn't do it for you?

One evening in June, someone was going to come to our house with divorce papers, and we were to make every effort to be as far outside the blast radius as possible. Our D-Day was supposed to be in the middle of the month, with brief advance notice on the day itself. We went around to our friends and scheduled as many long nights out as possible in the week of the 12th-18th, because that’s mid-June, right? RIGHT?

Wrong! The week came and went, and our dad started getting suspicious. My brother and I were at peak The Kids Are Running WIth A Bad Crowd And I Think They’re On The Pot risk: my brother was headed to Long Hair College with a double Socialism/Bicuriosity major, and I was the age that young white drug dealers/Em & Em fans in DARE videos targeted with free samples of Pot Cigarettes. It was 10 PM! Where were the children?

in the realm of imagination/social retreat!

Where I was. Worry.

I couldn’t tell my friends what was up and wouldn’t want to anyway. Divorce is a total buzzkill! Finally, while at my friend Sean’s house the next week, I got the word. We’d only planned out the afternoon, but once I told his family what was going on they agreed to shelter me for the night. They calmed me down as best as they could, and I tackled my toughest acting role yet: lying to my dad on the phone about how much fun I was having (since surpassed by Drunk Guy #4).

But UH-OH! I’ve been going out too much and I’m coming home tonight and that’s final, young man! TROMBONE SOUND!


What a caper!

Sean watched me make the call the way guys watch someone tell them their grandma died. Uh, that sucks, dude, and I have no clue what comes next socially. We got twenty minutes, you up for another round of Mario Kart?

To be clear: this wasn’t funny at all then, but it’s hilarious now. My dad’s timing was pure Shakespearean comedy, and if you slapped a laugh track on footage of Sean and me coming up with increasingly ludicrous lies to save my ass, it’d be the best Friends episode ever.

Same thing happened to my brother. Half an hour later, the three of us were watching TV on the couch, my brother and I tense enough to face a firing squad.

if you caught the reference, go outside

Paths of Glory 4 Teenz.

You can figure out how the rest of the night went. The one thing that stands out most in my mind is that we were all visibly emotional–something that had never happened. My brother’s 100% certain we all cried, I’m 100% certain I didn’t, but either way, for the first time, the barriers were down. This night was directly responsible for the height of my weirdness as I adjusted for the next couple years, but without it, I never would have been the almost normal person I am now.

Being raised by two people who see eye-to-eye on literally almost nothing doesn’t lend itself to compromise, but to contradiction. They were and are just two people doing their best to raise kids who don’t suck. Sure, I talk a lot of shit about myself, and I swear too much and believe in things both of them strongly oppose, but I’m a college graduate living on my own at 21. My mom was 24 and my dad just 22 when they got married; 26 and 24 when my brother was born. I can’t imagine making the commitments they made at that age.

haha jk I can't afford coffee

This alone can ruin my morning.

Once they did the smart thing and bailed, all of us became much happier, better-adjusted people. Both of them are in loving, committed relationships for the first time in a long time. My brother’s engaged and finally made it out of the Midwest, where the highways out have signs at the borders that read Congrats! Send Money, and I haven’t puked on anyone or taped anything to myself in years. It took some crying, but it was fucking worth it.

What I’m saying is, thanks for getting divorced, Mom and Dad. Anytime I make them look bad, it has nothing to do with how I feel about them now. Like most kids, I was angry and hateful at the ‘rents all the time, and however accurate my reasons were for being that way, those emotions spurred some wack-ass behavior. One of the main reasons for sharing these stories is to recognize all that as childish and let it go.

I didn’t cry writing this, but I know that even though you’re dead for narrative purposes, you both read this thing and might cry reading it. Sorry. Now can we please drop this and get back to making fun of me?

fun fact: I've lost 60lbs since this pic was taken and still sweat exactly as much

There we go.

The Elephant in the Room, Part II: The Mom Vacation

I’m an experienced camper, if by “camper” you mean “cheap-hotel-sleep-inner.” Every summer, we’d all climb into a car and hit the open road, bonding at national parks and monuments within two or three days’ drive of our strategically located home. (That’s one thing about the Midwest you can’t make fun of! It’s right where it says it is!) After a few summers of flailing at tent stakes and loudly exclaiming that there’s no soap anywhere!!!, my dad realized my brother and I are pussies and gave up on the sleeping outdoors part of camping.

I can bring shame upon the white race from anywhere!

Mostly me.

If you’ve never seen America from its fuckhouses, you’ve never really seen it. Sometimes the places were nice: in Estes Park, Colorado, we stayed at a cute little b&b where one of the breakfast guests was a high school teacher from Little Rock who really didn’t want to talk about his job. We stayed close enough to the strip of Gatlinburg, Tennessee (think Branson without entertainment) to walk to its Ripley’s museum and infinity fudge shops. For the most part, though, we stayed at places that put $45 coupons in truck stop magazines under ads usually containing the words RV PARKING, FREE CBS, and NO CHECKS.



Whatever you may think of hooker graveyards, it was worth it. They’re barely more expensive than campgrounds, easy to set up and take down, and always close to one of this great land’s many middle-of-nowhere diners. Anyone who tells you they prefer campfire beans to weird buffalo-meat sandwiches named after drunken regulars is a lying poser who should be strung up by his Timberland bootlaces. (Though the diners aren’t always great: there’s a place somewhere in South Dakota that sells five cent cups of Skoal dissolved in engine degreaser and calls it “coffee.” The waitresses are pretty cute, but be advised that all their dates end in watching men drown.)

they will look up and shout "refill!" and I will whisper "tip"

"That shriek sounded like 'pecan.' Would you like it a la mode?"

I recall our mom being there at least once, but in general, these were boys-only affairs. At first I didn’t care one way or another. She said she didn’t like camping and that was that. As I approached my tween years I kind of relished it. Sure, I didn’t get why she’d say no when Dad clearly said there’d be no camping, but this was our thing now. Once a year we’d have the chance to eat junk food in the car and go to a palace made of corn and scream at canyons like men, like overweight, effeminate men.

It wasn’t until I was thirteen and she finally took us on a vacation that I got it. Our vacation was her vacation.

dro = hydroponically grown marijuana, have you HEARD of urbandictionary?

I got two ounces of dro and a house to myself for ten days. Bring bitches.

I don’t know what she did when we were gone, if anything, but I’m sure it helped her keep her sanity a couple extra years. About a year previous, she’d coincidentally started getting scheduled for every Sunday shift the public library system could give. Around the same time, she started taking online courses that ate up what little free time she had. Most days, she’d come home and head straight to her room to get to work again. Probably half of the conversations I remember with her from this time happened on opposite sides of a closed door.

Notice how I didn’t mention a story about my mom in the non-confrontational section last time? It’s because it’s impossible to pick one. Let’s review: She 1. slept in her own room, 2. never bothered to update her vacation excuse, and 3. wouldn’t come to church despite the threat of eternal damnation! Yeesh. Despite my motel experience, I’d be a shitty concierge. I can’t tell when someone checks out.

I also offer recommendations for restaurants you can eat alone in without getting stared at

Please leave the keys to your marriage in the slot before It's a Dead Husk PM.

One spring, my mom announced that she was taking us to Cedar Point in Ohio. If you don’t know what that is, you had a joyless childhood, because it’s the best amusement park in the world. Go demand an apology from your parents, then eat some candy. It tastes like something now, doesn’t it? Anyway, don’t worry about anything, because she’s worked out the expenses and she’s paying for it all. Here are the dates, chosen in advance not to conflict with anything; here are the tickets and hotel reservations. You kids like rollercoasters, right? Great, because the three of us are going to go to a place full of them!

Even then, I was too in denial to see what was happening. I mean, shit, dude, rollercoasters. The best ones. No mosquito bites or forced visits to churches with leery inbred kids who ask what cities are like on what’s supposed to be our Sunday off or finding out that Mount Rushmore is kind of bullshit.

"My lands are where my dead lie buried. Over there."

"Sixty foot heads? Suck my Lakota cock (as soon as it actually gets made)."

Up to that point I only barely registered the oddness of spending all my parent bonding time with one or the other. This time it was real, like a trial divorce before the divorce trial. You know how hacky sitcoms show kids when mom’s gone for a few days? First they breathe free air, bucking her dictatorial restrictions, then they descend into anarchy because she’s not there to tell them to eat vegetables and only shit in the toilet. It was a weird inversion of that.

this reminds me of one of my grandmother's favorite sayings: "white power"

We're always finding new ways to ruin your life!

On one hand, we got to play our Tenacious D CDs and talk about our school crushes without getting a sex lecture, even say a fuckword or two, but on the other we were coming to the realization that the dad usually gets in that episode. He learns that his kids only know him as the void where mom isn’t, there to impose his will on big things every now and then and take everyone out for ice cream once a month. Then he pledges that gosh dangit, he’s going to be a more active parent, starting now. Jimmy, get that thing out of your mouth!

I waded through a lot of dick to bring you this and you'd better be grateful

But daaaaaad!

I barely knew my mother. And I just figured it out then, while spending a few days living in her world and seeing how different it was. How’s that for a rollercoaster?

My dad comes off as a clueless jackass in the last entry, and my mom like a distant robot in this one. That’s not really my aim. I just want to show you how far apart they were. This blog, after all, is about me, not them. A big part of my weirdness comes from being raised by two people who didn’t have enough in common to have kids, but did anyway, only clearing up the mixed messages when they got around to raising us they way they should’ve from the start: in two different houses.

Kris Humphries can no longer dunk on a five foot rim.

"We're just two different people!"

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion, where I try to bring comedy to the darkest moments of my life and fly up my own ass with messages!

The Elephant In the Room, Part I: The Dollar Store Christmas

I haven’t written a new post in a while. For once, this has less to do with my self-defeatism and more to do with not knowing how to handle an obvious topic.

My parents are divorced. Seems like a pretty big part of any weird kid’s childhood, right? Well, when I finished my last post and compulsively re-read my entire blog (don’t judge me), I noticed I’d never mentioned it anywhere on here. It’s just been too tricky to write about. How do I come off as light-hearted about dark subject matter without seeming either insensitive or pity-grubbing? I think I found the answer:

No fucking clue. I’m just gonna start writing and try not to look like an asshole.


Also, too many of my paragraphs start with "so" (7) (I'm insane)

All this not talking about divorce reminded me of my parents’ marriage. They separated in 2005. Took ’em long enough! Flashback to fall ’94. My parents were young, realigning themselves as professionals after returning from years of missionary work in the South American jungles. They scrapped through my dad’s seminary bills (seminary = grad school + Jesus – weed) by working odd jobs, counting down the hours until the next WIC payout, and knocking on every wooden surface in sight.

"The wolves have bikes now. Call the National Guard."

"If you get hurt, tell the hospital you were raised by wolves because Daddy doesn't have insurance."

But good news was just around the corner. A local church offered my dad a preaching job with insurance and benefits—including a fully funded education. Hip hip hooray! Nailed it, dad! No more sardines for this family! No more broken plunger we can’t afford to replace! All he had to do was sign the church charter and we’d get beds under our mattresses.

Nobody tell him that we die alone

I haven't been this happy since I popped those bubbles!

Dad came home one evening with his thorny-is-the-path-of-righteousness sermon face ‘n’ voice combo pre-loaded on his head like some kind of sad, Puritan Nintendo. Any relatives we care about (anyone but the shitty kids from Dan’s wife’s first marriage) dead? Nope! He turned the job down.

My mom was confused. Why? Would you have to let the mafia dissolve corpses in the baptismal pool? Did you catch Deacon Brown eyeraping you while taking six minutes to find a pen in his pocket? Were they actually just confused Muslims? Three strikes and you have misplaced faith in your husband.

good thing no one reads this or we'd all be in secret prisons

Don't tell me this is another one of those fake churches.

The church, he said, had some doctrinal points he stood against too strongly to find common ground. Biggest was infant baptism, which, okay, he wouldn’t have to perform them, they’d just be in the building, but still. Really, he wouldn’t have to do anything he didn’t believe in and they didn’t expect him to, but, but, but they were wroooong! My mom’s favorite quote from the ensuing argument: “Do you expect me to stand before Christ in judgment and tell him I preached at a church that believed in amillenialism?”

I was too young to get what was going on, but I probably would’ve gotten repressed-memory level fight trauma if my brother didn’t whisk me the hell out of there. (Or did he?) Sure, we were just a year out of voluntarily living in the third world, but god had never come this far ahead of the family.

The next few days were really quiet. Like there-are-Nazis-under-us-and-if-you-acknowledge-the-tension-we-will-be-shot quiet.

No joke in this alt text, I just fucking hate that show

Getting alienated from the ones you love is hilarious!

Everyone in my family, including myself, is infuriatingly non-confrontational. Knowing this is the only way the rest of the story will make sense. Here are some choice examples:

  • I once had a roommate who masturbated in bed every night and also thought I only take five minutes to fall asleep. Unless he’s reading this now, he still doesn’t know that I don’t.
  • My brother and his recent bitter ex were assigned acting partners for three months. He couldn’t talk to her about the awkwardness, so he gave her a mix CD as an olive branch. It included a funny little Stephen Lynch song about murdering one’s grandfather. Except hers had recently died—something he forgot and wasn’t reminded of until he asked her why she was being such a bitch a month later.
  • I was an avid partier at seventeen and hadn’t gotten around to getting my driver’s license. Rather than just telling me to stop drinking, my dad dragged me to the DMV at 7 am in the middle of what was then the worst hangover of my life. My face in my first license pic is covered in barely-visible marker streaks.

I can totally drive. Can I just get a, like, a big coffee and a couple Grand Slams?

Conflict isn’t our thing. If asked to point to any day to explain why, I’d pick that Christmas.

The month leading up to the big day was like someone trying to knock together two magnets with the same polarity. Nobody knew how to respond to anything, so we all kept coming close to having The Big Fight and then flying away from it. My dad, too insensitive to see why he might be wrong, my mom, too shell-shocked to try to find a way to reason with him, my brother and I, figuring that if our parents weren’t saying anything neither should we. What I’m trying to say is that we were the cast of the boringest fucking Sundance movie never made.

If you recognize these guys, I probably don't like you

"Unexpressed emotions are fertile territory. Did you even SEE American Beauty?"

This post’s title is a bit misleading. True, most of our gifts came from the dollar store, but plenty of our Christmases were like that. 1994 was the dollar store Christmas we could’ve avoided. Like usual, my dad took my brother and me to Dollar Tree and we split up to pick out gifts. At the end of the trip, we compared our choices and formed consensus. Most of it was pretty normal: my brother and I got each other plastic weapons and our mom some candles or something. Dad showed us his gifts to mom, the highlight of which was a brand new plunger! Hilarious! Like what cartoon characters use to climb buildings! Do it, pa!

So (8) he wrapped it up and stuck it under the tree. Unboxed, form clearly visible, addressed to Linda. For our sake, she had to pretend for weeks that she couldn’t tell that the man who ruined her year was going to cap it off by giving her a plunger for Christmas. Finally, when the morning came and she unwrapped what had clearly always been a plunger, she had to fake excited surprise and say, “A plunger!” while we squealed our ignorant joy.

the male nudity's more organic this time

Not what I asked for.

That’s the long answer to why I haven’t been posting. I grew up learning to be really, really good about not talking about things smacking me in the face, and I’m trying to get better at not doing that. And what do you know, I finished the first act of my parents’ slow, brutal divorce in almost-hilarious fashion. It took them over a decade to acknowledge that their marriage was over, and it only took me two weeks to acknowledge that I have to acknowledge that acknowledgement. Personal development. Where’s my goddamn medal?

currently trying to find someone who will engrave this on bronze for under $50

There we go.

The Ghost Janitor

Today’s entry is inspired by my Twitter (FYI there’s a walk-in plastic surgery booth at LAX where you can get your shame glands removed). I’ve been tweeting as The Lorax of White Guilt, who speaks for people who feel terrible about how easy it is for them to speak for themselves. Naturally, this reminded me of my childhood, which I suspect was sponsored by the Rwandan genocide and documentaries about the IMF.

"America did WHAT?! I'm so mad I could spike my hair!"

And, from 2002-2006, these guys.

Being the kid of missionary parents in Colombia gives you a weird perspective on what it means to be a part of the race that’s been purple-nurpling the world for the past few centuries. You get your image of white guilt from people living an insane contradiction. On one hand, they’re actually experiencing the difference between the first and third worlds, gaining unparalleled insight into how the other 80% sees us. On the other, they’re blissfully ignoring the fact that they’re continuing one of imperialism’s slaphappiest traditions.

What's a Jesus?

"Our baptism-and-lunch program is going great!"

Forming proper white guilt is like making sancocho (a stew from a different culture! Check out these African masks, too!). You start with a base, a set of core principles that foster its development. For me, it was my father’s particular strain of Christianity. Then add chunks of life experience until it’s thick as glue and exposure to it makes you slow and bloated and unable to stand. Simmer on low for twentysomething years or until you’re certain you have an informed view of the world. Then go protest something.

no #blood for #oil

That'll show those bastard Pentagon HTML coders.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those inbred fucks who thinks we should have a White Entertainment Television. I do think, though, that a lot of us are cooking with shitty broth, so when we finally add the potatoes of experience, they just fall apart and turn the soup mushy and unpalatable.

Abandon this metaphor, Peter, it sucks. Okay, self-doubt! How about you cut to the point so this doesn’t sound like you just wrote this to plug yourself? We passed that on the first sentence, dick.

Branagh sucks and I don't give a fuck

This blog's metacommentary is getting intolerable/good.

Anyway here’s one of these stories. In fourth grade, my brother starred in the school play. Instead of Our Town or Peter Pan scaled down for half-people with no long-term memory, his school decided to mount an original. A horribly fucking stupid original called The Ghost Janitor. (He was the janitor.)

The Ghost Janitor‘s plot was this: 1. Kids at school think a ghost is ghosting around in their classroom when they aren’t there, 2. it’s the janitor, 3. moral. What moral? Who cares! Janitors are people too, or ghosts aren’t real, or death comes for all and hope is but a distraction invented by the desperate masses to ward off the ever-encroaching darkness.

Mr. Todd from PE is our generation's Beckett

"Tomorrow, when I wake, or think I do, what shall I say of today? I met a ghost janitor?"

The point is that I came to associate anything I couldn’t explain at school with janitors. They were mystical men, after all. As far as the handful of other white kids and I knew, all their conversations were elder magick chants. “El jefe no me ha pagado en tres semanas,” you say? Don’t go waking up Cthulhu, now!

A couple years later, when I was in third grade, I bought a book at the yearly We Swear We’re Literate Don’t Cut Our Budget More Fair my school threw every year. Santa Claus Doesn’t Mop Floors, from the Bailey School Kids series about regular people that paint-huffing children mistake for creatures of legend. (And it was about a janitor. Coincidence???)

notice the blade angle: he ain't cuttin' no pies

"I'm Taiwanese you little shits!"

At the end of the day, I couldn’t find it in my desk. I got home and my dad asked me what I’d bought with his money. Great, so where is it? I panicked. What other possible explanation could there be? I had searched so thoroughly!

You guessed it. I accused a janitor of stealing Santa Claus Doesn’t Mop Floors.

it's called Google Translate and it adds a lot to this post

Esta línea es irrelevante. ¡Felicitaciones por su comprensión!

My dad turned this into a teaching moment. Instead of just saying, “son, that’s retarded, please sit quietly while I call someone to check our walls for lead paint,” he pressed me. “Did you actually see a janitor reach into your desk and steal a kids’ book?” Uh, I— “Because if you did, I can call the school and get him fired.”

Double panic! I hadn’t seen anything! Don’t get anyone in trouble!

Well, that’s what happens when you make false accusations. To take it a white guilt-y step forward, he said that the janitors at my school wouldn’t jeopardize the jobs they needed so badly on something as trivial as one of my books. I should leave them alone.

Mr. Miyagi: smokin' doobies, lickin' boobies

Also, most of them aren't this cool.

As two of the few people in 1980s Santa Marta with American money, my parents had employed a maid. They didn’t have much, but she had less: getting to eat depended upon coming by twice a week and straightening up for half an hour. It seemed patronizing at first, but at least it was better than the alternative. It’s those little things that give you a broader perspective, he said, a more nuanced understanding that he hoped I’d develop.

That pressure was kind of a dick move, and I may have been too young to pick up the real message, just developing guilt for knowing that my word as a white kid was often more valuable than a Latino man’s. Even so, I’d rather have that than sheltering that leads to hypersensitivity later in life.

thug wife

We are all god's children.

So where does this leave me? Years of political correctness and incorrectness pit my instincts against each other. Example: I’m currently living in a low-income, almost entirely Hispanic part of LA. Yesterday, I bought a set of computer speakers for ten bucks at a yard sale. The lady who sold them to me insisted they were in good working order, so I figured why not.

I get home, plug them in, and they don’t work. First thought: I can’t believe she fucked me! Second: Hold on, she barely spoke English, cut her some slack. Third: What does that have to do with anything? Fourth: I’m saying she looked like she needed cash pretty bad, and our country’s screwing her in so many ways, what does she need us storming back there for? Fifth: Oh, and we’re NOT broke? Sixth: Yeah, but we have a degree courtesy an education system that sets up minorities to fail—

And so on. Whether I’m right or wrong, at least I’m thinking about it from multiple angles, which I feel too few people do. Plus, it helps me redirect my rage and blame onto myself.

and you thought I wouldn't tie in the talking to myself thing from earlier


The Tape Shirts

In honor of the surprising newfound readership of this blog, here’s a story about another time one of my stupid jokes went too far and I caved under pressure and quit (what I assume will happen here shortly).

My family could never afford brand name clothing. Every August, we’d pick a Saturday to hit up a couple of Lower Middle Class Department Stores and sift through the clearance racks. Even if you pay Goodwill prices, you’re not poor if you get it at TJ Kohl’s Dead-Eyed Parent Emporium! Find one at (near) the mall. Everyone else’s large is a medium and all the clothes kind of smell like milk.

"What's that store, mommy?" "You'll never need to know."

I thought this was a flower shop until I was 20

Depending on where we lived and which way my ideology of the week leaned, this was a source of either embarrassment or contrarian pride. At fifteen, surrounded by January-tan Gap models with lake houses who kept inviting me to youth group, it was the latter in a walk. One belief I carried with me long after I quit being religious was among my father’s favorite “the devil perverts society” talking points: stern anti-materialism. From the day in the late 90s I ruined my only pair of JNCO jeans onward, I’ve refused to wear anything with a logo.

Yep. I’m such a hipster that I’ve been doing this since before going to liberal arts school and learning how to properly perform cunnilingus on Naomi Klein.

RAGILF (revolutionary alter-globalist I'd like to fingerasoverrated)

For those of you with real degrees who don't know that she has a Nike swoosh shaved into her pubes

Back then, though, I took it much farther. The only shirts I’d wear were black, grey, or blue baggy plain tees. In middle school, I wrote DEATH TO CONFORMITY in silver gel pen on all my binders. When I showed up to the first day of school sophomore year wearing all black, a teacher pulled me out of the hall to ask me a few tense, vague questions, starting with “Is everything okay?” It wasn’t until after a few minutes of this that I realized she was avoiding asking “you’re not going to murder anyone because your dad fucks you, right?”

I was a shitty little dude, though, so I wore it like a badge of honor. I thought I was better than everyone because my t-shirts cost five bucks and theirs were sixty. Since I had never owned anything nice, me and my untrained eye thought the whole $55 markup came from slapping Abercrombie & Fitch or American Eagle on the thing and calling it a day. (My nipples are visible in every photo of me from 1998-2006.)

am I the only one turned on by this?


So I decided to take my weird hate out on everyone. One day, feeling especially snide, I scrawled this on a sheet of printer paper:

i jsut wrot “abbercrumby n fich” on this shirt wil u pay me $60 4 it??

Then I taped it to my chest and went to school.

The name of this image is young-dick.jpeg. Download at your risk

Also, I had a boy-beard. I'm not the victim in this one

I pranced into the halls, confident that everyone would be pissed at me for mocking the brand that formed the core of their lifestyle, and that I would finally be acknowledged as the subversive force I dreamed myself to be. The homecoming court would look on me with revulsion, and one of the cool English teachers would tell me to never give up, and I’d sit alone at lunch, and then a cute artist chick that everyone thinks is a lesbian because of her short hair would put her tray down across from NOPE! They loved it!

official halftime prayer leader

"Good one, buddy! Why the misspellings?"

Sure, nobody figured out that the shirt was supposed to be petty angst instead of good-hearted ribbing, but fuck it! Word got around, and by my last class, everyone ran to me once I stepped through the door because, for the first time ever, my reputation preceded me. My comic’s narcissism took over. These people I hate think I’m funny.

So I dropped any pretense of a message and did it again the next day, and then through the rest of the week, every day a different joke scotch-taped to my pubescent manboobs. Some were better received than others, but the attention was all that mattered.

there were literally thousands of other pictures I could've put here

Posturing: it's almost like having friends!

On Friday, I met my first administrative resistance when my health teacher made me take off a sign that said “I beat anorexia.” (I couldn’t tell you if I stole that one consciously or not.) The next Monday, I had to take off my sign because it was a veiled bondage joke. Tuesday? Didn’t even wear one Tuesday. Yes! I was finally a martyr! A martyr that the students supported. Hot Christ did I love eating that cake.

I assured everyone that I hadn’t been beaten, that I had just decided to only make a new sign two or three times a week. But it wasn’t the same. The next couple of signs were successful, but I couldn’t top that first surprise hit. That, and it wasn’t worth people staring expectantly at my chest whenever I walked into a room. (Alaina, I know how you feel.) Soon, the signs were gone and not missed.

So, I learned my lesson: don’t tape weird hateful jokes to your chest. God I was fucking weird.

Naked man, as promised

None of the hate has faded, though

The Bad Touch Sermon

I can’t point to any moment in my life as shattering my once-devout faith. I can, however, tell you about the time my dad quoted the Bloodhound Gang in a sermon.

Back in the 90s, Jesus was my main pastime. Other kids got put to bed with Dr. Seuss and Eric Carle. Not me: I got the Good Word every single night, from a shiny (seriously) Bible 4 Kidz chock-full of illustrations of Israelites gleefully murdering the shit out of people with Bart Simpson-esque slingshots. A frequent knock against Christians is that they don’t tell their kids about the nasty parts of the bible, mostly picking out New Testament stories about Jesus kissing people’s booboos and having a sick baby shower.

More like mevilmorphosis

“If butterflies come from caterpillars, then why do we still have caterpillars? Metamorphosis is a lie.”

My dad thinks those people are sissies. If you’re gonna leave out all the parts where the bible gets totally metal, why even bother? I got it all: David killing 200 Philistines and buying the hand of Saul’s daughter with their foreskins, Jael hammering a stake through Sisera’s head while he slept, Absalom killing his brother for raping their sister. All old favies!

"One more chapter!"

“Blood flowed out of the pit, spreading over the land for 180 miles, rising as high as the horses’ heads. Nighty night snookums.”

Considering this, it isn’t hard to understand why I was as religious as I was. I didn’t think of God as a swell guy who’d carry me on his broad sexy shoulders across a beach. God was a three-headed super-rich family member with Mafia ties who I owed my life to, who only accepted love and obedience as repayment. If ever I doubted anything he told me to do, I’d be hatefucking his immortal heart with a spiny cock of sin. After the nightly bible reading, I’d pray myself to sleep, trying not to think anything sinful in case I died that night an unclean soul.

By the summer of 2000, I’d developed some guilty pleasures. I had been sneaking over to a friend’s place to giggle at heavily censored Blink-182 and Eminem videos on MTV, and, to my parents’ dismay, I was starting to laugh at the raunchier stuff on The Simpsons. None of their sheltering, though, could save me from the Bloodhound Gang’s breakthrough smash, “The Bad Touch.”


“One for the money. Then they will take our jazz seriously.”

The thing about the song is that it’s impossible to censor– there are no swears, but any nine year-old could grasp its double entendres. It got played so much on Q101, Chicago’s Korn-‘n’-Limp Bizkit station, that even my clueless ol’ pa picked up on it. I found out about this in the worst possible venue.

See, I was so zealous that I had insisted on being taken out of Sunday school and placed in grown-up church years ago. I missed a lot of what was going on, since my dad’s sermons are mostly about precisely translating dead languages in order to avoid any mistakes while assembling God’s furniture or something, I don’t know. One Sunday, he took the pulpit and declared, grave-faced, that today’s sermon would be on the blasphemy of modern sexuality.

cruisin' for a bruisin'

Gaaaaay. Skip to the punishments.

He turned on his god-is-very-disappointed-with-you preacher voice. “There’s a song on the radio,” he said, “with the most evil chorus I have ever heard. It goes like this.” He cleared his throat and slowly articulated every syllable: “You and me, baby, ain’t nothing but mammals. So let’s ‘do it’ like they do on the Discovery Channel.”

Here we go.

My brother and I dove face-first into our hands. Probably the reddest I’ve ever been, due to a. withheld laughter so intense that my lungs felt like an inside-out submarine, b. embarrassment, c. sheer terror. The wrath of dad (oh, and God) was no laughing matter. I stole a glance at my mom, who looked like a kid in a war movie speechlessly watching an atrocity before someone pulls her out of the frame. At least I wasn’t alone on this one.

He was actually kinda right

The insidious influence of the devil on our culture.

Somehow, it got worse. The crux of his argument was that god intends sex to be a glorious, sacred part of his blessed institution of marriage, not an expression of animalistic lust. “Sex is a gift from god,” he said, “and it brings us closer to him. I have known the joy of conjugal embrace (I swear those were his exact fucking words), and fear that the young people of this generation, including my sons, will have this experience tainted by the values our culture is giving them.”

Where to begin. Okay. The closest thing I had to “the talk” with my dad went like this:

Him: “So, uh, you’re about the age for the talk, huh.”
Me: “Yeah.”
Him: “You already know everything, right? From school?”
Me: “I think so.”
Him: “Okay. Well, just wait until you’re married.”

In other words, this little salvo was the most I’d heard him say about sex, ever. Imagine you’re nine and your “talk” is just dad saying he nailed your mom. Now add him talking about your sex life. Now add references to doggystyle and prison. Now have him say all of it in front of a congregation composed mostly of little old ladies.


Fact: trying to include a naked man in every post

Now imagine your dad’s this guy. You’re welcome.

Finally, stretch it out to twenty-five minutes, and choke yourself with a clip-on tie to keep from laughing, and you’ll get a sense of what that day did to me. As awkward as it was, it couldn’t disillusion me all at once. I didn’t see that the emperor had no clothes, but I did catch a flash of his dick.

Bonus: the sermon’s most memorable grievance with the Bloodhound Gang? “And another thing, the Discovery Channel is a wholesome source of education! This song tries to ruin it by associating it with fornication.”

At least this might be true

We lost one of the good ones.

The Bedsheet Story

Now that I’ve told you about being young and cool, here’s the exact opposite. I was eighteen and had just started at Emerson College in Boston, a school I chose mainly because it was both entertainment-related and not in the Midwest. Turned out to be a pretty nasty culture shock: my longest visit to the East coast before moving there had been my three-day school tour.

"They better not make that spearchucker president"

He just called me a "queeah." Cute!

I knew the place had a rep for being a real fruitbowl, so I figured how bad can this be? At least it’s not the mix of ironed-polo family company heirs and majorless state school/community college fuckups I’d been stuck with the past four years. Sure, there’ll be auteurs and drama queens, but at least they’re genteel enough to do coke like adults instead of sucking down cans of Milwaukee’s Best so hard you’d think Brian Urlacher’s cock’s inside them. Right?

I'm just jealous 'cause I can't make green work

"He meant the state school kids. I only drink on boats."

WRONG. Never had I seen such a collision of self-seriousness, entitlement, and willful ignorance. If NYU’s students are the embodiment of masturbating to a Terrence Malick movie for its deep cultural criticisms, Emerson’s are masturbating to Glee for the same reason. Think I’m exaggerating? Okay.

Orientation week. All the freshmen on my dorm floor sit around, drinking beers. Everyone says where they’re from—New Englanders, Atlantic staters who couldn’t get into any New York school, Californians who picked the place as some kind of statement. I’m the only Midwesterner. I tell them I’m from Chicago, to which they respond (as I would find out, how every Emerson student does) either, “I super want to visit there!” or, “I went there once and it was sooo cool!”

This fucker still owes me $50 worth of weed

"I'm like the hugest architecture fan!"

A few minutes later, someone makes a light-hearted jab at the Midwest. I do what I do when among people I haven’t yet figured out I don’t need to pretend to give a shit about, which is make a broad, inclusive, “funny” comment like “Hey, watch what you say about the Midwest! I might have to politely disagree!” Then, some girl from Orange County, completely serious, asks why. I pause.

“You know, because I’m from Chicago, and it’s in the Midwest.” She twists her face up, like I’ve just told her about some calorie-cutting tip. “Really?” I pause again. “Yeah, uh, it’s in Illinois, which is a Midwestern state.” She laughs. “Oh! I thought Chicago was in New York!” And then everybody laughs with her. Implied: at me. Because she is confident and breezy and fun in her disregard for something people who have ever worked have known since preschool.

Women are horrible am I right guys?!?!

"This bean thing is cool but WHERE'S FIFTH AVENUE?!"

Anyway, none of that is the actual story. It’s all character and setting development (something I was taught to do at a very expensive writing school I’ll have you know). Things turned around for me at the orientation sketch comedy showcase. Finally, people who didn’t activate my gag reflex, live and in person! I knew if I didn’t get into a troupe I’d hang myself with a keffiyeh, so I auditioned and blah blah blah I wound up with Emerson Comedy Workshop, the oldest and most cynical troupe on campus.

It didn't go well

We did this show at a school with the political culture of a queef

A big part of getting into ECW is getting life-threateningly drunk at the orientation party. Not really. The older members insist on getting everyone plastered, but then it doesn’t happen. Pretty common practice in urban schools, where parties happen in off-campus apartments rather than frat houses a five-minute walk away from dorms.

I did not know this.

Here’s how I remembered it: I drank five or six PBRs in about half an hour, and then went out on the fire escape to smoke some weed. I took a hit, passed it, and… that’s it. I woke up the next morning in a strange apartment, on a futon, in nothing but underwear and socks. Mystery time! Nearby, also in underwear and socks, was this man:

We did fuck, though


So I panicked. I thought I’d hang onto my ass cherry until Hollywood; looks like that plan’s as fucked as I am. After some wide-eyed ceiling-staring panic, my new friend woke up and explained it all. Seems my biggest culture shock was that I drank like a Midwestern state school freshman instead of a Boston art school freshman. Back home, it’s acceptable, nay, encouraged for 18-20 year olds to drink until they black out and commit felonies. Here, you drink with people who keep a good buzz on all night and then get themselves home, because getting trashed lost its allure at 16.

Oh, also, I puked all over myself and the hosts’ furniture, floor, and bathroom.

Cut me some slack, I wasn't a person yet


He dragged me to his place because I was too incoherent to tell anyone where I lived. Since my clothes were ruined, he loaned me his biggest shirt (which still cut off circulation to my hand-fat). None of his shorts fit over my muffin top, though, so he suggested I just go out in my boxers. Would’ve done it, too, but it was a windy day and that pair didn’t have a dick-flap button. Our solution? Fold up a bedsheet and wrap it around me like a toga. Neither of us knew how to tie a toga, though, so around the waist it went.

I thought I had nothing to lose at this point. WRONG AGAIN. Still drunk, I asked him for directions to the subway, then immediately forgot them and wandered around the neighborhood. In one hand, I clenched the sheet to keep it from falling; in the other, horrible-smelling black bags full of my belongings. I got directions from a bewildered-looking stranger and made it to the train station.


A friendly part of a friendly city.

Seeing me fumble with the ticket machine, along came a kind ol’ BPD officer. “Do it like this, kid. Press the button heah and the ticket comes out, yagotit?” Making great strides in my attempt to appear homeless and schizophrenic! Does it get better? It does! Once I’m on the train itself, I tried to focus as hard as possible on the ground, but couldn’t, because of the giggling and mass of camera phones.

Finally, I got to my stop and walked into my dorm. It was just before nine a.m., so the young night security guy was still there. Avoid eye contact oh shit he’s clapping. He stands up. Big smile. And announces: “We have a winner!”

Emerson's flag

You'll know it when you see it!

At that moment I knew that I was the most pathetic person on earth. I curtsied, because at this point fuck it, and climbed to my room.

I had spent the past fourteen years trying to capture the elusive coolness I’d felt at four, living in petrifying fear of a public meltdown. When I tell this story now, it’s not to come off as cool, but to explain why I’m not cool at all. Just three years ago I was at this level of social development. More than that, though, this moment was pivotal for me because ECW didn’t mind.

I had tried so hard to make a positive impression on the only people I had so far tolerated, and did the exact opposite. Several of the people who saw me puke on that couch, including its owner, turned into my closest friends in Boston. It took until then for me to learn that fear of fucking up was what made me fuck up in the first place, and that making mistakes wouldn’t wreck me forever. Being myself, whatever that meant, wasn’t anything to be afraid of.

I feel like most self-assured people are taught that at an early age. I wasn’t. (Making you feel like a worthless sinner is what keeps hardline Christianity in business, folks!) Every story on this blog takes place between this one and the last, and is about the shit a kid can get himself into when he hasn’t figured any of that out yet. So, trust me, the rest are going to be shorter, funnier, and won’t have these bullshit preachy sections at the end.

I guess I should go out on a joke.


I'm wearing a turtleneck under a black polo. FUCKABLE!

Here's me at 16. Close enough.

The Time I Caused an STD Epidemic

Let’s start with an old favorite. My best friend in preschool was a neighborhood girl named Hillary Kuhl. Kuhl pronounced “cool,” and oh yes, she was—she had a pretty, cunty older sister she fought with constantly, and was the only other kid my age who was visibly upset when Kurt Cobain died. I was four and she was five. (I was pimp as a motherfucker in ’94.) We did everything together: build blanket forts, fight sandbox turf wars, get freaked out by kids with outies.

I don't consider people with outies human.


Once, probably inspired by my older brother’s recent obsession with Gary Paulsen books, we tried to run away and build a lean-to in the woods. Unfortunately, all we knew about lean-tos was that 1. they were made of sticks or something, and 2. they involved leaning. What we came up with was a bunch of spare branches propped up on a tree. When we tried to get inside it and, I don’t know, crouch, it came apart and scratched us to pieces. I guess what I’m saying is that the whole parental supervision thing that seemed to be all the rage in the 90s didn’t catch on everywhere (read: the Midwest).

Like Man Vs. Wild, but a federal crime to masturbate to

Pictured: child abuse

Hillary was also the proud owner of the first vag I ever saw on purpose. She was mostly friends with boys (in retrospect she was  a definite training-wheels dyke) and one day she gathered the neighborhood kids around into a little circle and just whipped it out. You wouldn’t think that any vagina, let alone a kindergartner’s, can be whipped out, but this one came a-flopping like the John Holmes of the Juicy Juice set. “Okay,” she said, “now boys show yours.”

Way to put us on blast, Hillary! By cutting to the end of the “show-me-yours” game, she made us all look like pussies if we didn’t wave our little dicks at her. Now that we all knew what that meant, the stakes were tenfold.

he looks better without the mustache

This without AIDS, murder, or a dick.

So, yeah, I got my dick out. Being a weirdo robot spacecase who could read, I was the only one who knew the clinical terms (“penis” and “vagina” for the ‘tards out there), and no one would listen to me because their parents had all told them to call them peepees or weewees or, in Hillary’s case, a bum. (Her parents weren’t British, but they were pretentious fucks.)

Complaining about terminology with an inch-long dick in your hand drops your cool stock in the neighborhood, but I didn’t care. On that day, like a fat, slow rocket, my sex life had launched.

yeah, I'm on the right

I peaked early.

Things kept getting better. Somehow, we knew what “frenching” was, and we saw similarly poorly-supervised high schoolers trying it at our local haunts a few times. So of course being best buds we had to try it! Frenching, to us, was like a presexual lean-to: we knew that 1. you did it with your mouths, and 2. boys and girls only duh!

One playdate at Hillary’s place turned hot ‘n’ heavy and we ended up making out under a sheet for fifteen minutes. Soon, with practice, we got pretty good—good enough that we decided to take it outside.

taken by someone very well-adjusted, I'm sure

Can't wait to explain my last two Google searches to the FBI!

One day at the playground, we made our entrances the way all the kids in our neighborhood did at the start of play in those days: by running around to every single kid whose name we knew and saying, “Hi (name)!” then running off. When it got to our turn together, we shocked the world by saying hello with first base, like grownups.

The wide eyes of all around confirmed our suspicions that this was the coolest fucking thing that had ever happened. Anyone who didn’t copy us right away was lame forever, even the one black kid who legitimized everything just by being there.

"Hello, ma'am, your daughter looks delicious."


This lasted for about three days. Kids slobbering on each other like we were made of parental approval. Faces stickier than fallen Ring Pops. One girl cried because a boy tried to suck her lower lip off. Then, all of a sudden, kids stopped showing up. Whispers abounded. Where could they be? Was it aliens? God? OJ Simpson?

I got my answer soon enough when I woke up at 4 am and tried to claw my skin off. Yep. Chickenpox.

I swear this was a real theory

Innocent as always!

The best part was that nobody put two and two together. Hillary “Powerpussy” Kuhl and I had just inadvertently caused an STD epidemic, and because we were in The Midwest: Our Senses Are Dead!™, the grownups were none the wiser. After a couple weeks, the local parents decided it was safe to break quarantine, as long as us little disease-sacs were better supervised.

Then, upon arrival and to their horror, they saw their darling dearies sprint mouth-first into the nearest opposite-gendered rugrats, and lost their fucking shit.

babies havin' babies

Not on my watch.

Thankfully, nobody fingered me or Hillary as the source of their woe. (Snitches get BandAids.) There were a few indiscriminate groundings, and in a couple weeks it all blew over. I was so scared when I saw how parents reacted to the whole thing that, for years and years, I didn’t tell anybody how I got chickenpox.

Sure, there were some downsides to this chapter of my life: it probably screwed me up about sex for a long time,* and Vulvasaurus and I were never the same again, but it was an important turning point for me. For the first and almost only time, I was really, really cool. Sometimes, cool means getting covered in lesions. Either way, to someone like me, it was worth it.

You keep saying pregnant, but I keep hearing "dead ho."

Hoes on my left, pogs on my right

*That and all the rape.