The Christmas Pickle
THE CHRISTMAS PICKLE
Ya know, having divorced parents and step relations can take a lot outta ya specially durin the holidays. This is just to help you understand the fragile frame of being I was in on christmas day when all the biblical fun took place which was also my last stop on the world tour de family. Get to my pa's and everything goes well the first couple of hours. Got to be the only one opening gifts while everyone else stared on wantingly, which is just the way I like it. The christmas bong was floating around particular areas of the house — minors not allowed in these chat rooms. Settled into a plate of leftovers with my dad and step mom “Debbie” whose name is Lori but my brother calls all step folks “Debbie”.
“Debbie”, or I should say Lori, enjoys little candles on dressers that burn beneath a dish of scented oil which boils beneath a fantastic framed picture of a dragon burning a village of people beneath a castle on a star bright night — this set up is in the bedroom (chat room no minors) and we are still stuffing our fat faces in the living room watching Minority Report (a little masterpiece by the way) slowly sinking into that turkey-glazed land of sleep images, fading in and out waking to sip my JD. Suddenly, we all hear this annoying beeping, which of course is disturbing our meditative state of grace with Tom chasing his eyes down the hall on the TV — I think it to be the fire alarm because of the food we were heating. Explanation is that when my real mother would cook when we were growing up she would set the alarm off and sometimes her clothing, but that's another story. My dad is thinking it's on the TV (although he's staring at the TV in which there is no apparent object that would be making the noise unless he thought it was the TV itself, should've clarified).
My step mom in her baked glory thought it was just in her head — but decided that even if it is in her head it could be coming from the back hall where she is used to hearing audible noises— she goes back there and then the worst interruption of all came with a blood curdling scream, “The bedroom’s on fire!”. I'm quick to pause the movie, sip another drink of bourbon, wash down one more bite of gluttony, and spring into Fire Marshal Bill mode. My dad was way ahead of me. By the time I set the plate down he had the garden hose from outside in the master bedroom spraying the flames off the wall where the dragon picture was burning exactly where the painted flame of the dragon had been. I could point out why this is interesting, but I know that I don't have to. The entire friggin wall was going up in flames. Dad, the hero, put it out. Then, there was the annoying toxic black smoke that filled the house choking us all — of course the windows and doors were all opened — letting the neighbors enjoy the fragrance of our fuck up. It was cold in the house now just like my food. Hey, shit happens right? Just as we get the house cleared of smoke, shut the windows and begin the task of removing the black soot from all objects, including us, another brain splitting scream comes from the other side of the house exclaiming that the guest bathroom was flooding out into the bedrooms and hallway — the look on my dad's face by this time was so good I won't even describe it, cuz ya know already. Dashing with gazelle-like movement into the back of the house, we found ourselves in 6 inches of toilet water — in a completely different event all together. Now it was time to use every towel in the house, every bed sheet to be found, to soak up the soggy stench.
Step brother “Debbie” had decided to spray his spidey web into the bowl, give it a flush, and then walk away for an hour or so — which is how long it had been running over. If flushing the toilet once, wastes 30 gallons of water, this was potentially a good year’s supply for our Eastern neighbors, soaked up in pretty beach towels, sheets and bad carpet (now worse). The only thing missing from the festivities was famine and death.
Ahhhh yes, to be less doubtful in the face of something that is seemingly too unusual to be possible...