EE's Autobiography 3

I remember it thusly; I just left Sunday morning church service with Dad, Mum and my older bothers Biff and Buster when Doc Tiffany Nunez and her sycophantic interns climbed from their SUV like clowns at the circus. They hooted, woofed and flexed their muscle-bound physiques under spandex unitards, Old Spice and liniment filling the air like belligerent smog.

"Heigh-Ho, it's time for our weekly excursion to Uncle Felipe's."

"Ho-Hum, another day of weightlifting at Uncle Fallopian's barnyard with the pervert brothers -- muscles-for-brains and absence-of-intelligent-life." Good backtalk, I thought. Dad smacked the back of my head. After five hundred times he stopped explaining that strength training, gymnastics, and vitamins weren't perverted.

"Leave the little creep home. All he wants is to read." Biff tugged his shirt, scratched his hairy chest and brought his fists together while grimacing at me. Zits and halitosis become real.

"Now boys, we want all of you to grow up prime athletes," Tiffany chirped like a Stepford wife on happy pills. Buster just leered at her ample cleavage. Lust drooled down his leg.

"Get dem puppies bouncin' Doc. Buster wants to poke your petunia patch and Biff wants to jerkoff between your silicone-inflated boobies." Oooops I thought. Those words should have stayed unsaid and unvoiced at least on Sunday. Doc gaped. Mom gasped. Dad planted his foot directly in my butt and it hurt. He could kick a football 300 yards. I landed face-first against our car.

"For Shame! Evelyn Edward Villanelle! You're lucky to be readin' all those books and wearin' silly-assed sideburns. Now apologize and let us enjoy our Sunday getting strong or I'll shave you and take away your Masefield, Proust, Yeats'n Grisham!"

"I'm sorry!" I imagined "rejected" written large on Dad's way-to-high-I'm-balding forehead. My commonwealth for a red pen.

Dave F.