Monday, November 16, 2009
My brother is a piece of shit
I know it might sound harsh but it is true. He finally pushed me over the edge. You see, my brother is capable of some horrible things. If you get to know him you realize he hates people, is stubborn, and quite possibly only cares about himself. Interestingly none of this has ever bothered me. I guess I just accepted him for the animal he was. I mean we are all animals in our own right. The other night he texts me that he is eating at his favorite pizza place (actually eating a pie in his car like a savage) and that with his margarita pizza pie he is enjoying a diet coke with lime. At first I thought he was joking. What type of man would drink a diet coke? Then I thought maybe the phone was stolen, but based on the conversation I knew that was only wishful thinking. He was actually sitting behind the wheel of his car sipping a diet coke through a tiny straw. I am imagining the Ahhhhhhhh sound came out of his mouth at one point or another before he finished it. He finally has gone off the deep end. I understand diet coke is an acquired taste for fat men and cat ladies alike, but I don't understand how a normal man can go 36 years drinking regular coke and suddenly make the switch to that aspartame shit. It is like he did it purposely to hurt me. There is no logic behind it. My brain is full of so much rage and disappointment. So with that said until my brother makes a formal apology for giving up the sweet nectar that is coke classic and renounces diet coke he is dead to me.
Not my brother
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For the record, I was drinking a Mexican Coke with my pizza.
I'm writing this comment between chemotherapy treatments - my tits are fucked - but I wanted to say the following: I LOVE Lewis!
I know this post is about my dear nephew, written by his brother (my other dear nephew), but I would be remiss if I didn't thank all of the well wishers who have contacted me about my previous comment (see above) concerning my aggressive case of breast cancer.
The treatment center I go to, each Tuesday and Thursday I take a gypsy cab driven by a young Haitian named Voodoo Goldstein (his family made a killing, literally, in straw effigies), in Lake Worth, Florida, has a reception area where I wait for the head nurse to call my name:
"Old annoying Jewish lady, number 87. Old annoying Jewish lady, number 87. [Leans forward to speak to a disoriented, elderly man wearing a hospital gown, his bare ass exposed for all to see while urine runs down his right leg] Sir, in the cup . . . it has to go in the cup. . . . Old annoying Jewish lady, number 87. [Points to Aunt Ruthie] Madam, third door on your right. Remove your clothes and valuables before you enter, I mean . . . shit, Jerry! [Places hand on disoriented, elderly man] No, sir, I wasn't talking to you. Only number one in the cup. . . . Jerry, I told you I'd fuck up. 'Remove your clothes and valuables' -- damn line stays with me every time I watch Schindler's on laser disc."
The worst part about this disease, and again I want to thank the fans of the Barry Rides for their interest in my condition, is the fact that I will never be able to nurse my young. My doctor says I can simulate the experience by spritzing my nipple with soy milk and placing a doll near the tap. To that end, he opened his desk drawer and removed a black, plastic baby named Destiny. I don't know if I should feel insulted because the kid, er, cheaply made carcinogenic piece of molded polypropylene, is black, or grateful that my oncologist thinks I'm so progressive. After all, I did vote for Obama.
Great post. The comments however were long and lacked the normal humor.
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