Friday, February 24, 2006

Internal Bleeding

As I limp to the keyboard, there is a trail of blood behind me. One of the puddles is shaped like a crimson question mark. Something in my body is lost. I reach my hand down below my waist, I can't bear to let my eyes see what my fingers feel, I pull my hand up...oh my god, it's covered in blood...

My father is the supreme ball buster. No one can bust balls like he can. If your face drains of color and a sinking sensation spreads through your guts, you can bet your balls are in his gorilla fist getting crushed and popping nut bubbles between his knuckles. He is the Starbucks of ball busting. He is so successful, that it looks effortless. He breathes in oxygen and exhales ball busting.

The other day he called me up, reached his foot through the telephone cord and stomped on my nuts like he was putting out a campfire:

Me: Hello?
My Dad: Hey what’s happening?
Me: Nothing, what’s going on?
MD: Just waiting to hear from my son. I left four messages…[explicit silence].
Me: Didn’t I call and leave a message two days ago?
MD: That message was for your sister.
Me: Yeah, well I’ve been busy. I’m working, applying to Law School, working out, writing a sophomoric blog.
MD: It takes 4 seconds to email me back.
Me: Well, what’s going on?

MD: [launches into his curriculum vitae of the last week which is usually a 20 minute monologue, which includes work projects, house projects, what animals he’s shot recently, and what’s happening to his noodnick friends: one friend invited him to the Superbowl and then disinvited my dad because his wife guilted him into taking his daughter. My dad is still gripes about that. Another friend of his attends every lame correspondence trade school and then takes a job in that field and then quits because he hates it. He went to real estate school, became a realitor, and then quit because it was boring. He went to truck driving school, became licensed, drove pineapples to Scranton, OH once, and then quit because driving at night hurt his eyes. Now he just got a job as a security guard at our tribal casino. Which is funny because he isn’t Indian. He’s White. In fact, his great-great-grandfather was enslaved by our people. That’s no lie. You can’t get any lower than in the White world than being enslaved by the very people you conquered. This guy gets all-pissed when my dad and I call him slave-boy and stuff. Now his family is back working for our people. Ha-ha. His ancestors should be proud, at least we’re paying him this time.] finally my dad gets around to…”so how are you?”

Me: Well, I just finished my law school applications. I’m working out. I got a new job. My girlfriend bought me Sirius radio for Valentine’s day [stellar gift by the way].
MD: Well, someday you’ll do something...[one more explicit silence] Maybe when you’re forty.

[What's that on the ground? Did someone spill spaghetti. What the hell is that? Holy shit, that’s my left ball. God damn it, he just did it again. I better tape that back on…two can play at this game]

Me: Just like you pop, didn’t really do anything until I was 40.
MD: I just hope I’m still alive to see it.

[What the Hell is that on the window? My other nut. Shit!]

Me: you might still be around. I just hope you don’t get dementia like grandpa.
MD: Damn that’s cold. You shouldn’t say that.
Me: What are you talking about? I said I hope you DON’T get dementia [heh-heh].
MD: That’s terrible. Wait a minute. I forgot what I was talking about. Who are you?

Then we laughed and hung up the phone. But why does father ball breaking persist long after the conversation is over? The whole rest of the day I wondered why I haven’t done anything yet. It seems like no matter what I do, I will never fully please my father. He definitely tells me he’s proud of me and stuff, and introduces me to his friends so I know he’s not ashamed, but then when he says crap like that I walk around wondering. I try not to care because I know I'm just psyching myself out. He’s just kidding around, but I’m one of those guys who thinks there is truth in humor. I need Jedi training to make my mind impervious to my father's tricks. Either that, or like go to some monastery so that what he thinks about me won't matter. Damn, maybe I will be forty when I finally do something.

I don't spell check.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

Your MySpace link doesn't work.

1:00 PM


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