Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
Let me start this off by telling you that I HAD two brothers. I am the middle child and, therefore, the most well-adjusted. My older brother, Greg, is an uptight douche bag with a uber responsible job, a family and a dog. Or, is it a dog and a family. I’m not sure how that goes. We’re from Alberta, so a dog ranks a little higher than a spouse and children. It’s a law, actually.
My younger brother and the weakest of the herd, Gene, has a section in his brain where all the surviving brain cells hid from the alcohol and pot holocaust waged through his grey matter for four straight years at the University of Calgary. A bunker if you will.
Sure, he has the demigod-esq genes all we Roodes have been blessed with; physique of granite, extreme sexual prowess- unmatched by mere mortals, and well, let’s just say our junk has been studied by the finest sexologists for generations. To this day, it is unexplained how the Roode men have achieved the perfect combination of girth and length.. never mind, it would take too long to explain and require a lot of charts to do it correctly.
All that aside, Gene, has never been a bright man. At least when it came to women. Like all Roodes, he would control the situation with his Zeus-esq presence and Captain James T. Kirk-like knack for seducing women without really trying.
When it came to female mind games, he didn’t fare so well. Using their voodoo magic, the girls would infiltrate his mind and rummage through it like a box of second-hand clothes at a flea market. He would do shit like listen to their stories, open doors for them, surprise them with roses… FOR NO REASON! I mean, come on! Roses don’t make an appearance until after you’ve accidentally set fire to her car.
Then he meets Ren. I’ve made it a point to avoid her like the blonde banana sandwich crazy Irish nutjob plague. This is especially true when there’s family around. She’s like a virus. Sure, at first she’s harmless enough; being all cute and hot and funny. Then, next thing you know she’s hanging from your gutters wearing a bicycle helmet screaming the lyrics to Rollins Band‘s “Liar.”
Yet, somehow her version is a lot more disturbing.
I was too late to prevent Gene’s lethal dose of Ren radiation. I can only liken it to the Chernobyl disaster, except instead of a reactor meltdown, it’s a batshit crazy blonde’s goofy ass radiation poisoning. There is no known defense against this. Lead, concrete, the English, none of them can protect you from the damaging radiation particles of the little elf. Even a small dosage is life threatening. The longer you’re exposed the more lethal the dose. Instead of skin lesions, internal organ liquefaction, and constantly shitting yourself you are hit with blind devotion, catering to her every need, and.. constantly shitting yourself.
Ignoring ever primitive instinct for survival, my brother came down with a mortal dose of Ren sickness. He was beyond the point of no return. He was a goner. The patient exhibited symptoms such as: calling her every night, taking her out for dinner, a shit-eating grin and thousand yard stare every time some one mentioned Ren’s name. He was dying before my very eyes!
It’s one thing if Gene wanted to kill himself with drunken Mick poison. It’s another thing to expose your entire family to it. It’s pretty much a Typhoid Mary scenario. Why keep the disease to yourself when you can share it with EVERYONE? If we use the radiation poisoning example from above, it’s like bringing a white-hot piece of reactor core to a family reunion, then using it to hold the napkins down. Fuck man, might as well just killed our family outright.
Then, as the little Irish psychopath mentions here, they went to Las Vegas and got hitched. That’s like just letting the icy waters of the Bearing Sea suck you in. No resistance. No will to go on. Nope, just one big, “fuck it” before you drown and end up passing through some fish’s colon.
OK, fine. He married this midget on crack. He wants to flush you life down the crapper, feel free. So he’s shown a complete disregard for our family by bringing that blonde pile of crazy home. Great. So now she is officially and lawfully related to me. What the fuck ever. I’ve been married for over a decade. I’m already dead inside.
In the end, I’ll have the last laugh. His carefree days are over. He’s done. Remember when you were confident, Gene? Your smug ass self- assuredness and wonder-machismo is coming to an end. Want to hear why?
Congratulations! You are married to a hottie! Does that sound like a compliment? It’s not thumper-dumper. That whole glow of happiness and pride will eventually give way to a constant storm of paranoia. It’s not easy being married to some fine eye candy. Trust me, brother, I know. My wife is smoking hot. Gorgeous! Humpalicious!
It’s pretty easy to see the upside of being married to a sexy woman: class reunion envy, getting out of speeding tickets, and never having to wait in line. But, no one talks about the downside. The tragic, soul-crushing downside. Since I am the best big brother in known history, I’ll hip you to a few “unadvertised” side effects of being married to a top shelf honey. Get a pad of paper and a pen. You’ll want to take some notes.
1. Next to her, you will ALWAYS look like a retarded ogre.
I’m not talking Shrek, either. That green sonnabitch doesn’t count. That’s just Disney bullshit. This is more like the dude from Mask.
No matter what you do, what duds you don, or how buff you get your hot wife will forever outshine you. Don’t think this is a problem? Wait until you fade away from the visual spectrum of everyone on the planet. It’s only a matter of time before you’re mistaken for the help.
2. You will have to play goalie in public
What’s that mean? Think about it; stunning sexy wife and a husband with a permanent look of “what the fuck?” on his face. Every sweaty ball sack with a case of wood will surround your wife like jackals in the wild.
Hormone filled college frat boys will endlessly eye-hump your wife. Every now and again, one will try to be smooth and hit on her when you’re taking a piss or shaking down a midget for some cash. “Wedding ring? Come on, baby. It’s the new millennium. I’ve seen some Grey’s Anatomy. I know how it goes down.”
This is when you pick up the stick and start blocking slap shot after slap shot of douchbaggery. Eye-humping? That’s a check, motherfucker. Smiling at her? That’s a stick to the gut. Get handsy with her and that’s an all out fucking throw down on the ice!
*Note: Don’t send me emails telling me this is a trust issue. “If I could trust my wife not to bend over in the men’s room this wouldn’t be a problem.” Eat a dick. This has nothing to do with trust. I trust my wife implicitly. I’m still not going to leave her in a sea of sperminators while I take a jaunty stroll.
3. Paranoia: Fearing that she may, one day, realise she’s way out of your league
Those of us married to hot looking dames know that we’re hanging on by a thread. One day, your beautiful bride will realise that a fine piece of ass, like her, and a Mongoloid that can barely work a touch-tone doesn’t work on paper. Maybe it’s because you have a tendency to get rip-roaring drunk and punch your waiter in the throat? Possibly, it’s due to you coming home with one shoe and half your head shaved… again. It may even be the constant explanations she needs to give to her friends for any of the stupid shit you do. It’s all going to contribute to her moment of clarity.
How do you hold onto a woman like that? What can a man do to prevent his fine mama from putting two and two together and posing for Playboy (oops, too late for Gene) and upgrading to George Clooney-grade leading men?
PS: I, Roode, fully acknowledge that all the Roode men have married up. There! Are you happy now?
*Disclaimer: FWTC does not advocate the drugging and/or stringing out your hot ass wife to prevent her from seeing your glaring stupidity and James Carville looks. But, do what you want. We don’t give a shit, you sick fuck.
Yeah, that’s right. Read that title again. It’s for fucking real, baby. I is a married chick, now. I have joined the ranks of domestic married women, everywhere. I am one with all the Suzy Homemakers the world over! Yeah! Betty Crocker and some shit.
Alright, we all know I’m not the poster chick for domesticity. When other little girls were planning their fairy tale weddings, I was drawing up plans to free Northern Ireland through a complex, yet sexy series of events. I never really gave two shits if I ever got married. Never wanted to, never cared, didn’t need the bullshit. Some girls go through, “this is the one” syndrome with every guy they date. Mine was more, “this is the one for now.” No, that’s not a polite way of saying I was a super horny sorority vixen. Fuck, it totally is.
Fuck it, whatever. Who are you to judge me? Damn it, stop being an asshole! Son-of-a-whore!
OK, sorry. I’m better now.
So, I’ve been seeing this guy for a good while. He’s manly, hot, and hung (too much info?). It started out as a semi-regular booty call situation. I say “semi-regular,” because it started off as a long distance relationship. He lived/lives in central Alberta and I live on the ass-end of humanity in Western Montana. That’s a good ten hours apart. But, Momma has a way of becoming a life crippling addiction to men, women, and a few transsexuals. It may not be a record, but the Canuck would drive the ten hours every time I flashed the booty call signal.
The Ren addiction became overwhelming. The hoser fell for me. That’s not anything new. I can’t go a day without someone writing a marriage proposal in the sky via old-timey skywriting plane.
What I didn’t count on and never really had to deal with was the addiction going both ways. This is some sappy shit. I apologize for being all lovey-dubby. It’s out of character for me, I know. Deal with it. I’ll go back to the normal sexist, self absorbed sex kitten you all have come to know and love with your very being.
I figured that after my long life on this planet, I might as well settle for this dumbass. He’s already demonstrated his complete and baffling devotion to me. Who hasn’t? But, as I mentioned, I sorta kiiiinda liked this guy in more than just my pants. Yeah, it’s the L word.
The OTHER L word. Momma fell in love. Fuck you! Why not? Why can’t it happen to me, too? Judgmental prick.
After some deep soul-searching, we decided to get hitched. The reason being.. I don’t have to justify our decision. Doode, I’m going to come through your computer and bitch slap you.
We planned to spend a portion of my spring break in Las Vegas for a super-dooper romantic trip. Hey! Vegas! Home of the drive through wedding. No hassle, no complications, no fuss. Just the two of us, a couple of witnesses, and an official that may or may not be an Elvis impersonator.
We were sold. What’s the point in waiting? No, there is no point. Momma knows what she wants. If she didn’t want it, it wouldn’t happen. I was determined. He was ecstatic for the privilege and honor of marrying me.
Bing, bam, boom; we had our suite at the Luxor reserved, the 20 minutes at the chapel reserved, and a whole assortment of wedding night lingerie to make him praise God for the blessing of being in my life. No wedding dress, tux, or reception. Simple, baby. Expressing our love by making the ultimate commitment in the eyes of our Irish Lord, Jesus O’Nazereth. We know full well that, being both Catholic [IRISH Catholic for me], death is the only way out after the deed is done.
Knowing that this was the only thing that a couple can do in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas, we figured it was a good idea to keep all of this a secret. Why? Well, we didn’t want to put up with a bunch of bullshit from family, friends, my army of devoted followers, etc. I say “bullshit,” to encompass all the possible reactions one can expect when proclaiming a quickie marriage in Vegas. That’s something you want to do after the fact.
The whole thing was set in motion. We were giddy, knowing the big secret. Don’t get me wrong, no one was going to start a war or disapprove vehemently of our union. Well, one person would. But, more on that fucker later. I wanted to do this on our own terms. I guess that’s some of the reason we felt drunk the entire time. That and, well, actually being drunk. But, at least half of that feeling was the complete control of our destinies. We had some awesome pre-wedding ceremony sex. I mean, awesome. Fuck… earth shattering super banging. I think it was the worst kept secret in the entire hotel.
We went to the hotel chapel, had a short run down of what was going to happen, added the cost to our hotel bill, then pulled the trigger. It was easier than getting a gun permit in California. We were Mr and Mrs Whatsits. That intoxicating feeling we had before our wedding just EXPLODED to the nth degree. The Luxor comped a dinner and $100 worth of gambling chips. That’s it. It was awesome. We had rings and just glowed with excitement. Oh yeah, we fucked each other stupid in private and public places.
It may not have been a traditional wedding, but it was OUR wedding set at our speed. We partied everywhere! We took in some burlesque shows, some dirty version of Little Bo Peep with Holly Madison, a topless comedy club, some gambling, and then more things that involved women without tops. It was a recurring theme on our trip.
Before I go any further, I feel the need to debunk any unauthorized rumors floating around. I know “Ren got married,” means different things to different people. This is rumor control; here are the facts:
- I am not pregnant
- He is not pregnant
- We were NOT drunk during the ceremony
- This isn’t part of a Witness Protection Program deal
- I AM NOT PREGNANT. Drop it. Fuck!
I think that may have crashed Facebook for a few hours. The amount of cell phone and internet traffic coming from Edmonton, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Northern Ireland was enough to completely jam up the works, A´ la major terrorist or natural disaster. When you get a bunch of Irish Catholics who have been duped into not participating or attending a wedding of one of their own; it’s war.
We enjoyed our remaining few days off the grid. That is, until my mother informed us that she took it upon herself to book a flight from Las Vegas to Spokane, the nearest grown up airport Northern Idahoans have. I pointed out to her that we didn’t have a car. We planned on flying right back home and get my ride from the airport lot. No worries. Once we land in Spokane, there would be “a car” waiting for us. OK, fine. I owe my family a little leeway here. They want to meet my new husband; their new kin. The husband, on the other hand, smelled a set up.
The Husband, some how, must have heard stories about my family that didn’t put us in a very peaceful and understanding light. Every family has their history. Some were involved in bootlegging during Prohibition. Some were involved with assembling explosives and blowing up columns of British trucks. So maybe there are still some out there fighting for the Cause.* Of course, it may have something to do with some of my family being members of a fairly known MC in those parts. I grew up with bikers. That explains my charm and precociousness.
*Editor’s Note: No one in 21st century Northern Ireland can pinpoint what “The Cause” means. There are a dozen or so out there. Take your pick. Find one that feels good to you! Don’t like it? Trade it in for a brand new cause!
The entire flight, The Husband was preoccupied with facing his own death a lot sooner than he hoped. Getting our bags at Spokane, we meandered to the ground transportation area. A large man in a black suit held a placard with our names written in flowing fashion. OK, so maybe a scene or two from “The Transporter” popped into my head.
We got into this black town car that drove us all the way to my parents’ house. I spent the 45 minutes assuring him that he was creating a scenario in his head that couldn’t possibly play true in real life. [note: I was completely fucking wrong] I was excited! I’m a newly wed and so pumped to show off The Husband, our rings, and share all the stories. The house was coming in sight. I guess my smiling and giddiness was a little infectious. The Husband, for a moment, had forgotten to be scared. Not to worry. That wouldn’t last.
Our car made the last bend and my parents’ home came into view! Wow, there sure are a lot more cars in the driveway than I thought would be in the middle of a weekday… in the middle of the week. Well fuck me running, there’re like a dozen motorcycles hanging around the driveway, too. Oh, it’s a welcome to the family party! We got out of the car and made our way to the front porch to find twelve angry-looking men in MC kutten with club colors standing on the porch like it was a parade review. Among these big, angry cowboys of the road were two of my cousins, Reece and Aodh. I knew The Husband’s train from funtown was now heading for Ass Beating Butte.
Nothing was said. They grabbed Husband and threw him in a van, then took off like the wind. A wind that just kidnapped my brand new husband. None of us would see him for a good 24 hours. But, whatever. My Da was grilling steak and had an open bottle of whisky for his little girl. I’m sure The Husband was fine.
Oh, come on! Stop thinking the worst. He didn’t die. They just pushed him off a bridge. Come to think of it, that is something a guy just has to go through in order to prove his worth. It wasn’t anything too illegal. A long time was spent berating him and pissing all over his manhood. Figuratively. No one was actually pissing on his dick. That’s just fucked up.
*Note from photo research staff: There are just some illustrations we refuse to find.
They tied his foot to a cinder block and asked him if he could fly. Their theory was, that if Husband really loves me, he wouldn’t be afraid to take a leap of faith. Then, without an answer, they pushed him off. Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhh! Splat.
No. There wasn’t a “splat.” With all the commotion, Husband didn’t realize that the brothers hooked him up to a bungee dealy and not a cinder block. He bounced back. His jeans may have been a little more urine soaked than normal, and I am damn sure the boxers he had on had to be burned. They returned him the next day, drunk, sweaty, and dry heaving. Back off, ladies. He’s MY MAN!
That’s sort of how it went over the next several weeks. My mother is very adamant that we have a Catholic ceremony to “strengthen our … something or other.” Something about getting officially married in the eyes of the Church. Now, that will be fun to coordinate. Good luck to them figuring out how to get two families 1000 miles apart to come to a consensus on something like this. Oh well, don’t care. Just more alcohol and meat products for me. I did manage to spend a good week or so with The Husband’s family in Edmonton. As expected, they fucking love me. I’m so charming. Tee hee. Even one of his older brothers was completely enamored by me. I fucking ROCK Alberta!
Oh, that guy I mentioned earlier in the article that would lose his shit when he found out Husband and I got married. It’s the middle child of the family. He is known by many names; newfie, tool, anger-man, the tirade king… But, we here at FWTC call him Roode. That’s right bitches. I married into Roode’s family. Try to stop me now, motherfucker! Your nightmare is now a reality! I’m on the inside, entrenched. There is no way to escape me. Roode, my big brother-in-law, life as you know it has ended. Enjoy!
Kids love Halloween. It’s the one time of year they can get free candy that doesn’t involve creepy old men in bathrobes. Adults love it, because it’s the one time of they year that dressing up like Tyra Banks isn’t exclusively for drag queens.
I don’t dress up. I don’t trick or treat. I don’t have kids so I’m not forced to pretend I give a shit. This may surprise some of you, but I’m not a happy go lucky holiday celebrating person. I wouldn’t put up that fucking Christmas tree if I didn’t get a guilt trip from the wife each and every “have to buy new strings of lights because the ones from last Christmas never fucking work” year. I suggested we just forgo the tree one year. It was like I proposed we put on cleats and go kitten stomping.
Last weekend I hung out with Ren. I was bored and sober. I knew that belligerent Irish drunk had booze. I had wifey in tow for a low key Saturday evening. Adel was out of town making plans for her wedding (that’s right kids- more on that another time) and who the hell knows what Tresckow was doing. Maybe storming Poland?
I was quite happy to sit there, watch TV, and suck down Guinness. The hens were yapping in another room and Commando was on TV. Awesome! Beer, violence, and HDTV. I defy you to come up with a better combination. Defy you, I say!
Somewhere around the part when Schwarzenegger is slaughtering the island army lead by Nick Tortelli Ren had the most horrible idea since CNN’s coverage of the Michael Jackson funeral. “Hey! Let’s make Jack O’Lanterns.” Bitch.
Sure, I protested. You married guys out there know resistance is futile. Over the years my “Fuck it! Whatever!” switch developed a hair trigger. I learned about three years into married bliss that it’s the path of least resistance that gets you laid. So, when someone has a fucktarded idea like this and the wife is into it, fuck it. I’m as powerless as Valtrex is on TilaTequila.
After buying four medium sized pumpkins (four, because the odds of fucking up are excellent when you’ve been drinking since 3) we carted the orange bastards back to the house. First off, let me say it’s completely fucking ridiculous the amount of goddamn work you have to put in just to cut the top off. Then, there’s a shitload of stringy, gag reflex slapping innards that have to be scooped out. This shit looks, feels, and acts wrong. Not only does it feel like goopy, stringy shit from a camel with diarrhea, it’s nye impossible to keep it in one place. If you’re lucky, it just falls on the floor like so much spaghetti of the damned. If you’re not so lucky, it can find its way into your pants. Don’t fucking give me that look. It happens.
It’s not over yet. Oh no, there’s more labor intensive bullshit waiting to play ping pong with your dangly parts. Now you have to scrape the meat of the friggin thing. There’s nothing remotely appealing about that phrase. Scrape the meat? That conjures up all sorts of fucked up Donner Partyimages.
Hold on! Before you start scraping chunks of pumpkin meat, you need to know two things; 1) No kitchen utensil in the known world is built for this and 2) if you take too much out the whole fucking thing will collapse. Who knew this was a science?
Of course, my wife is a friggin genius with this shit. She’s the artsy crafty one. I’m the one that gets pissed off and dynamites random things in nature. Ren, the dumbass that came up with the idea, redefined suck. She bought one of those stencils that is supposed to help you carve designs. That fucker was too complicated for a drunken Mick. It didn’t end well.
Well, that gourd was out of commission. Mine, on the other hand, was still in the race. Sure, it frustrated me a little…
This sucks! Who started this butt fucking tradition anyway? Liquored up, pissed off people shouldn’t be asked to hack the almighty shit out of produce. That’s how Bundy got started.
After another (4) beer, I went back to the taunting, round poop stain. OK, I just stabbed it a few times. It’s fixable. I’ll just get to work cutting out the nose and smile. This shit has to be getting me brownie points with the wife, right? RIGHT? Besides, I know I can do better than Ren’s second attempt.
I decided, then and there, that I would not be defeated by a piece of fruit… or vegetable… whatever. With each slip of the knife and fucked up tooth, I started to fantasize about setting fire to all its smug ass brethren. All of a sudden I understood punkin chunkin. Its not a bunch of drooling momma’s boys who smell like a mix of body odor and Red Bull (not exclusively, anyway). It was mankind’s way of getting back at those sack lickers.
If the night wasn’t rage inducing enough, this Jack O’Cock Knocker saved the best for last. As soon as I picked it up to carry outside the asshole started to cave in. Remember that whole don’t scrape too much of the meat off thing? Well, guess what? I didn’t fucking pay attention to that at all. The face started collapsing faster than Michael Jackson’s cosmetic surgery (yes, two MJ references in one article. I’m not proud).
It was over. The damn thing didn’t even stay together long enough for me to make it out the door. I snapped. To quote a great philosopher, “That’s all I can stands and I can’t stands no more!”
I bellowed “Fuck you gourd!” OK, so it was a bit loud and I’m pretty sure someone called the cops, but I didn’t give a shit. This sadistic orange fuck has toyed with me for too long! I let it drop to the ground and I nailed the mocking tea bagger in the mouth. That’s right, pumpkins everywhere can eat me. It’s on now. Every assclown pumpkin I find will die. I hereby declare my plan for pumpkin cleansing! Pumpkins, watch your backs (wherever the fuck your “backs” are). It’s war now!