Don't Be a Dumbass, Dumbass
I should probably feel bad about picking on my parents in my recent posts. The only thing I can think of to make things right is to start picking on the rest of my family.
My next oldest brother, we'll call him Carl, is a pretty big dumbass. My parents have a house on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. It's not really a "summer home" or anything, just a place they bought before they retired. They divided up the house and rented out subsections to make it pay for itself–quite the idea.
Anyway, my brother Carl (remember, that's what we're calling him) is coming up on 40 and he still lives with my parents. Nothing wrong with that of course, it's just that he never moved out. That's right. It's not that he's down on his luck and had to move back home because times are hard. It's that he is a dumbass with zero ambition. Now, he would dispute the fact that I say he lives with my parents. You see, technically, he's living at their other house–so it's not with them.
I guess the deal works out alright for my parents. He keeps an eye on the place while they're not there, eats all the food so it won't go bad, mows the grass, etc. Unfortunately Carl doesn't have a car, so he's limited to going places within walking or biking distance. Or at least he was until he got the bright idea to drive the riding lawn mower around town (yes, there was in fact a movie with the same concept). I assume that he somehow figured out how to raise the blade so he didn't leave a path of well cropped grass behind him. He eventually rode the lawn mower around so much that he wore it out well before its time. My parents wound up having to buy a new one (which he is not allowed to drive anymore).
But that's not the point of this post. My wife and I used to like to head to the coast with my parents every now and then. It was a nice cheap and easy way to get away for a weekend. Of course, as with all good things in life, it had to be ruined by a dumbass. The last time we were there was around four or five years ago. Each time we had tried to spend a week or weekend there, things had gotten progressively worse.
This first problem is that every time we went down there, Carl had some new person living at my parents' house. These would always by typical coastal freeloaders. He would offer just about anyone down there a place to stay. Eventually most of the people wound up stealing something and getting kicked out by my parents. Why they allowed or tolerated this, I have no idea. So, when we showed up on Friday, there was of course someone living there. I don't like the company and most of these "coast people" bother me. Plus I have to be on guard all weekend about getting my stuff stolen.
No problem. Just a minor speed bump. I'll just go throw our stuff in the room we usually use. Oh my. What's that on the mattress? It's dog shit. Not a nice, tightly rolled dog turd but a smattering, nay, a splattering of the old canine dire-rear. The mattress was covered with it. And some of it had been there for quite some time. It's on the floor as well, but the mattress concerns me a bit more. My parents had not yet shown up and I knew that my brother was not supposed to have a dog. Furthermore, if my dad saw any of this, he would go absolutely ballistic. More than likely it would be a weekend of screaming, yelling, and the obligatory "You think you're man enough to kick your old man's ass?" question.
When confronted with the situation, my brother of course denied that there was ever a dog in the house, much less the room. After much puzzlement, he hypothesized that the veritable Hiroshima of fecal matter might be attributable to his roommate. Bullshit probably because it was dog shit definitely. Whatever.
I don't really like Carl, but I decided it was in my best interest to get that room presentable as quickly as I could. My wife and I got all of the cleaning supplies and stripped the room bare. Everything got thrown in the washing machine with tons of soap. The floor got mopped. The mattress was still nasty but we thought we could scrub it and flip it for the time being. Perhaps that would get us through the weekend at least. When we started to flip the mattress, we noticed that the other side was covered in even more dog shit than the first. My wife and I were somewhat perturbed by this. Okay. Time for a new plan. We'll drag the mattress out to the boat shed and hide it. Then, we'll sneak into one of the other apartments (remember the house is subdivided) and take a clean mattress. Of course, the boat shed is about a hundred yards away, the mattress needs to be put in the loft in order to hide it adequately, the other mattress is on the second floor, and my parents are due in a couple of minutes.
Carl, my wife, and I manage to get the whole place cleaned up, the mattress swapped out, and all of the washables done before my parents show up. Of course, when they do arrive, all three of us are sweating like pigs, but they didn't seem to notice. Carl is off the hook. That is, until he decides to be a dumbass.
The following day Carl decides to act like a complete jealous baby (even though he's coming up on 40). He starts bitching to my mom that he doesn't like us in his house, we're eating all of his food, and we're using all of his laundry soap. Ever helpful, I point out that it is neither his place, his food, nor his laundry soap–my parents paid for everything. He insists that he is going to "pay them back." I point out that paying them back would consist of approximately 15 to 20 years of rent, food, clothing, etc. His retort: "Robert…shut up." Kapow! I guess he showed me. I have nothing left. Except: "So, what did we use all of your laundry soap on?"
And that's when the fireworks begin.
Mom: What did you have to wash, dear?
Me: Oh, when we got here, the back room was covered in dog shit.
Carl: I told you, there ain't been no dog in this house.
Mom: You know you're not supposed to have a dog.
Carl: I told you, there ain't been no dog in this house.
Dad: Godammit!
Me: Yeah. One of your mattresses is completely ruined. It's in the boat shed. We had to break into one of the other apartments and steal another mattress.
Dad: Godammit!
Mom: You know you're not supposed to have a dog!!!
Carl: I told you, there ain't been no dog in this house.
Dad: You've been lying to us since the day you were born! All you've ever got to say about anything is, "Not me! Not me!" Nothing is ever your fault. You're 40 goddamn years old! When are you going to take some responsibility for your life!? Can you answer that?
Carl: There ain't been no dog in this house.
Me: Oh, and he's got someone else living here, again. I think they're a drug dealer.
Wife: Why do we even fucking come here?
Me: Because it's relaxing?
I believe that was our last trip. We've been thinking it might be time to head down there again sometime…
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