Rye Night

For other kids, Halloween was that special time when you could be something you're not.  You could be Satan himself  and still be considered a lovely little child (instead of being acknowledged as the borderline retarded little quiff that you are).  I, on the other hand, never had any interest in being the saviour of the planet or the harbinger of its destruction.  Halloween was the one day I just wanted to be myself, I wanted to get away from the masks, not put another one on.  Trouble was I wasn't allowed to be 'me' for Halloween, that wasn't normal.  If I didn't wear a costume I was not allowed to go out.  I tried to articulate why I didn't want to dress up as something else but failed.  Me being a child paired with the fact that explaining things was synonymous with 'talking back' in my parents' eyes, I never could clarify my desire. 

And so, I was forced to be a dinosaur, or a vampire, but I was never allowed to be the thing that terrified me the most: myself.

I remember Halloween when I was six years old.  I was living in a new town, and didn't have friends yet, so I needed a parent to accompany me on my quest for toothaches and gut-rot.  My father worked a lot and I didn't get to see him much, so I asked him to come along.  He had very little time to himself as it was, but he agreed.  I was ready to shoot out the door and start amassing a saccharine empire, but my father made me wait.  He fixed himself a large drink of rye, and we began our trip through the suburbs.  After a few houses, I was so excited that I couldn't think straight.  My father stopped me and asked "Did you remember to say thank you?".  It sounded like he was interrogating a murderer.  I guess dad always kept murderers and rude people side by side in his mind.  I told him that I had forgotten and I went back to the house to say thanks.  Dad sipped his rye.  He always had the ability to seem like a moral paragon while breaking open container laws. 

"You ready to empty that pillowcase?  Looks like it's getting heavy!"  It wasn't.  He needed to refill his drink.  We repeated this process a few times, finally ending with him insisting that I looked really tired and should go to bed.

In my adult life I finally granted my own wish, like some manner of genie autofellatio.  I drank rye all night and was completely myself, not stifling my most inner thoughts.  I was feared and adored by the locals, like any good ... uh, Halloween guy.

Years later my brothers and I still refer to Halloween as 'rye night' and one of my brothers takes his kids out Trick or Treating with a large glass of rye in hand.  Sound like bad parenting to you?  Perhaps, perhaps not.  What I do remember is that my dad spent what little free time he had making sure his son was happy and well behaved.  It doesn't matter to me that he needed alcohol to do it.

Musical Instruments

Nobody Does Funerals Like My Family (Bittersweet Symphony)

I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral- the Barenaked Ladies, One Week.

Grandpa died. He was better than you at everything. I went to the funeral home for the visitation. My SJ father asked me why I shaved (I had been growing a beard) which is ironic because he previously used to threaten to ground me for not shaving. I looked through a photo album, noting that my brother would insist on giving the shocker in a photo even when he was an infant. I looked through my grandpa's old report card (expecting high marks since he later became a teacher) only to find that he received a 28% in arithmetic. Even sadder was he was ranked second in the class for math. Despite other lackluster marks, the teacher noted that "[Grandpa] is doing very well indeed." Who knows, maybe there were only two people in that class.

My brother's and I were in standard form, that is, as inappropriate as possible. Ringleader grabbed his girlfriends tit not ten feet from the casket. Grandpa would have wanted it that way.

I talked to many of my Grandpa's friends, many whom I had never met before. I asked one, Ralph, how he had met my Grandpa. He told me that he had been golfing alone and noticed that my Grandpa was golfing alone as well, so they had decided to go together. Ralph scoffed as my Grandpa wound up his shot with only one arm (a stroke had left his other arm nearly useless). Ralph ended up getting his ass kicked. He didn't know that my Grandpa was better than him at everything.

The funeral director approached me and asked me who the hot, tall, blonde chick was. I told him that she was my fifteen year old cousin. The funeral director replied "No, uh I meant that other blonde chick. The short one." The short blonde chick told me that she couldn't believe that she was jealous of a fifteen year old.

Proving that he is classy once and for all, my brother makes fart noises with his hands and discusses how he wants to leave an upper decker in a Dairy Queen bathroom. We reminisce about how our Grandpa used to fart involuntarily and tell his bum to shut up. I laugh so hard that I hurt myself. My Grandpa was better at flatulent comedy than you.

Prior to my Grandpa's death, my Facebook status had read "I'm growing a beard for Manuary to raise awareness for my face." In response to this Ringleader slapped my face a few feet from the casket and informed me that his hand was familiar with my face.

The visitation was over, so we went to my Grandpa's favourite restaurant to honour him (I'll uuse as many fuucking 'u's as I want oumw). We went to the Keg for dinner, oh wait no. My Grandpa was a real man so he liked to go to the truck stop to hang out with real men. My Grandpa is better at being a man than you.

After dinner I drank my depressive (or derpressive) face off, anxious about fucking up the eulogy I was going to give the next day (with the help of my brothers.)

My three brothers and I took turns reading what we were going to say. After each speech we responded as a chorus with "Nicely written, asshole."

My nephew said goodnight to us by telling us that we had herpes on our respective lips. Three year olds are fuckin' perceptive.

memory deleted

At the funeral the priest informed us that my Grandpa had saved him from going to jail. I think he was serious. He told us that my Grandpa used to read Bible verses at his church. The priest told us that my Grandpa had once been reading a passage and had leaned on the lectern too much and made it topple over along with himself. Apparently unfazed he continued reading the passage while the churchgoers tried to upright him. My Grandpa is better at focusing than you.

It was time to give the eulogy. Two of my brother's struggled but made it through with the support of the remaining two brothers. Ringleader knocked it out of the park. Despite being shy and socially awkward, I too knock it out of the park. I am reminded of the time that 30+ people told me that I am the greatest public speaker they had ever seen.*

The priest talked about the right hand giving us all pleasure. He was talking about Jesus being the right hand of God, but still most of us had a good chuckle.

As a pall bearer I had to lift my Grandpa's casket into a tiny burial plot. The graveyard was way too small and I nearly tripped over a tombstone while attempting to get my Grandpa into his grave.

Afterwards several people came up to me to tell me some variation of "Your Grandpa would be proud" "You spoke so well" "I hope my grandchildren will read as well as you." There were too many of them to be just a coincidence. I, Randall, like my Grandpa, am better than you at everything.

*Excerpt from my part of the eulogy:

I used to think that I had a firm grasp on the English language. That was before I saw my Grandpa talk to some of his fellow Newfies. I remember the joke/riddle he once told me that was clear to his Newfie relatives, but was baffling to me. It was as follows [said as fast as possible]: "Two legs sitting on three legs, with one leg in his lap.  Along comes four legs takes one leg from two legs, up jumps two legs, throws three legs at four legs and gets his one leg back again." To the Newfies it was clear that it was a story of a man on a stool, his leg of lamb, and his dog. The confusion brought on by that joke is one of my favourite memories of my Grandpa. Another one of my favourite memories of my Grandpa was actually my final one. My three brothers and I all had the privilege of having our final words to him be "I love you." And you can't ask for a better memory than that.

I get bored at work

Sometimes when I listen to music at work I replace the word "eyes" with "ass" in any song that has the word.  Here are a few of the more amusing results:

"I want to spend the whole night in your ass" - Lonestar, Amazed
"She can wound with her ass" - Billy Joel, She's Always a Woman
"Little girl dry your ass daddy's on his way" and "Why can't you open your ass and see that they're dying inside?" - Student Rick, A Child's Cry

Rogers and Me