Everything is wrong with me
Monday, November 29, 2004
Thanksgiving recap
Did you miss me? Well, I missed you. And yes, in that way. It's good to be back.

Well, actually that's not true at all - it's not good to be back. I've spent the last five days overeating, drinking, and eating my dad's prescription painkillers like jellybeans (sorry dad). When my alarm went off at 7:15 this morning, I nearly pissed myself out of anxiety, and my commute this morning took over an hour, during which I nearly shat myself because my stomach is not ready to digest foods that do not contain at least a half stick of butter or a cup of heavy cream. So it's actually horrible to be back. Absolutely fucking horrible. Thanks for asking.

Three things of note which have been sorted out in my post-gorging haze:

1) Way too many of my family members read this site.

I should note that "way too many" family members reading this would be one, since I don't think any aunt or cousin or whatever wants to hear about me masturbating with a Santa hat on or getting fucked up and nearly choking to death on a sausage.

Knowing that my family reads this makes me very uncomfortable. The first thing my uncle said to me when I got to his house on the afternoon of Thanksgiving was, "So when are you coming out?" (referencing Tuesday's post). Sure, my mom and dad do not read it, but I told them if they ever do to read it to lie to me and say that they haven't/don't (following my old relationship axiom: "If you cheat on me, just don't tell me, because otherwise I'll murder you"), so I guess I'll never know.

But really, is this not my fault? Did I not start this using my real name, and even passed it on to some older cousins? Did I not think that this would come back to haunt me?

The question is whether the price of fame is worth it. I am ok with everyone in my family knowing intimate (and I don't mean "intimate" in the pretty, making love slowly while listening to R&B way) details of my life, as long as I have internet quasi-celebrity status and all its accoutrements? The answer: I guess. I only see my family rarely, so I can deal with it. As far as the accoutrements of internet quasi-celebrityness, there are none. Definitely not in the "free and easy beejers" department. Definitely not there.

2) I am the worst poker player in the world.

In addition to being drunks, my family are also gamblers. This is a relatively new phenomenon; I remember after Thanksgiving (and Christmas) of last year playing poker around my aunt's house until the wee hours of the morning and taking everyone's money. I was on fire - at one point I stepped outside to get some air, and three hot chicks showed up out of nowhere and blew the shit out of me. Seriously. Ok, well, not seriously.

Last year, my family seemed new to the whole poker thing, but that didn't stop me from brutalizing them and bragging about it ("Well, I have 2 Kings here, but then - wait a minute - what's this? Oh, that looks like a third King. And something else is here in this pile of cards that I have before me - can anyone make this out? It looks to me like 2 Aces. Can someone please check this? My eyesight is poor. Is that 3 Kings and 2 Aces? So I win? Oh good. I am going to donate this Church, first thing in the morning. Also, you guys suck. I'm ashamed to be related to you. I haven't seen a beating this bad since my last girlfriend threw out my Oreos because they were stale. One.").

But this year, my family really upped the ante. As Thanksgiving was drawing to a close, my uncle pulled out a full set of poker chips, and we began to play (first Texas Hold 'Em, then 7-Card Stud).

And boy, was I off. Like, really, really off. I said before we even started that I was due for a loss, since I had been playing some most excellent poker. Of course, realizing this did not stop me from talking a good game, calling my cousins (both male and female, ages 16-22) "chumps", "losers", and, as I got drunker, "cockasses".

The bad karma came back to haunt me, because I was cold. Ice cold. It was as though some of the cards I was getting were in another language, and not even part of a standard deck. By 2am, I think I had once gotten dealt a 14, three of my cards seemed to be in Russian, and one just said "You suck at this, fatass." It was awful.

Also, we were playing dealer calls wilds, so that means the person dealing while dealing could say, "Ok, in this hand, 7's are wild", so that any 7 could be any suit, any number or face. And in about twenty hands, I think I got maybe three wild cards. And each time this happened, a competitor would have five of a kind or a royal flush. Not good.

But I'm happy to report that I battled back at the end, and after seven hours (!) I left with my $20 buy-in back and an extra $20, which went straight up my nose the next night. Good times, and I'm looking forward to playing again on Christmas, when I hope to be a little more lucky, and a little more high.

3) Home improvement projects in my house are never announced.

My dad realizes that his two sons are failures. Sure, we're both good at reading and stuff, but I can barely turn on a light and my brother uses the tool set my dad got him before he went to college as cooking implements and utensils. This causes much distress to my dad, who I have mentioned, has tattoos and loves only two things: fixing shit and cigarettes (oh, and Bad Company - he loves that fucking band).

Also, my brother and I are incredibly lazy. I remember growing up I'd do anything to get out of doing some home improvement-type project, and to this end I've faked numerous maladies, including but not limited to diarrhea, a hamstring pull, seizures, and a drug overdose that got me out of redoing the basement for a whole week (score!).

But my dad still needs us for home improvement projects, because at the very least we can lift things or hold them in place. Sure, we may not take orders well, like when during the last project he asked me for an allen wrench and I handed him a picture of a puppy that I thought was cute, but at the very least we're bodies with hands.

Because my brother and I avoid home improvements projects like women avoid me after I've had thirteen drinks or whenever or all the time, they are never announced. This was the case this past week, when my dad called my brother over to his house (where I was staying), and when he arrived my dad said only to my brother and I, "I need yous to take a ride with me."

"I need yous to take a ride with me" is the death knell, the phrase that sets off the alarm in my brain that screams, "Manual labor is imminent! Manual labor is imminent! Avoid at all costs!" My brother and I have learned to recognize this phrase instantly as the beginning of something terrible. We learned very early that when my father said this, he wasn't planning on taking us to get ice cream or to the flower show. No, that usually means a trip to Home Depot or the hardware store or I don't know - some other manly place with tools and shit.

And so we went to Lowe's to get twelve feet of flooring for my mom's kitchen. My dad explained that the project, which would be undertaken the next day, would be easy. Nothing about moving a refrigerator and stove and "tracing the measurements" and "making cuts" sounded easy to me. So what did I do? I left Philly, and came back to NYC that night. Instead of helping put in a my floor in my mom's kitchen, I got into NYC at 10pm on Friday night so my roommate Brian and I could sit in our living room pounding Bud Lights, going through them so quickly and being so lazy about it that instead of getting up and getting a beer, we were grabbing two at a time and sitting them on the table in front of us, because we are the laziest drunks in the world. And, oh yeah, we're awesome.

In my defense, I did call the next day to see how the project was going, and my dad said it was going quite well, thanks in no small part to the fact that I was not there to fuck it up and say things like, "Can we take a break? I really want some coconut cream pie" or having exchanges with my dad like:

Me: "Dad, my arm hurts. Is it supposed to hurt like this when I hold this cutter-thingee?"
Dad: [smoking] "Jase, you haven't even done anything yet, except stand there, complain that your legs hurt from standing, and read your sister's US Weekly."
Me: [screaming, then storming off] "Why can't you accept that I'm not like you, dad?!? You just don't understand me!!!"
Dad: [smoking, shaking head] "Christ."


And so another Thanksgiving is in the books. And now, the shit show begins, as Christmas rapidly approaches. One word: bring on the egg nog!

[And yes, I know that's five words. I'm trying some new cerebral humor on you guys. Hope you like it!]

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