So I’m stressed.
Tomorrow we have to go to the last class, which consists of a potluck dinner and listening to a bunch of kids tell us about how they’ve aged out of the program because no one wanted them.
They want us (people who are willing to adopt) to sit through a panel of teenagers who no one wanted. I honestly don’t think I’ll make it through tomorrow without crying like a 10 year old schoolgirl who has just been punched in the arm by the boy who likes her. I’ve made it through 4 classes and countless horrifying and terrible statistics without shedding so much as a tear, but I know tomorrow will break me.
We had our first Home Visit Monday, and to be honest it felt like a 2 hour verbal rectal examination. I think this coming Monday will be worse. We’re at the end of the process folks. You know that old saying about tying a knot in the end of the rope and hanging on? I’ve got the knot tied, but I’m struggling to maintain the strength to hold on. I’m not funny anymore. I’ve pretty much given up on the comedy thing for now. I’m gaining all my weight back that I lost. I’m taking things out on friends. I’m taking things out on my readers.
But I’m not stressed because I’m doing something I’m not supposed to be doing. I’m stressed because I’m taking the biggest leap of my life. I’m about to claim responsibility for the lives of two children. Two people who will look to me for guidance and understanding about why the world has treated them so badly. Two people who will call me daddy and love me unconditionally, until they’re teenagers when they will hate me unconditionally.
We’ll more than likely be included in the meeting the Case Managers have in December to pick out available kids we might like. Which means that if we make a decision in December, we might have kids before Christmas.
Will this be my first Christmas with children?
Also, the adoption is not finalized until six months after we get the children. You know what can happen in that six months? A long lost family member can suddenly show up and take our kids away from us. No consideration on our part, just, “Well, thanks for watching them, they’re going home now.”
How would we be expected to recover from that? I can’t, and I WON’T compare it to a miscarriage, because I don’t think it’s even close to the same. However, I will say that it is probably the next worst thing. About the time you are starting to realize how much you love YOUR kids, they can get taken away. I don’t think that’s right at all, and I pray every day that this never happens to us.
But what if it does?
What if after we adopt Alicia gets pregnant?
What if the kids have some sort of undiagnosed problem when we get them?
What if I lose my job?
What if, what if, what if?
I know y’all don’t have the answers. I don’t expect you to be able to comfort or console me, and I don’t expect there to be much more tolerance of these “non-funny” blogs, although some would argue they never were funny to begin with.
The Missus told me today that she likes to read my blogs because I always say more on here than I do in real life. I guess that’s true. I’ve always liked to write as opposed to talk. After she reads this, she may realize that she’s bringing children into a household with a crazy man and run off and leave me. I can’t say that I’d blame her.
I’m ready, y’all. I am. Don’t get me wrong. I’m ready to be a daddy. I’m ready for sleepless nights and diapers and giving advice on how to properly start fires. I’m ready to discipline, I’m ready to teach, I’m ready to learn. The thing is, all that is coming at me faster than your mom, and right now I’m just stressed about it. It’s okay to be stressed though. Surely I’m not the only would-be parent that’s stressed about it. And I don’t think I’ll be the last.
So bear with me and give me some time, and I’ll turn this whole thing around to where it was, only maybe a little cleaner because my kids might one day stumble over this jewel, and I don’t want them getting the wrong impression of their dad.
Geez. I’ve got to go hide my archives.
Alright folks, I’ve gotten lazy.
“Isn’t he fat? Isn’t he pretty much always lazy? Isn’t that WHY he’s fat?”
Hey. Shut up and read, okay?
Here’s the deal. I’ve decided I want to rent some space out here to some other bloggers. Rent’s cheap, too. All you’ve gotta do is answer some questions. There aren’t even any wrong answers. Even if there were, I wouldn’t tell you, because that’s cheating, and cheatin ain’t cool.
In all seriousness, I’ve decided to let some people guest post on my blog. And by people, I mean ANYONE. I won’t be picky. The questionnaire is simply for introduction purposes. I’m going to start doing it on Fridays. I’ll pick one person a week, probably on a first come, first serve basis. I’ll schedule it up, and let you know the week you’ll be posting.
I won’t have any predetermined topic at all. You may blog about whatever you want, for however long you want. As much as it pains me to say this, I won’t edit you in any way. Whatever you type gets posted.* If you want some attention, this is your chance! I’m only gonna post about it this one time, and we’ll see how it goes. Now, if no one wants to participate, I shall be very hurt emotionally, and I might never blog again.
I’m totally jerkin ya. Y’all can’t keep this fatty down. That’s real.
Here are the questions, and please, pretty please, can you just email me the got dang answers? I don’t really wanna hear any complaints about that, people. I mean, it’s for your intro. You don’t want other people seeing your intro, do you?
If you don’t feel like guest posting, hell, just put your answers down in the comment box. It might make for some interesting reading, because I damn sure didn’t put any in this post.
Sorry about that.
[Terms and Conditions: Travis does not take responsibility for your post. Anything you post can be used against you when I throw you under the bus for either not being funny, or bashing your neighbor because you don’t think he reads me. I do not want any guest posting privileges in return, however, I wouldn’t mind an offer, because seriously, no one has asked me yet, and that’s gay. Just sayin. If you have any questions, please email my sexy ass and let me know. I will do my best to get back to you within a completely reasonable 86 to 678 business days.]
*Within reason. I won’t tolerate any Jesus or Duke bashin. Well, maybe Jesus Duke. Maybe. Woo. I’m totally gonna need to say my prayers this evening.
Now, without further blog ado; The Questions!
If you could punch one famous person in the face, dead or alive, who would you punch? Why?
You are stuck on a desert island with only a compass and your mother in law. Give me your most creative escape plan.
Go find the closest person to you, or call someone. Ask them to rank you on a scale of 1 to 10, how funny you are. Give us the relation, and their answer.
What is the worst deal you ever made for sex?
You can have one song stuck in your head the rest of your life. What is it?
I don’t have much in the way of material today, so I thought I’d leave you with a few things.
Today at school, I had a teacher walk into the office and exclaim, “I can’t get on Victoria’s Secret website! It’s blocked for some reason!”
I replied, “Yes. Because there are a lot of half naked ladies on that site.”
Her response was, “Well, I really want to get on it to look at something.”
My answer, “You and every teenage boy at this school.”
The same teacher came in later complaining about the blocks not being strong enough, and when I asked her why she thought that, she said, “Travis, I’m can’t even look at you when I say this, but last year there were (turns her head and whispers) lesbians having sex with dildos, on the computer. It was so awful!”
So yeah… Let’s unblock Victoria’s Secret.
I was doing things today and came across this pic on the internets.
When I first saw it, I said to myself, “Geez. They can’t even get these kids, no matter how…ahem…special, to look at the friggin camera for a picture. That’s bad photography right there.
Blind. As in, can’t see. As in, I have a pretty good chance of it happening to me by having the diabetes, and I am pretty sure that I increased it quite a bit by posting this. I showed the article to a student, pointed out my opinion, and she laughed. It’s comforting knowing I won’t be alone when Jesus shakes his head in shame at me.
Seriously though. Camera guy. Can I have a word?
I know that doing this picture was tough. I know that the first time you said “Look up here!” to a blind kid while you were trying to take a picture, you almost died of embarrassment and crawled under a rock for a few days.
However, I just think that you could have done a little bit better job at attention getting. That one poor girl in the middle is staring…ahem…looking…ahem…pointing her head at the floor for goodness sakes! Yell or something! Make a loud noise! Set a firecracker off! Anything, man.
I personally think this man should have his license or whatever taken away for this atrocity. This is shameful. Looking at this picture should not have caused me to chuckle. And it shouldn’t have caused YOU to chuckle either. Look at it again. You just chuckled. Now we’re all getting the head shake from Jesus because camera boy snapped his fingers a couple times, said, “Say Rainbows!” and snapped the picture before even making sure sponsor lady on the end had all her ducks in a row, and you thought it was kind of funny.
Yeah, yeah. I know I’m a horrible person. I know that this is outrageous. Blah blah blah. I’M NOT MAKING FUN OF THE BLIND KIDS. I can’t stress that enough. That’s real.
Someone, and I won’t say who, but SOMEONE wanted me to put a Braille translation up here.
…. …. …… …… …… …… ….. … . .. … …. .. . . . …… …… …. … ….. …. …. …. …. … .. . . . . ……
… … … ….. … . . … … . . . . . . …… ….. ……. ….. .. .. ……. …. …. …. …. .. … …. … … ….. …. .
I’m totally gonna lose followers on this.
That’s right. They’ve written a pamphlet.
During this post, I’m going to touch on a few things they’ve written inside the pamphlet, and give my own suggestions for helping you determine if your child is on the drugs, and what to do about it if they are. Because if the state of Oklahoma can do it, well, so can I.
First of all, they introduce a “Four L Formula” to help you with your drug finding adventure. It is as follows:
Learn all you can about drugs and the symptoms of drug abuse.
Look for the signs of drug abuse.
Lead others in living a drug free life.
Love your child unconditionally.
I’d like to give you my “One B Formula” for helping to keep your kids off drugs.
Beat them daily.
There ya go.
Now, here is a list of some symptoms of drug use that they provide you with. I’ve provided my own possible reasons for these symptoms in italics.
Mood Swings:Mood swings? Really? Let me tell you what causes those mood swings. Hormones. You turn 13, your body says, “Hey, we’d really like to have a bunch of sex right now. Wouldn’t that be fun?” And you say, “Naw, I’m only 13, and I really don’t know how to talk to girls.” You body replies, “Hey. Girly man. Hey. See this down here? Yeah… I’m gonna give you one of these every morning and every time you see a girl in class unless you start doing something about it.” Then you scream and cry and HAVE MOOD SWINGS.
Overly Self-Centered:Hmmm… This only describes EVERY SINGLE TEENAGER I’VE EVER FREAKING MET!
Frequent colds, sore throat, and coughing:So, I’m pretty sure your child has the swine flu. You might want to go get that looked at, instead of telling little Johnny that you did the Devil’s Dandruff one time back in the 80’s, and that’s how you wound up getting mom pregnant, and how he’d have an older brother but you made her sell him so you could get that really kickass Fender guitar that Hendrix used to play that show where you tried pot for the first time.
School Problems:Your kid is probably a dumbass. I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you might consider a tutor, or maybe even a shorter bus.
Tendency to Manipulate:“Hey mom. Dad said it was cool with him if I went to my friends house but I needed to ask you.” Yeah, I manipulated both of them. But my friend didn’t have any White Pony, he just had a BB gun.
Overly Emotional: It’s called a period. Let’s keep it real here, ladies. Shouldn’t you have already had that talk with your daughter? “Listen. For a short time each month, you’re gonna be completely stupid. Just over the top emotional and unreasonable. This isn’t because of drugs, it’s mainly because we HAD to eat that apple back in the Garden of Eden.”
Apathy:“I don’t care. I don’t like myself. Do you have a razor blade? I like to cut my thighs and dwell on the pain. It puts things in perspective for me. The whole world is about pain. Can’t you feel my pain? I like non conformity.” They’re called Emos, and you should refer to my “One B Formula” for these types.
Change in Dress and Friends:Once again, IT’S CALLED HIGH SCHOOL! “Mom, this shirt is so lame.” “ARE YOU ON THE DRUGS, BOY? ARE YOU? I’M CALLING OUR PASTOR! WAIT TILL YOUR FATHER HEARS ABOUT THIS! I WANTED TO KEEP YOUR OLDER BROTHER!!! WAAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!” Come on, now. Just because little Jeffrey decides he wants vertical stripes instead of horizontal doesn’t mean he’s smokin that crazy stuff. Now if Jeffrey comes home with a 37 year old man named “Beater,” who drives a 87 Tempo with spoiler on the back and is missing most of his teeth, then yeah. Get concerned. And if Susie comes home with Beater, shoot Beater. I’ll help you bury him.
Strained Communication:This is most likely happening because your kid is SO much cooler than you. Weren’t you cooler than your parents? Yeah, I know you listen to “Birthday Sex” in the car with your kid because you want him to know how cool you are. Yes, I know you don’t understand the words, but you googled them and memorized them so you could sing along. No, this doesn’t make you any more cool at all to your kid. In fact, it actually makes you less cool. Buy a motorcycle. Let him drive it. Then you MIGHT be cool. Might.
Dizzy spells, stumbling and shaky hands:Are you letting your kid go get coffee and energy drinks every damn 10 minutes? Did you buy a case of “High Octane Extra Hot Monster Energy Bull Rockstar Amped May Cause Dizzy Spells And Shaky Hands” energy drinks because you wanted to be “cool?” Yeah. look in the mirror there, wonder parent. Caffeine is a drug. That’s real.
Now look. This is all in good fun, but seriously. Work on the relationship with your kid. That’s how you’re really going to be able to tell if your kid is trippin on the acid. The pamphlet goes on to say this if there is a confirmed drug problem with your kid:
If you are certain your child is using drugs, have a strong confrontation. Wait until he/she is sober. Avoid overreacting, screaming, crying or moralizing. Don’t apologize for searching the room or making the accusation and don’t make deals or try to bribe the child to stop using drugs or alcohol. Be specific in your accusations and present any proof that you have. Then be willing to enforce curfews, ground the young person, and withdraw privileges. Restrict the young persons access to cash. Parents should back each other up on all disciplinary issues. Never let the young person manipulate the situation by playing one parent against the other.”
I agree with all of this except screaming at your kid. I say scream at them. But they left out one thing.
Are you hitting your drugged up child?
You should be. That’s real.
I don’t mean punching them in the face. Although, a good throat chop will solve most of your problems. If you do it right, they can’t even cry afterwards. They’ll just sit there and choke. If they stop breathing, you might call an ambulance, but only after they confirm through various hand signals that they will never do drugs again. You might even make them sign something. After they agree to it, dial the 9 and then the 1, then make it very clear how you have the power to push that other 1, and that if they aren’t going to cooperate, you can make another child that looks just like them.
But seriously. Spanking is way overlooked. I got spanked up until I was 16, and you know something? I DESERVED EVERY ONE OF THEM I GOT. Will my children get spanked? Hell yes. Will they deserve it? Hey, I’m their father. Of course they’ll deserve it. It’s something to think about.
Even though I shouldn’t have to say this after all the reading you’ve done on this blog, I’m gonna say it anyway.
[The thoughts and opinions expressed in this blog are the thoughts and opinions of Travis Sloat and are written down to MAKE YOU LAUGH. Please do not send me any email about what I horrible person I am for wanting to throat chop your kid, or how I’ve called him/her a dumbass.]
I love you all, and have a happy Sunday.
Alright guys and gals. You know what time it is. No, it’s not Hammer Time, and it’s not lunch time. Well, it may be lunch time, depending on when you are reading this. Either way, it’s TMI time. This is where I tell a particularly humiliating or embarrassing or just plain gross story about myself, thus alienating myself from close friends, relatives, and my followers. If you want more of this sort of stuff, click on that picture down there of those two old people gettin it on. That will take you to LiLu’s world of TMI, cause she is the originator of this shiz.
Disclaimer: Once again, I will ask that if you are a family member, or someone who doesn’t really care to know about my sex life, please go away. I asked nicely, and I even put a please in there. That’s all I can do. From here on out, you continuing to read is a direct admission of your own responsibility for what you may discover, and I will in no way be held liable. That’s real.
One last chance, you could even click right here, and this will all be over for you.
When The Missus and I realized that we were going to get married, we started participating in…ahem…fun activities with each other. You know the type. You take off most of your clothes, and you put things in places… That sort of fun. Sexy times, if you will.
One weekend, my family was going camping, and I was going to go with them. They were camping about 10 miles from where we lived at the time, so I had decided to go back to the house and get some stuff for the weekend. I had The Missus with me, and we got back to my moms house, and we were alone.
That sexy half bunk bed that I slept in was right there, and we were alone, so we started some sexy times. (I was around 19 or so, so sexy probably had nothing to do with it) Anyway, I put on a prophylactic, and things got going.
One thing we failed to notice was that on our way home from the camping site, a storm had started coming up. A bad storm. A storm that convinced my mother and brothers to not be in a tent. A storm that convinced them to just return home for a bit since they only lived 10 miles away. Where The Missus and I were. Where we were…ahem…doin tha bidness.
Now I had taken precautions. At the time, there were two locks on our front door. The top was a deadbolt, and everyone had a key to it. The bottom one was on the knob, and no one had a key. This meant that if you locked the bottom knob, no one could really get into the house. So of course, I had locked both locks, to keep people from coming in and disturbing us. This kind of worked.
When I say kind of, I mean that in the middle of the lovin, The Missus says, “Oh my gosh, did you just hear someone knock on the door?” Let me tell ya folks, I performed the quickest dismount in the history of all dismounts. Olympic style, bitches. I didn’t know what to do. I went running around pulling on my shorts, sans underwear, and told her to get dressed. At this point, the knocking on the door had turned into banging, and also banging on my window. I just want to take a moment to thank my little brothers for that.
I finally got dressed, got her dressed, and I went to unlock the door. I was greeted by 2 annoyed brothers and a very pissed off mother. She was so pissed that I thought I needed to talk to her a little bit about what was going on inside with the doors locked while no one was home. I was not truthful by any means. I told her that we were making out, and that we shouldn’t have been there alone, and that the door shouldn’t have been locked.
However, I forgotten one thing in my moment of hastily getting dressed.
I HAD NOT TAKEN THE PROPHYLACTIC OFF.
That’s right. In the middle of talking to my mother, my sweet, saint of a mother, I felt a slip on the ol cash and prizes. Then another. This was the jimmy hat, just working its way off in the natural course of blood flow rushing away from certain areas of the body. Yup. I had a condom coming off while I was trying to tell my mother that nothing had happened that would require the use of said condom.
I had to do some major position changing, that’s for sure, but somehow I kept it on. Then I did the awkwardest walk back to my house that I have ever done, and went into the bathroom to rid myself of the problem. To this day, I’m pretty sure my mother knows what was going on, but I just don’t think she wanted to admit it. I think it would have broken her poor saintly heart.
This, my friends, is my TMI Thursday.
I have 50 followers now.
I’m not particularly proud of how I got my 50th, because it may or may not have involved me telling Lily over at Tapdancing In The Dark that I would pee in her bee hole. Mostly may. Oh, the measures I will go to to get a little more attention. Sigh.
Anyway, I basically have something to get off my chest.
When I started this blog, I didn’t have any idea what a “Follower” was. I just knew that I had some things to say, and that I thought other people might find them hilarious. When I first started getting followers, especially ones who didn’t know me, I was thrilled. Then I got a few more. Then a few more. Next thing you know, I’m promising Sweet Baby Jesus that if I can get 20, I’ll never ask for anything else ever again. Then I won a caption contest, and for sure, I hit 20 and then some.
Since I’ve promised to always keep it real here, I’ll tell ya. I got obsessed. It became my mission to get as many people to join me in my little laugh factory as I possibly could. I may or may not have physically assaulted a few of you to make you join. I offered Jeff over at This Is Why Your Hold Time Is So Long candy bars. I threatened Ed over at Ed’s Funny Pages by stealing one of his kids. The point is, I just got too wrapped up in it all. I have bitched to Ed about one certain person that REFUSES to follow me, even though I’ve followed them for 568 years. I’ve sold out, in a sense, because I’ve even followed people that I didn’t think were funny because I thought they’d follow me.
No more. I’ve hit 50, and I’m done worrying about it. 50 people think I’m funny enough to put up with my bullshit everyday, and I think that’s pretty kick ass. I should be thanking those of you who deal with my insipid rantings, and that’s what I’m going to do.
Thank YOU! (see, that’s in big letters, so you know I mean it.)
So here is my pledge to The 50.
I, Travis Sloat, do hereby pledge and promise to empty all of my spare minutes and seconds of free time (unless involved in any of my many other hobbies such as golfing, fishing, playing sports badly, yelling at Tony Romo, cheering on the Duke Blue Devils, eating, singing recreationally, making sweet sweet love, cooking for The Missus, and being lazy) into this blog, making it the funniest thing you have ever read, which will in turn make you laugh until you cry, which will make you want to send me large sums of money.
There ya go.
This brings me to part two of my little spiel.
Some of you may be saying, “That little bastard is talking about people not following him, but he’s not following me, and I’m funnier than he is, plus I have bigger testicles/boobs.” I can understand how this would make you feel. So. Here’s what I’m asking you to do. If I am not currently following your blog, please send me a message, or put it in a comment, that you want me to check you out. I will do so, and upon discovery of your funniness, or the picture you send of your testicles/boobs, I will follow you straight into the fires of hell with a water pistol and some Gatorade. (it’ll have to be sugar free Gatorade, because of the diabetes.)
I just want to say that I love you all, and if any of you ever need an organ or legal counsel, I will provide both personally. That is to say, I will represent you myself in court, or we will drug someone, take their organ, put em in an ice bath, and find a cheap hospital that may or may not sterilize ALL their instruments, but by god they don’t ask questions about the fake HMO card that we’ve made out of a copy of your drivers license and the back of cereal box.
And that, my faithful few, is Real.
I’ve had it. I’m sick of it, I’m tired of it, this is gonna keep me up nights. Would you like me to tell you what it is?
This is what it is:
Yup. I’m tired of it. It’s ridiculous, it’s racist, it’s stereotypical, and it’s wrong! What if I just had a glandular problem? What if I have really big bones? What if I got stung by a wasp a long time ago and the swelling hasn’t gone down?!?!? Should I have to pay extra for my shirts just because I may or may not have a fat ass?
Fellow fatties, today is the day we take charge. Let us rise as (a really heavy) one and combat these flat bellied shirt makers that think it takes an extra 2 bucks to make our shirts bigger! You and I both know that money is not going to that poor little 6 month old Vietnamese girl who is stitching them up for 35 hours a day! You’re still giving that little girl 2 cents an hour! With no dental! This is wrong, fellow fatties, and it has to be dealt with.
Here is what I propose. All of us fat people need to start wearing larges. Or mediums. Here is what I think will happen. Those pompous flat bellies will see our bulging out wobbly bits, and they will be so disgusted, they will eventually concede that our shirts should cost the same as theirs! This next part is not for the weak of heart or stomach. You’ve been warned.
I’ve taken the liberty of giving you an example, and I’m sorry.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna go order a pizza.
(Note to reader: I really am sorry that you had to see this, but I needed to make a drastic point. I’m not proud of what I’ve done, but I am proud of what the result can be. And yes, The Missus had to help me take this off.)
Don’t judge me. She was cute, and I was desperate. Are you sure you wanna read the rest of this blog?LiLu says it’s time for……***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!
Okay, so I didn’t take her as a date. At all. Let me start this thing out the right way.The Missus and I were officially split up for this particular prom, but she’d already bought the dress and neither one of us had anything to do, so we went together. We had dinner, went to prom, and then I dropped her off at her house so I could go party.Yeah, I know, I’m a keeper.Anyway, Kid Funk, myself, a friend of mine who we’ll call Squints, and my cousin who was going with Squints all packed into our vehicles to head out to Four Mile Road. We get to the spot, and there really wasn’t much to do. Turns out, my cousin liked Kid Funk better than she like Squints. As it also turned out, that feeling was accelerated by alcohol consumption. As it ALSO turns out, she was the best damned drinker I’ve ever seen in my life. She walked right up to a guy, took his bottle of Hot Damn, and chugged about half of it in a single gulp. She then proceeded to drink everything Kid Funk sat in front of her, which included Peach Schnopps and Coronas.I was not much into the drinking, and I wanted to leave the party earlier. (I was a tee totaler until I turned 21. Never touched alcohol until then.) Since I was her ride, my cousin had to come with me. My drunk cousin. Since my drunk cousin was all hunched up on Kid Funk, he wanted to follow us home. (He wasn’t drinking either.) Since Kid Funk was gettin hunched on instead of him, and since Kid Funk was his ride, Squints went with The Funk.Any road named Four Mile is gonna be a winding country road. John Denver style. I get into my car, my drunk cousin gets in my car, and the first thing I say is, “Don’t throw up in my car.” She says, “I never throw up when I drink.” I think maybe all the times she’d drank, she’d stayed kind of still. I was about to take her down 2 miles of John Denver hell.We get maybe a half mile down the road, and she gives me The Look. You know the one. The one you get when you realize that maybe Hot Damn and Peach Schnopps aren’t the best combo in the world. Or maybe the look you get when a democrat is elected president… (Seriously, I’m kidding.) Either way, she gave me The Look. I rolled down my window faster than a man who’s just farted in the car on his first date. She looks out the window, looks back at me, and throws up all over my floorboard.I won’t repeat the names I called her.We got back to Squints house with no further incident, and I told her to say goodbye to her date and her hunchee. I start driving her home to her house 30 miles away, and in my rear view mirror I see lights flashing. Here I am, with a drunk COUSIN in my car, in a dress, with throw up on the floor. I’m going to jail. Turns out, it’s just Kid Funk, and he’s saying that everyone at Squint’s house thinks I should bring her back. Giving him a prompt “hell no,” I went on my way.When we arrived at her house, she was not even in a conscious state. I had to push her a few times and maybe slap her gently a couple times. I wanted to do much, much more. She woke up, opened the door, gathered her dress around herself, and passed out on her front lawn.Folks, I DROVE OFF. I left my cousin laying passed out in her prom dress on the front lawn. Call me what you want, but a man can only take so much. That’s real. I immediately went to hose out my car, and try to find a place open 24 hours to buy air fresheners.I’ve never spoken to that cousin again, or any of her immediate family. I don’t suppose I ever will. I think they should thank me though. I could have left her in that house with Squints and Kid Funk. I’m pretty sure The Funk has more class than taking advantage of a passed out prom princess, but Squints for sure woulda loved her up. I was just pertexting her honor.So yeah, I’ve taken my cousin home after prom. Wanna fight about it?I just wanted to give you all a sample of some of my Facebook thread conversations. The picture underneath is what started it all, and I posted it so you can see how things unraveled at the end of the thread. (You HAVE to give me credit for that pun.) I was tagged as the funniest, because yeah, it’s what I do. I’m the fat funny guy. Anyway, welcome to a little slice of my life.