Stevie Puns

Let us speak of Certain Party and The Reason Why They Moved Down Souf with Ozzy and Wednesday.

To wit: Down Souf was FAR safer than NYC.

 

‘NYC is a cesspool!!’ Certain Party yelled. ‘It’s dangerous for my children!! They will never have a chance here!! I will bring them to the Land o’Hillbillies and safe haven!!’

And, as we all know, Manson–wanting to be near his offspring–toddled down there eventually, too.

In the five years they’ve been down there, they’ve been picked on, punched, slapped and suspended for (finally) fighting back. Now I am not at all implying that they are 100% innocent in all cases, I’m not THAT dumb. But I happily condone, say, Wednesday knocking the shit out of boys who continually grab her etc etc when the school will do nothing about this. Especially so when they oh-so-subtly imply that Wednesday is ‘asking for it’ because she has the body of an eighteen year old at the age of thirteen. And by how she acts. And by the way she dresses. Which is odd. Considering they wear uniforms. Even if they didn’t, Wednesday has NO say in the matter. She doesn’t pick her outfits–Certain Party does.

{This pisses me off, frankly, because I kind of think that around the age of thirteen you can sort of start picking out your own clothes. The whole point of teenagehood is to develop your own personality and tastes. And you get the right to look as retarded as you want to while your parents roll their eyeballs and put the Parents Curse on you (read: your future children will be FAR worse than you at this moment). So long as your offspring isn’t attempting to leave the house in a micro-mini with a conical bra and hot-pink stilettos I’m fairly sure it’s safe to let them handle their own wardrobe. Or at least have a SAY in it. Certain Party, however, has to OK any outfit either Wednesday or Ozzy [Who, if you'll recall, is 15-ish] wear before they can do anything. Ma stopped buying clothes for them ages back because Certain Party will not let them wear anything Ma sends. Like the FDNY t-shirts that Ozzy loves–only allowed to be worn in the house, if that [A fact which was confirmed when Ma asked Ozzy and he said this was the case]. Manson continually brings the wrath of Certain Party down upon himself by buying Wednesday awful items of clothing–like jeans. And t-shirts!! With very ungirly pirates and such on them. The horror!!}

God. Got sidetracked there. What are the odds of THAT, hey?! But you know what fun it is to bitch about Certain Party in the rare moments that I risk such endeavors (and yes, this means this post will disappear lickety-split once you’ve read it).

Ozzy, in his few years down there, knows at least two kids from school that have been murdered. Not accidentally killed on a skiing outing. Nor did they shuffle off this mortal coil by way of, say, a rampant case of rhinotillexomania. No. They!! Were!! Shot!!

But it is safer there. Ok??

Of course, this might have happened here in the Yorke of Newe–but when they WERE here they were relatively abuse free from their peers (not entirely, but nothing ended in a fight and neither had ever gotten a suspension).

Anyhoo. Let us focus on How Safe It Be Down There and my brother, the beleaguered Manson.

There was Manson a few weeks back, making his usual coffee run at the store round the corner. It was nighttime, but this hadn’t put Manson off. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, gets between Manson and his java fix. A car pulled up near him and motioned for him to come over and asked the way to San Jose*. So. Jolly good fellow that Manson is, he toddled over.

*Not really. But saying where exactly ruins the whole Not Saying Where They Are Schtick.

Driver: Hullo, sir, do you know the way to San Jose??

Manson: Oh certainly. Go down the block, make a right, and drive til you see the third light. Make a left there and head due west for about 2500 miles.

Driver: Ah. Thanks very much.

Manson: Not a problem. Take it easy, Chief.

He then hears the following:

*pop* *pop* *pop* *pop*

Followed by gales of laughter as the car pulls away.

Manson didn’t think to get their license plate. Nor can he particularly recall what sort of car it was. This is because he was sitting there thinking ‘Crikey!! I’ve just been shot!!’

Which he had been.

Thankfully it was just a bee-be gun. And out of the four shots they only hit him twice. And one went clean through his right hand, not damaging it in the least.

Less so, though, is the fact that he’s still got one of the pellets stuck in his other arm. While his doctor/surgeon debates whether it will do more damage to his arm to remove it or just let it be, happily lodged twixt his radius and his ulna.

{One would think the bastards would have been considerate enough to land BOTH shots in his right arm, seeing as he’s left handed. And honestly, how tacky. Anyone who has read their Emily Post knows that the PROPER way to thank someone for giving them directions is to throw a pair or nunchuks at them. There’s no such things as manners anymore. I weep, yes WEEP, for the future}

Certain Party, upon ringing me, said ‘I kept telling him not to go out at night!!’

I, of course, queried, ‘But WHY?? It’s SO. SAFE. THERE.’

I don’t think my sarcasm was appreciated.