For frankthebear: Important Lessons I Learned As A ChildSubmitted by DaBeast at 2008-09-01 13:21:40 EDT
Rating: 1.6 on 32 ratings (32 reviews) (Review this item) (V)
Like frankthebear, I, too, learned many things that were very important as a child. Things I never forgot; things that, if I did forget, would get me killed and/or humiliated in the worst possible way imagineable. But the lessons I learned are different than those that frankthebear did. So, to respond, here are the lessons I learned as a sprout:
1. It is a naughty thing to convince your brother that, like Superman, if he wears a cape - a cape made from bedsheets, for example - then he can fly. It is a very naughty thing to then convince your brother to put on said bedsheet, climb onto a shed, and then jump for all he's worth.
Price: A 5 minute ass whooping with the biggest, meanest black leather belt ever produced.
Worth it: Hell, yes.
Lesson Learned: My brother is retarded.
2. It is a naughty thing to admit to doing something that I did not do. Mom's favorite vase was broken. She had all three of us - older brother, me, younger sister - stand in formation, at attention, in the kitchen, while she walked back and forth down the line in front of us, making dire pronouncements concerning our future ability to sit down without squeaking if the culprit did not step forward and own up as the guilty party. I knew I hadn't done it; but I didn't know who had done it, either. I stepped forward. I was glared at and told to step back into line; that it was well-known by the entire universe that I was not to blame. Then the pronouncement came that if the guilty part did not step forward, we would all be squeaking when we sat down.
Price: A 10 minute whoop fest with the biggest, meanest hickory switch ever grown.
Worth it: Fuck, no!
Lesson Learned: That mom already knows who did it because she is omniscient but she will break your ass open like a can of tomatoes anyway.
3. It is an evil thing to want to go to the bathroom after lights out, especially when the bathroom is an outhouse. Hotfooting it out the back door, hopping up and down in the throes of a particularly rhythmic rendition of the pee-pee dance, at 11 p.m. one night, I get to the outhouse to find that I can not enter said outhouse because of the long, black, huge-ass motherfucking rattlesnake that has wrapped itself entirely around the cool base of said outhouse. The tip of its tail lay in front of the door and its head had been lying upon said tail when I attempted to open the door. The affronted reptile immediately perked up, looked at me, opened its maw, and hissed for all it was worth.
Price: Pajama bottoms filled with piss that they soaked up as I ran for the back door and a 5 minute ass whooping from the meanest, black learher belt ever produced because I pissed in my pajamas.
Worth it: Hell, no!
Lesson Learned: Wildlife is not my friend.
4. It is a naughty, naughty thing to suggest to your sister - while fighting off extreme boredom - that it would be fun to get those really, really big darts out of the shed and play with them. It is an even naughtier thing to then suggest that it would be a hoot to use said really, really big darts the way they used guns in the old western you had watched the previous night. It was the only time my sister ever moved with rhythm but that was only because of the really, really big dart that was then sticking out of her calf.
Price: A 20 minute ass whooping with the biggest, meanest black leather belt ever produced followed by a 30 minute ass whooping with the biggest, thorniest branch ever to sprout from a bush across the road.
Worth it: Actually, yes.
Lesson Learned: Lawn darts should be locked up with the cleaning supplies and the porn videos.
5. It is an awful thing to cook dinner for your siblings when mom and pop have gone out for the evening. Fish sticks, man n' cheese, and some sort of bean and we all happily masticated until there was nothing left... except for one solitary fish stick which happened to rest upon my plate. No one else wanted it so I gave it to the small yapping hairy rodent that mom referred to as "Cocoa Puff". Whereupon, my older brother jumped up, grabbed me by the head, and used my head like a hammer in an attempt to break off the corner of the large, black oak coffee table that sat in the living room whilst screaming "That's HUMAN food, NOT dog food!".
Price: 5-8 holes in the right side of my head, a blood trail that led from the living room to the bathroom where I attempted to use the mirror to count the holes, and a 10 minute ass whooping from the largest, meanest broom stick to ever be produced because I had "upset" my brother.
Worth it: Fuck NO!
Lesson Learned: That I didn't want to be a chef. And my brother was fucking retarded.
6. It is a good thing to sneak into my brothers room, remove all of his playboys from their hidey hole, and spread them liberally across the floor beneath my brother's bed and leave one corner of the one with the largest jugs on it just peeping out from beneath the edge of the comforter. Mom came in to clean later that day and, lo and behold, she found the playboys. When my brother got home on the bus, he saw mom standing in the front yard. She stood before a pile of playboys and she held a can of lighter fluid in one hand and a zippo in the other. She then pronounced in stentorian tones "NOT IN MY HOUSE, YOU LITTLE PERVERT!" whereupon she gleefully dropped the lit zippo on the shiny pile of playboys.
Price: Watching my brother's face go from surprised incomprehension to horrified realization in less than 5 seconds while attempting to claw his way off of a bus fulla rowdy teenagers.
Worth it: Oh fuck YES.
Lesson Learned: That holes in the head do not completely incapacitate, that vengence can be had, and punishment can be avoided if one does things sneakily.
7. It is a naughty thing to be unable to go to school. The parents were out and I was home alone and at loose ends. My brother comes home and, apparently, it did not sit well with him that my fever and runny stools had managed to get me a day of freedom. He walks in, grabs me, picks me up, and then proceeds to use my head to create really interesting holes in the walls... and the floors... and anything else he can find to smash. Then, when I was reduced to a bloody pile of runny stool and vomit, he pronounced his intention to go to my room and destroy everything which I held dear. He walks off. The parents had been engaged in some home improvement projects and there were piles of lumber sitting about. I grab a portion of 2x4 that was lying within reach, get up, and go after him. He is reaching for the door knob on my bedroom door when I come up behind him, 2x4 held aloft in righteous indignation. I hit him on the back of the head and the piece of 2x4 shatters with the force of the blow. Brother goes into a peaceful slumber. I step over him and go back to the couch.
Price: A 30 minute bare-assed whooping with the biggest, meanest black leather belt ever produced and a shrill lecture on why I should love my brother.
Worth it: Do you really have to ask that?
Lesson Learned: My brother should be murdered and I was the only one with the balls to make it happen.
8. It is a naughty thing to receive cool presents for Christmas. One year, mom bought us all bikes. Mine was a brown affair with rope patterns upon it. Sister's was a pink thingie with sparkles and brother's was a mean looking sleek black 10-speed. Riding with sister one bright morning, she in front, me at the rear and sister, for some unknown reason, decided to lock down her breaks. My front wheel hits her back wheel and I go flying over the handlebars and face-first into the nearest ditch where I kiss a rock. I get up and, for some reason unknown to me still, decide to walk my bike back home instead of riding it. There wasn't any pain and it was a nice day. I prop my bike outside the back door and walk into the kitchen. Mom turns from the stove, takes one look at me, and immediately she begins screaming. When I ask her what the hell she's having a conniption about, she grabs me by the face, pulls me into the bathroom, stands me in front of the mirror, and flips on the lights. My face was scraped raw and covered in blood and I was missing pieces of - and, in some cases, entire portions of - my teeth. Later on, when brother decides that he really, really likes bicycles and decides to steal 10 of them from beighboring yards (not counting mine and sister's, which he also stole), tear them apart, and rebuild them into 12 entirely new bicycles which he promptly sells for a good wad of cash, he goes unpunished.
Price: A $2000 dental bill, a long shrill lecture about the dangers of not being careful (mom never did buy us bike helmets, btw), and a 10 minute ass whooping from a cord that was ripped out of the back of the television by my father who had nothing else handy to use (I hid the damned belt in the doghouse in the backyard).
Worth it: No. I want my fucking bike back!
Lesson Learned: Bicycles are all that is evil.
9. It is a naughty thing to question your brother's skill with a fishing rod. Brother has a fishing rod (I do not recall where he acquired it but, like most things, it's a safe bet that he stole it) and is fake casting it while bragging to his friends (all of whom were huge mouth-breathers that liked to pick up little guys like me and use them for kindling) about his skill while we walk home from school. Sister is striding along ahead of us, alone. I was a few steps behind her and the Brute Squad brought up the rear. After five minutes of hearing my brother spin yarns (ie: lie like a cheap rug) about the gargantuan fish he had landed, I suddenly emit a high, scathing laugh and inform the Brute Squad that my brother wasn't skilled with any kind of rod and he couldn't even shake one out to a nudie picture unless it was a pop-up. Brother growls (his most preferred method of communication) and shakes the rod and then casts. He later claims that it is purely accidental when the line snaps out, yellow-feathered hook gleaming in the sunlight, and streaks toward my head. I duck. Sister doesn't. Line goes around her neck, hook catches in her throat where the Adam's Apple is supposed to be, brother jerks the rod, and sister flies up into the air and backwards, landing with a dusty cloud in the middle of the driveway. After several minutes watching my sister's face turn really interesting shades of purple, one of the Brute Squad produces a switch-blade and cuts the line.
Price: A 30 minute ass whooping with the biggest, meanest black leather belt ever produced (this happened before I hid it), a shrill strident lecture on why I shouldn't upset my brother, and an angry, swollen red line on my sister's neck that took a solid month to fade.
Worth it: Not if you ask my sister.
Lesson Learned: Invest in a switch-blade.
10. It is a naughty thing to teach barnyard animals to fly. Mom has a thing for animals. She just can't stand to see them anywhere near a major thoroughfare. We had acquired many stray dogs, stray cats, a stray raccoon that had been clipped by a bumper and was blind as a bat, a stray pigeon that thought my father was its mate and rode around on the back of his head all day long, a stray owl, several stray opossums, some stray pygmy goats, etcetera ad infinitum. We were driving along a road in Arkansas and we were behind a Tyson's chicken truck. An upcoming light turns yellow. The truck driver guns it. Three cages fly off of the back of the truck, bounce onto the road, and break open. 6 week old poultry that's ready to "be processed" (you really don't wanna know what that entails) go screaming, flapping, and sqwauking onto the road. Mom brings the car to a screeching halt, jumps out, throws open the back doors and proceeds to chase the chickens into the back seat. Some drivers kept going and there were three chicken road pizzas as a result. Others stop because the sight of my mother chasing chickens down the road while dressed in a bright pink mu-mu is so offputting that they can no longer drive; all they can do is sit, grasping their ribcages, and laughing until tears pour down their faces. She rounds up all the ones that are still alive, closes the back doors, and we drive off with a backseat filled with alarmed poultry. We go home. Mom gets chicken wire (I love irony) and proceeds to build cages while the chickens litter the back seat with the most gawd awful stench to ever be produced outside of a paper factory. She then puts the poultry in their new cages. Now, every poultry production company on the planet will swear up and down and sideways that they do NOT use hormones in their chicken feed. Bullshit. How else do you get a fully grown bird in only 6 weeks? The first week of feed is laced liberally with the stuff. After that, it's plain old chicken feed. Well these fully grown animals which were supposed to meet their maker after 6 weeks but didn't just keep growing... and growing... and growing... until they can look me in the eye. Got necks like damned ostriches, were meaner than a cat in a pillowcase with a pit bull, had razor sharp beaks the size of my fists, and weighed in at about 25-40 pounds. They were the Mutant Chickens That Ate Arkansas and they rampaged across the yard like little Godzillas, terrorizing the cats, the dogs, and anything else that they could find. Well, one fucker decides that he don't like me and if I step out into the yard, he's set himself up to do something about it. It's maybe two months since she got those damned birds and they're as big as I am. I step outside and walk into the backyard, on a trek to visit a friend that lived nearby. Suddenly, the back of my knee is literally on fire with pain. I whip around and, lo and behold!, there's the fucking Mutant Chickenzilla, black beady eyes gleaming in their hate. I put my finger in his face and tell him (because by damned, I think the things could speak English) that if he doesn't leave me alone that I am going to teach his fat ass how to fucking fly. He sqwauks at me, a low, long sound of utter loathing. I turn and continue walking. FUCK! The back of my knee is now not only on fire, but I think acidbeak has put chickenfeed in the wound with that bedamned schnoze! I turn, pull my foot back as far as I can, and I punt. Mom - who was doing dishes at the kitchen sink where the kitchen window looks onto the backyard - sees Mutant Chickenzilla sail gracelessly past the window. She sticks her head out and starts screaming whereupon I pronounce that "I feel like chicken tonight!" and I go on a mad kicking spree where feathers fly and many chickens feel the imprint of my boot in their backsides.
Price: A shrill strident lecture on why I should be kind to the poor mistreated poultry of the world and a threat with a frying pan if they see any more chicken learning to fly (they never found that damned belt and I'd burned down all the thorn bushes).
Worth it: FUCK YES!
Lesson Learned: The only good varmint poontang is DEAD varmint poontang.
There's your history lesson in how daBeast became daBeast. Don't lookit me. I was just too damned ornery to die.