Grandma

When I was just a boy, she was always telling me, “The proof is in the pudding, sonny; the proof is in the pudding.” It got to the point where she was saying this two or three times a day, even in situations that really didn’t seem to apply: like that time when my dog died, for instance, or that other time when another one of my dogs died; even that time when I thought Nate Dogg had died but it turned out to be just Biggie Smalls.

Then one Sunday afternoon she and my mother and I were eating banana pudding, and I was actually hoping that she’d say it (because at least now it would sorta make sense). But she just turned to my mother and said, “Needs more bananas, I think. Yep, not enough bananas this time. Why am I so gassy?”

My little ears couldn’t believe what they weren’t hearing. “There’s nothing else in there you wanna talk about, Grandma?”

“Hmm, we talked about bananas; we talked about my gas…” She grinned an almost wicked little grin and said, “You mean…the proof?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Where’s that proof, Grandma?”

“Well, baby, it’s right…in…THERE!” And her eyes widened intensely as she pointed to her pudding. “See it?” she added, staring into the bowl. “Can’t you see what it’s doing to us? Ha ha ha ha huh ha ho hahhh…”

I laughed along with her, in the hopes that she wouldn’t see how scared I was. And I could see that Mom was just as scared when she started laughing too. We all laughed for maybe half an hour, and then Grandma finished her pudding with a lick of her papery lips and said, “Anyone up for seconds? Because there’s plenty more for seconds. Plenty more for everyone. We’ll always be pudding. Pudding, pudding, pudding! Yaaayyy!!!”

Neither Mom nor I could respond at that moment (I cursed pudding for coming into our lives), but we were saved when Grandma stood up suddenly and said, “Boy, I really gotta go to the bathroom. All that durn pudding,” she added, shaking her head.

A little while later, we found her in the backyard digging up one of my dogs. Though she didn’t say so, I knew that she’d thought there was pudding buried there. One of my dogs had been named Pudding, but she wasn’t digging up Pudding; she was digging up Roscoe. Either way, I soon began to wonder if something might be wrong with Grandma.

My Weekends with Kevin

“Why did you call Mommy a whore, Daddy? She said you called her a whore. She said you’re always calling her bad names.”

“Kevin, Kevin, Kevin; that’s exactly what a whore would say. And whore isn’t a bad name, necessarily; it’s just a noun.”

“What’s a noun?”

“A noun is a person, place or thing: like this house; that TV over there; and your mom, the whore.”

“Oh. But what does whore mean?”

“Whore means…someone who likes to have lots of sex in a lot of complicated positions with a lot of men who aren’t me.”

“Sex? What’s that?”

“Ask your mom. She’s the expert.”

* * *

“Mommy just looked away and shook her head and said, That bastard. What did she mean by that, Daddy?”

“Bastard is a bad name that whores like to call good people, when they’re not too busy whoring. You must’ve caught her on a slow week. Now, do you want Apple Jacks or Frosted Flakes?”

* * *

“What’s divorce, Daddy? Mommy said you guys are getting a divorce.”

“It’s when two people who are married break up because the mom’s a whore.”

“Oh…okay. But no one told me what sex means yet!”

“You know that thing Rex does when he grabs hold of your leg with his front paws and then moves his butt back and forth real fast?”

“It’s funny when he does that.”

“Yeah, he’s trying to have sex with you.”

“Why?”

“It’s what dogs do when they get the urge.”

“So Mommy’s like a dog…with an urge?”

“Okay, now you’re just twisting my words around.”

“But I—”

“Hey, next time you see her, ask her why she humps like a thousand different guys a year. Ooh, ask her about ‘doggy style,’ too; she loves that.”

“What does hump mean?”

“It’s what Rex does to your leg.”

“Is Rex a whore?”

“Probably, but he can’t help it.”

“Maybe Mommy can’t help it either.”

“Yeah, okay, Dr. Phil.”

* * *

“Mommy said she’s only with one guy now, Daddy. His name is Don and he’s more of a missionary guy than a doggy-style guy.”

“Missionary, huh. I suppose you know what that means?”

“Mommy said it means he’s religious.”

“Well, I guess some people are pretty religious about it.”

“Yeah, and she wants you to know that he’s also her McDreamy. What’s a McDreamy, Daddy?”

“Remember that scary movie I let you watch…where that monster popped out of that guy’s chest and then got big really fast and went around eating everybody on the spaceship; and then, near the end of the movie, that woman was in her underwear and I kept hitting rewind over and over, and then I told you to go to bed?”

“That movie gave me nightmares.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that, buddy. Next time we watch it we’ll have to blindfold you or something.”

“But I won’t be able to see.”

“Don’t worry; you’ll still be able to hear everything. It’ll be just like with those other movies I sometimes watch. Anyway, that monster was a McDreamy.”

“But…Don doesn’t look anything like that monster.”

“Of course not—not during the daytime.

* * *

“Mommy said that she and you aren’t very good parents to be teaching me things like whore and sex and bastard, and that she’s really sorry about it and you should be, too.”

“You know, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but…you’re Mom’s actually pretty smart for—”

“For a whore?”

“No…. No, Kevin. Don’t laugh.”

“How come you can laugh, though?”

“I’m not laughing. Because what you said wasn’t funny. I’m not laughing; that was a cough. I’m coughing. I must be allergic to Rex. God, your laugh’s making me laugh. Cough, I mean. No…your Mom was right; we shouldn’t be saying things like whore and sex and bastard; at least not until you’re ten or so. Stop laughing. Me stop? I’m trying…. Oh, God. Oh, man, say it again, just like you said it.”

* * *

“Daddy, why did I see Mommy come out of your bedroom this morning and then sneak out the front door?”

“Oh…was that her?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You sure? Because, uh, I thought it was someone else.”

“No, it was Mommy.”

“Huh. I don’t know; maybe she was lost.”

“Are you getting back together with her…?”

“Sometimes.”

Shane, you might like this guy's blog

http://freemanstable.blogspot.com/2006/04/poke-salad.html

At Future Blogger...

http://memebox.com/futureblogger/show/496-questions-only-the-future-and-maybe-dionne-warwick-can-answer

Another Reason To Like Coffee

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/health/7326839.stm

The Story of the Signs and the Buckets

Early this afternoon, as I was driving away from the movie theater and not at all trying to forget Sarah Marshall, I was accosted by a gang of lowland Baptists in pastel T-shirts and matching shorts, some of them holding up signs and others holding up green plastic buckets. Buckets of what? I wondered. Pig entrails, maybe? Some form of protoplasmic goo? A glance at one of their signs told me they were seeking donations for some sort of "Baptist Youth" shindig, and I became frightened.

The stoplight was red, and my heart started pounding as they swarmed around my car like angry--or at least overeager--hornets. Will I ever see home again? I wondered. Will I be forced to tell them that I have no money, even though I do have money? Could I run over one of them and somehow get away with it?

Suddenly, one of their guys held a bucket up to my window as one of their girls--on the opposite side of my car--held up a sign, and they both began to speak. I couldn't really make out what they said, however, because my windows were closed and also because I was chanting loudly to myself, "Everything's gonna be fine, Jason; just don't look into their eyes."

I thought of something I might drop into the bucket, but it had nothing to do with money. I looked from the sign to the bucket and back, as if I were confused, and then, to my great relief, the stoplight turned green, and I sped off toward the roaring safety of the highway.

I glanced back and saw that the small red car behind me had been surrounded and wasn't moving anymore. I heard a few plaintive honks, and then nothing (there were signs and buckets everywhere). I knew then that whoever had been driving that red car was dead...or at least short a few bucks.

"Goodbye, poor soul," I said, and then I hurried home to finish what was left of the Panera sandwich I'd put in the fridge yesterday.

A Present For You

Here's a good Jack Handey piece from his new book, which you should probably go out and buy right now, if you like laughing a lot:

http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2003/05/05/030505sh_shouts