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wandering eyeball or two, a stray gaze, that thousand-mile stare set somewhere behind the black and baby blues of the sunken skulls of lonely low-life losers. Wasted pasty mamaâs boys who Iâd sucker up to and into my sex, baiting them in with fraudulent promises of pussy ever after. If they could just buck up, grind down, and do the time for my petty crimes.
Looking for more of that negative attentionâthe only kind I ever got at home. The only kind Iâll ever be able to truly respond to. The kind I blame my mother for forcing me to suffer after she ran off with some two-bit snitchâcouldnât stand the sight of her little bitch ruining all the fun â¦
But then Iâm jumping the gun here, rallying prematurely, and all this ballyhooing is the result of what Iâm about to detail, not the reason it all happened in the first place. Little that I did endeared me to Pops, who not only despised my mother and their short-lived Jersey Shore summer affair, but used me as target for retribution against the responsibility he had always rebuked.
He tolerated me only now, after more than a decade of dismissing my existence, because just on the cusp of puberty, my body scented with the bloom of youth, my beauty about to blossom, my boobs about to bust forth, I was the âbig-draw money rakerâ at his Hanover Haven Strong-Arm Street Sweeps, his weekly Canasta game. Four rowdy louts dumbly clustered around him with fists full of singles they were dead set on losing, encouraging his raging assholism which they applauded and supplemented with a stupidity that was somehow touchingly disgusting, and horrendously moronic.
A real armchair philosopher complete with his own fat and fucked-up fan club, Popâs line of reasoning was, âDo as I say, not as I doâ ⦠âShoot first, ask questions later,â and, âYou canât win for losingâ ⦠although I gotta hand it to the ass-wipe, if you couldâve, he wouldâve ⦠ten times over.
Two months into my residency, when my dad, the dick, who would have gambled on a cockroach race if they had a window for it down at the local OTB, was hosting another Friday-night blow-out and losing big time. By now down 732 bucks ⦠wanting to even the score and having nothing left to barter since his car had been impounded by Dick Chaseâs auto body shop for the better part of that year due to lack of payment, he decided to put ME up on the auction block. That filthy skunk. He had already forfeited the lawn mower, his power tools, the living room couch, and his shaving kit. The stakes suddenly tripled. Allow me to break it down â¦
The five shits sat in a circle. A round table littered with half a dozen overflowing coffee cans filled with the diseased butts of two hundred Chesterfields, Pall Malls, Viceroys, Camels, and two or three still spit-soaked White Owls whose gummed-to-death tips acted as magnet to cellophane, ash, and fingernail clippings. The browning air was moist and heavy with the mordant aroma that only men on the brink of drinking and smoking themselves into that big unfit sleep are steeped in.
The sticky floor had been pissed on by the slippery-dick trickle of Schlitz, Coors, Jim Beam, Jack Danielâs, and Johnnie Walker Red. The carcasses of thousands of split peanut shells sang a stupid song to the broken bones that had been prevented at least for tonight, by the five lechers who were gathered around the bare, moth-specked forty-watt bulb at my fatherâs precariously perched three-legged dining room table.
By 9:15 they were all shit-faced. Drunk as fuck and squealing like the insufferable sex pigs that they were.
I was forced to play waitress, barkeep, and Barbie doll. Keep their busted cups full of rotgut, the pickled pigs feet coming, the corn dogs warm, and smile like I meant it. Yeah, right ⦠Give me something to smile about, assholes.
I donât think I even learned to crack a
Looking for more of that negative attentionâthe only kind I ever got at home. The only kind Iâll ever be able to truly respond to. The kind I blame my mother for forcing me to suffer after she ran off with some two-bit snitchâcouldnât stand the sight of her little bitch ruining all the fun â¦
But then Iâm jumping the gun here, rallying prematurely, and all this ballyhooing is the result of what Iâm about to detail, not the reason it all happened in the first place. Little that I did endeared me to Pops, who not only despised my mother and their short-lived Jersey Shore summer affair, but used me as target for retribution against the responsibility he had always rebuked.
He tolerated me only now, after more than a decade of dismissing my existence, because just on the cusp of puberty, my body scented with the bloom of youth, my beauty about to blossom, my boobs about to bust forth, I was the âbig-draw money rakerâ at his Hanover Haven Strong-Arm Street Sweeps, his weekly Canasta game. Four rowdy louts dumbly clustered around him with fists full of singles they were dead set on losing, encouraging his raging assholism which they applauded and supplemented with a stupidity that was somehow touchingly disgusting, and horrendously moronic.
A real armchair philosopher complete with his own fat and fucked-up fan club, Popâs line of reasoning was, âDo as I say, not as I doâ ⦠âShoot first, ask questions later,â and, âYou canât win for losingâ ⦠although I gotta hand it to the ass-wipe, if you couldâve, he wouldâve ⦠ten times over.
Two months into my residency, when my dad, the dick, who would have gambled on a cockroach race if they had a window for it down at the local OTB, was hosting another Friday-night blow-out and losing big time. By now down 732 bucks ⦠wanting to even the score and having nothing left to barter since his car had been impounded by Dick Chaseâs auto body shop for the better part of that year due to lack of payment, he decided to put ME up on the auction block. That filthy skunk. He had already forfeited the lawn mower, his power tools, the living room couch, and his shaving kit. The stakes suddenly tripled. Allow me to break it down â¦
The five shits sat in a circle. A round table littered with half a dozen overflowing coffee cans filled with the diseased butts of two hundred Chesterfields, Pall Malls, Viceroys, Camels, and two or three still spit-soaked White Owls whose gummed-to-death tips acted as magnet to cellophane, ash, and fingernail clippings. The browning air was moist and heavy with the mordant aroma that only men on the brink of drinking and smoking themselves into that big unfit sleep are steeped in.
The sticky floor had been pissed on by the slippery-dick trickle of Schlitz, Coors, Jim Beam, Jack Danielâs, and Johnnie Walker Red. The carcasses of thousands of split peanut shells sang a stupid song to the broken bones that had been prevented at least for tonight, by the five lechers who were gathered around the bare, moth-specked forty-watt bulb at my fatherâs precariously perched three-legged dining room table.
By 9:15 they were all shit-faced. Drunk as fuck and squealing like the insufferable sex pigs that they were.
I was forced to play waitress, barkeep, and Barbie doll. Keep their busted cups full of rotgut, the pickled pigs feet coming, the corn dogs warm, and smile like I meant it. Yeah, right ⦠Give me something to smile about, assholes.
I donât think I even learned to crack a
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