If This Post Were a Hug, I’d Knee it In the Groin with My Swollen, Bloody Knee and Then Take Its Puppy
I don’t think I’ve ever sat down and talked to you about my family and the love that's dished out. Actually, not much to say ‘bout it. It’s there. True dat. But it’s tough. It’s what I think lesbian love would be like between two dyke American Gladiators.
Like the time I had my first reconstructive knee surgery. My moms wouldn’t take me to get my pain medicine ‘cause she thought that’s what was making me sick in the hospital.
Turns out it was the pneumonia.
Ooh, or the time in 7th grade when I was at soccer practice and got a good, Pele-like kick to the ankle. I hurt. And complained. Two days later mom and dad took me to the hospital.
Broken ankle.
There’s more. I think. Suppressed somewhere deep down inside just waiting for the right woman to come along and unlock the vault to my man-gyna, exposing me for the emotional, battered, scared Italian flower that I am.
Back to dyke love. You’ve met a side of my pops. Now here’s the real deal. Friday night dinner with the folks. I’m driving. Still crippled, but requested to drive. Moms in shotgun, dad ridding nigger. Along with my crutches. Nice dinner. I had the Gorgonzola Chicken Pasta. Mom and dad tackled the calamari and fish, respectively. Microbrews for all.
Being the good son I am, I stayed the night. Partly ‘cause it’s just a bitch to drive all the way back home and crawl up a flight of stairs, but primarily ‘cause I had detailed plans to clean their pool and float all day. Which I did. And in hindsight, it would’ve all worked out well had I had the mobility to flip myself over on the air mattress and bake the underside.
However, to my physical dismay, as I awoke Saturday morning to the smell of bacon (of which I got none of), and inched my way down the remodeled, wooden staircase handcrafted by my pops, Stick took a little spill. It seems as with anyone riding in the back of their son’s car with nothing to play with, the logical thought would be to quietly adjust the height of one of his crutches.
I may have caught it the night before had I not been drinking.
So, I left a nice, warm steamer under his pillow.
Like the time I had my first reconstructive knee surgery. My moms wouldn’t take me to get my pain medicine ‘cause she thought that’s what was making me sick in the hospital.
Turns out it was the pneumonia.
Ooh, or the time in 7th grade when I was at soccer practice and got a good, Pele-like kick to the ankle. I hurt. And complained. Two days later mom and dad took me to the hospital.
Broken ankle.
There’s more. I think. Suppressed somewhere deep down inside just waiting for the right woman to come along and unlock the vault to my man-gyna, exposing me for the emotional, battered, scared Italian flower that I am.
Back to dyke love. You’ve met a side of my pops. Now here’s the real deal. Friday night dinner with the folks. I’m driving. Still crippled, but requested to drive. Moms in shotgun, dad ridding nigger. Along with my crutches. Nice dinner. I had the Gorgonzola Chicken Pasta. Mom and dad tackled the calamari and fish, respectively. Microbrews for all.
Being the good son I am, I stayed the night. Partly ‘cause it’s just a bitch to drive all the way back home and crawl up a flight of stairs, but primarily ‘cause I had detailed plans to clean their pool and float all day. Which I did. And in hindsight, it would’ve all worked out well had I had the mobility to flip myself over on the air mattress and bake the underside.
However, to my physical dismay, as I awoke Saturday morning to the smell of bacon (of which I got none of), and inched my way down the remodeled, wooden staircase handcrafted by my pops, Stick took a little spill. It seems as with anyone riding in the back of their son’s car with nothing to play with, the logical thought would be to quietly adjust the height of one of his crutches.
I may have caught it the night before had I not been drinking.
So, I left a nice, warm steamer under his pillow.
