gra-tu-i-tous |grəˈt(y)oōitəs|
{ORIGIN mid 17th cent.: from Latin gratuitus ‘given freely,spontaneous’}
1. uncalled for; lacking good reason; unwarranted : gratuitous violence.2. given or done free of charge : gratuitous advice.
vi-o-let |ˈvī(ə)lət|{ORIGIN Middle English : from Old French violette} adjective:
1. a bluish-purple color seen at the end of the spectrum opposite red.
2. a herbaceous plant of temperate regions, typically having purple, blue,or white five-petaled flowers, one of which forms a landing pad for pollinating insects. Genus Viola, family Violaceae.
3. ME.

Sunday, August 19, 2012

You've Got Some Nerve... The Tootie Edition

Yo, look at that dude hanging up there... creepy!

I was in third grade when my mother decided to enroll me into Catholic school. Moved around from CT to SD and back again, we moved into a low-rent apartment in a small town by Bridgeport after my father left us for his brother's wife. (Another fucked up story for a later time.)

Times were tough with mom left to raise two young children alone. Although we didn't live in a “bad” part of town, for some reason, my mother didn't want me to mingle with other “poor” kids. She forgot her Bridgeport roots. Can you say denial?


So, what did she do?

Naturally, she enrolled me into the parochial school across town, in the North end.
I was the only kid of a divorced family, the others' had remarried, and therefor were exempt from the automatic shame that befell my little head. Child of divorce- GASP! Here we were, on housing assistance, getting food assistance and such, and I was in school with the wealthiest kids in town.
Fuck me.

Future Fuckwad of America

The day after Christmas break ended was the worst. The fucking penguins would actually go up and down rows asking each kid what gifts they got for the holidays. Like they earned it or some shit. I dreaded that day.

Jason got a boom box and an Atari ™ system and this and that, beaming as he shared. Gloating fucker. Tracey got another Barbie Dream Castle ™ and a record player and 11 albums. Twat. Paul got a new 23” TV set and G.I. Joe gun play-set. Show-off.

Oh shit, don't call on me. Oh shit, don't call on me. Please don't call on me.


Penguin: Ms. H.
Me: Yup.
Penguin: It's YES, not yup. What are you, in prison?
{What the fuck was that bitch even talking about???}
Me: Pass.
Penguin: You cannot pass! I asked you a question!

Oh I passed alright. I passed gas.

I tooted aloud, right then and there, out of nervousness- and ran off to the girl's bathroom, mortified.

That was just the beginning.

Hard wooden benches make me nervous, apparently.

The entire student body had to go to mass every Friday morning. To cleanse our original sin or some shit. Something about that unnatural sin idea bugged me right the fuck out. Or perhaps it was the cold sterile slate and wooden church we sat in all lined up in pews that was so odd to me. But inevitably, when we were supposed to be praying, kneeling on those archaic wooden thingies, I got the heebie-jeebies.

Jesus is watching.

Oh crap, what did I do now???

It wasn't bad enough that the eyes of my all-seeing mom were constantly on me, be she there or not, but now this omnipotent motherfucker was oogling me too. I was doomed. I farted. So what?!? Sometimes it was audible and funny, other times, not so much... I had to blame that smelly kid, R. because everyone blamed him for any grossness. Poor fucker!
P.S. I'm sorry R.!

Seriously, I was a mess when I had to do my first confession. I mean other than Jeffrey Dahmer ™ types and other shitheads who are cruel to animals, what the hell does an eight year old have to confess?

So what did I do? I made shit up.
And maybe passed a squeaker or two.
You're welcome Father!

America's Favorite Tootie

Nervousness = Tooting.

Fast forward to not so long ago. I was taking some rad anatomy and physiology classes and had this sexy ex-dancer-turned-professor for my instructor. Dang he was hot! The day of the final exam, he pulled us aside two at a time and asked us A&P questions, using one person as the body/example and the other person naming muscular functions and stuff, as he pointed to them and moved their limbs and shit.
I was both farty and sweaty. I couldn't talk. The poor chick who was my partner was embarrassed for me. Fuck her.

1] it was my final exam
2] he made me nervous in the tingly way.

I had so many colorful naughty thoughts about Mr. Sexy pants. So many flexible poses ran through my mind. Did I mention his being a dancer? Not a stripper, a modern dancer. Yum!
Needless to say, that day was not a pretty moment in my career as a student.

Regardless, I still got an A.

It's nice to know I leave a lasting impression on people. Some more than others, obviously.


  1. I never passed gas at school, or in front of people, but my stomach would make a lot of noise when I was nervous. Everyone thought it was a sign that I had to go to the bathroom. My teachers would ask me if I had to have a bowel movement in front of the entire class.

    1. I suggest you "crop dust" at the next christening... that'd show 'em!

  2. THE PENGUINS!!!! Hahahahaha...I know you know this, but we do share the same sense of humor. You may have told me, but what was the name of that town next to Bridgeport?
    We went to Guilford this weekend (I HATE I-95! I HATE I-95! I HATE I-95!). Although the abysmally slow traffic on the Connecticut Turnpike gave me a chance to wonder who is it exactly from New Haven who says, "Hey, ya know, I really would like to buy one of those flags from that guy down by Long Wharf."
    Of course, Mrs. Penwasser commented, "I'll bet that food is pretty good, though. And look! They have a porta-pottie!"
    As we were driving (extremely fast) through the urban blight which is Bridgeport (which-I forgot about this-has a street called "Iranistan Avenue." Yeah, how about that?) due to the Merritt Parkway being slammed up, Mrs. Penwasser asked, "Are there any good areas of Bridgeport?" I really, really had to think about it. Then, I said, "Well, the North End. Kinda. In a way. Not really, though. Most people usually go to Monroe. Trumbull. Or Vermont."
    Then, our daughter asked, "Isn't Connecticut rich?"
    I guess the family of Mal Penwasser in Stratford didn't get that memo.

    1. Al,
      The little town is Stratford for me too... i95 is the devil's highway and Guilford is where the GILFs come from. I am convinced that those flag trucks on Long Wharf are a front for drugs or...? As far as "good" areas of B-po, Black Rock, by St. Mary's is nice... I love Bridgeport for some reason.

    2. Oh, I thought Black Rock was Fairfield, but you're right. Been a long time....
      As we were passing through Stratford, Mrs. Penwasser (aka "Mrs. Uppity From Virginia Beach") commented, "Stratford isn't all that much different than Bridgeport, is it? Ooh, those boats look pretty nice, though."
      We were passing over the Housatonic River by The Dock.
      Born and raised in Stratford...
      A block from the Bridgeport City Line.

    3. I grew up in a house 2 blocks from the library/train station... one that no longer exists.

    4. We used to go down that way many times. Books from the library (childrens section only), walking through the creepy cemetery behind it, or we'd walk the tracks to the Dock.

  3. Seriously, nuns are the instrument of Satan, though the line "What are you, in prison?" Made me roar with laughter. :D

    1. The bitch was non-affectionately referred to as Sister Mary St. Bernard... and she had a giant hairy mole on her mug!

  4. I told my mom when I was 12 I was an atheist and would no longer be going to church. That shit went over like gangbusters. Nuns frighten me.

    1. They're like clowns dressed in black. Who carry yardtsicks.

    2. I too share in the gangbusters moment.. . although it took longer for her to let it sink in. I had to protest for years!!! And I am not an atheist per se, but organized religion is a farce to me... what works for others is up to them...

  5. And remember...if you fart in church, you sit in your own pew.

  6. I really love this post. It brings up so many memories. This is my third comment on one post. Sad to say, it's not a record for me.
    I'm like a bad penny.
    I keep coming back and back.

  7. hahahaha i love the eight year old confession.

    especially because it teaches children to feel bad about little shit, and then when someone really fucks up and knicks a car in the parking lot, that old Catholic guilt comes out and it's 4,000 holy marys and a bottle of SCOTCH!

    1. When we were eight years old and had to go to confession, we always tried to think of something jazzier than "I was disrespectful to my mom or I stole a couple of bazookas from Max's store (which was okay, the nuns told us, because Max was Jewish)".
      It was all fun and games until Richie Monoski said he committed adultery.
      I thought Father Pekar would have a stroke.
      And I think Sister Mary Ignatius did.

  8. I am so grateful I didn't have to go to Catholic school like my cousin did. I love the pic of the future fuckwad. Pretty sure I went to school with him.

  9. Gawd, that explains our kindred minds, being Catholic-bred and educated myself! Don't you just love how warped we have all become? Where's Mr. Sexy Pants now? Just asking ....

    1. I think his name is Erik. Of course he went by his first name. No clue where he is now. He had 2 teaching gigs, I bet he's still around making his students fart!

  10. I read this again and it still cracks me up. Jesus with glasses!!!!!!

    1. Jesus can see you better that way!

    2. I thought that was Santa Claus.
      He sees you when you're sleeping...he knows when you're awake.
      Methinks a restraining order is in...uh...order.

  11. OK, so I'm going to start following you. If this is a representative sample of you writing, you're a keeper.

    1. welcome to my twisted world! and thanks yo!


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