Dolt

Spengler

The call out

Having spent the majority of my life locking horns in some type of physical, emotional, or psychological warfare with my father, I think it is safe to say that without a shadow of a doubt Willie Albert Rickel can be encapsulated in two words for me. The first word is generous and the second is prick. An excerpt from the latest phone conversation that transpired between W.A.R. and me, which will be shared shortly, is what seemed to jar my rose-tinted glasses. The culmination of our history instantly came to its tipping point. The needle of my discontent being stirred for the umpteenth time released years of chained up emotions. The beast of anger needs an out.

It is time to confront the family; I am going to actually see if the pen proves to be mightier than the sword. Will it do me more justice to just share everything and get it off my chest versus flying back to Kansas City and hanging them all from meat hooks? I know that harboring all these memories of resentment can’t be healthy. It is my hope, that in sharing what it has been like to survive him along with the other numerous reprobate hillbilly members of my family, it will provide, well I suppose you could just insert your favorite Rob Zombie movie, type catharsis. Due to my OCD, ADD, PTSD, ADHD, anxiety, agoraphobia, depression ad infinitum this share more than likely will not be in a chronological sequence of events, so be prepared.

The harmonic discord was struck over a fifteen hundred mile divide via cellular phone, thank god. I phoned W.A.R. from Venice, California to where he resides in Kansas City, Missouri for my weekly check in. This is purely to maintain the superficial and completely dysfunctional familial homeostasis. Oh, and if I failed to mention it; I am also currently financially dependent upon him. While manufacturing my rebound from a failed graphic tee-shirt business venture and a perpetually life long position as student, traversing my station in life has become brutally obscure. I am here to reveal myself and the shortcomings that delineate me from my behavior, which should not go unnoticed or be completely blamed on my parents, maybe.

I shall steer clear of self-blame at this juncture.

Mastering and evading life can be done in numerous ways.

This absurdity that is my co-dependent microcosmic meaningless existence will hopefully reveal itself to both of us as we march forward. Maintaining my position as an "Off-Site-employee-slash-card-board—

Vice President" to his two car dealerships, topless bar, and whatever other business ventures he embarks upon, I apparently stay willingly locked into this golden cage. I liken myself to an abused house wife, although, the more education I acquire, on W.A.R.’s tab mind you, the more absurd my codependency becomes. It is amazing how the trappings of money can wield a web of complications, which can make the bottom line seem a little bit complicated.

Again, for me, these phone calls are purely political conversations to maintain my paid long distance position. I think.

For some reason this conversation that triggered me to put my pen to paper felt like it was long in the making. I felt the need to spice this particular cell phone exchange up a notch. See, our typically mundane conversations usually traverse the length of two minutes where we will discuss the weather for about a hundred and twenty seconds to where he’ll ask: "So did you get the checks?"

I will then respond: Yes, and thank you, dad.

This is rapidly followed in a speed known only to auctioneers with, love-ya, the inauthentic hollow statement is delivered at break neck speed and has a ring to it, which manifests images of bloated Hollywood agents. The only thing missing with this tag-line riddled with faux authenticity is babe. This hollow statement echoes throughout the abyss. Mastering the timing to where the adversary is left with an echoing clunk sound shattering throughout their ear drum, from a slammed receiver, or dial-tone proffers me holograms of passive aggressive corporate types that attempt to establish some form of dominance via this same methodology, as if curtly ending a conversation will somehow make them less of an asshole, or right.

Speaking of America, and not forgetting the spark of this whole pitfall into revealing my life that was typified from a brief conversation with Mr. Rickel was what triggered me into...action!

I don’t perceive the following tirade to be abnormal.

Nonetheless, the celestial synchronicity could not have been more apocalyptically timed when I decided to pick W.A.R.’s brain about his thoughts on our recently elected 44th United States President, Barrack Obama, which would stimulate a personal revolution.

When W.A.R. attempted to hang-up after his token love-ya, it only left me with a nano-second of time, which I thought: Oh, no, not this time.

I caught him.

Feeling brave, adventurous, and maybe even slightly confrontational, I thought to myself: Why not talk politics?

Even if it was only going to be brief should I not attempt to stimulate a hearty conversation with my own flesh and blood? This is in fact the very man who shot me from his pecker into this blessed life. Don’t I owe him something? So, with this reasoning I asked W.A.R. the following question: "Umm-umm...so da-dad da...da do...do you think that our new President will be good for our American economy and the recent financial concerns for you and everything that is going on at Blue Ridge?"

W.A.R. is the proprietor of two Mazda dealerships in the Kansas City metropolitan area along with a newly renovated gentlemen’s club, Tango’s, which is located in illustrious Spring Hill, Kansas. The best way to describe W.A.R.’s persona is from a character amalgamation of Kurt Russell’s hot shot, used-car sales men character Rudolph Rudy Russo in Robert Zemeckis’ 1980 film Used Cars with a dash of Joe Pesci’s characterNicky Santoro, who was one hell of a brutal enforcer type-o-fellow with a mean ass Napoleon complex, in Martin Scorsese’s 1995 film Casino. This should give you a warm image to draw upon.

Anyhoo, knowing that the automobile industry at the time of this call was lying square in the crapper and that the parent company of Mazda being the Ford Motor Company had just recently sold off all their stock in the smaller sister company, Mazda, left dealers like W.A.R. to squander and survive the economic downturn alone, which found this great white juggernaut in a potentially devastating position. It was my thought that when I posed the question he may respond humbly and I thought somehow the potential economic ruin he could be facing might in fact evoke a more demure W.A.R. The jeopardizing elements of financial apocalypse were merely a façade and the impermeable ego and financial patriarchal position of W.A.R. remained well intact. His response was set on rapid fire: "Listen...Let me tell-ya-sum-than, I didn’t vote for-dat-damn-sum-bitch I can sure as shit tell ya that! I’ll tell ya sumthan else, what that sum-bitch needs is a bunch of older white men around him, helping him make good decisions."

Long pause.

Thinking to myself, "Oh, my, are you fucking kidding me?" Silently, my inappropriate sense of humor that evolved out of the need for intellectual survival from being exposed to these wise folks, douche-bags, and the like, mind sets, at such an early age swooped in to abate my disbelief while, oddly, I went further with the insanity, quietly. My obscure sense of humor began to quell this King of the Hill by way of Deliverance statement. Linguistic fractals flew across my frontal lobe as I conjured thoughts to deflect this dip-shit’s reptilian bigot brain mentality. Within seconds, I was thinking, silently of course, a retort to his statement; the following over share, is an example of how I will compound the absurdity of one’s ignorance and magnify it further. For some reason this is how I apply comedic relief. This coping mechanism of mockery infuses comedy into a dire situation.

As soon as the last syllable fell out of his pie-hole I was thinking: No, how about this you dip-shit Rhodes Scholar? What dat-there-got-damn-sum-bitch really needs is a strong rope and a solid tree to hang his dumb nigger ass from!

I mean just go for it, ya know?

Why beat around the bush?

Ah...the holy glory of the slowly evolving organism that is human kind. This rhetorical bigoted absurd statement of mine posed, as a question towards W.A.R.’s idiocy is truly not meant to offend anyone. However, it is to reflect and juxtapose the fucking absolute absurdity of this one man’s reasoning.

I imagined W.A.R. taking this call while sitting behind his big desk, frothing over a big plate of coleslaw, or what my oldest childhood friend Greg Carabellas coined as white trash cabbage. There W.A.R. sits in all his glory, wearing a pulled back white clan hood to reveal chunks of this white trash delicacy flying out the of his sewer of a mouth while he takes a quick lunch along with spewing prophetic Bible belt insights. Now enter the sounds of the banjo and a voice over dub from Deliverance: You sure got-a purdy mouth...boy why don’t-chu...squeal like a pig...that’s it boy squeeeeelll weee-weee.

Being exposed to such repetitive ignorant rhetoric in my formative developing childhood years makes me feel like I got personally blessed by the Lord Jesus H. Christ, himself. Somehow, luckily, I have been able to use humor to deconstruct the absurdity that was unfolding around me. Humor, learnt me how, to work from the absurd behavioral material presented to me by these mentally challenged redneck predecessors and was how I found reprieve. Mocking my family’s sage advice rather, vocal diarrhea, by overtly exaggerating and reenacting their thought processes, out of their viewing range of course, showcasing my acting talents to my imaginary friends, was my way to escape. We all know those surly little punk skater kids that have quick wit and a smartass inappropriate remark for just about everything, yup, that’s me. Thinking about it I can see how the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree. Imitation is supposedly the most sincere form of flattery, although, be careful and look real close and make sure that it isn’t mockery.

These emotionally challenged shit-birds never looked close enough to care.

W.A.R. and his tonal uneducated self-righteous, patriarchal, guttural Missourian accent always freezes the air waves and completely numbs my noodle, nothing being said about how it activates or participated in manifesting my PTSD. Every time, I hear his voice it triggers a litany of horrid images that flow out of the recesses of my grey matter that apparently have permanently seared my senses along with staining my perception of the world.

Behold, W.A.R., the great white-man, is an un-evolved, yet, we should acknowledge, god love-em, for what he is, an extremely financially accomplished, again, sixty-five year old good-ole-American success story, being that he is a self-made man, and all.

Let’s dive into the shit...ehh?

The first warm memory that emerges while contemplating my father’s response to my present day inquiry finds him even younger than my current age of thirty six...actually, now thirty-seven, after about two years of writing this autobiographical non-fiction pop-culture memoir rant, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Either way, he was old enough to know better, although, his actions will imply otherwise.

Sexual molestation and fun with minors

The beautiful and touching heritage of incest and other glorious familial fucked up-ness that passes down from generation to generation, sparks a schizophrenic like internal dialogue: Well hey John, look on the bright side: if it’s good enough for the royal families, it should be good enough for you!

During these remarkably absurd and not so fond memories that have been stored into my hippocampus; where W.A.R. and his cosigning mindless cohorts, girlfriend Dr. Vicki Baker along with my manic depressive emotionally unavailable mother Joyce Rickel, who still keeps the last name because of the car dealership, I whole heartedly believe despise me and nothing being said about how all three were completely inept in the department of being quality parental figures who adequately invested their ignorance directly into me. This begs the question—is it nature vs. nurture, or nimrod?

The good ole mommy dearest birth-mother hatred spawned early towards me. When I ended up not being a cure all, "keep a philandering man around wonder miracle baby."

This crushing blow which proved to be too much for my mother’s idealism, produced an obscure resentment that weaved into her displaced hatred towards me, the quick fix, for not being able to charm her man enough with my Cabbage Patch cuteness.

It’s sure an obtuse burden to bestow upon an infant expecting him, me, to shoulder the responsibility of keeping an unwilling man committed to fatherhood, or even monogamy for that matter.

Oh, well, it is not the first time the baby has gotten thrown out with the bath water. Somehow, my new car baby smell just wasn’t enough to coerce W.A.R from splitting this mythical Leave It to Beaver fantasy life my mother wanted to act out.

The desire of pursuing new trim and currency overthrew the husband drive. Meeting my father when she was only fourteen my mother should have been completely aware of his inability to tend to anything, although, who doesn’t at some point become blinded by their own unconscious agenda, or childlike hillbilly wantings?

W.A.R. to his credit was more than adamant and clear on not wanting any more children as their lengthy relationship unfolded.

What did you say...more children?

That’s correct my father had already fathered a daughter, my half-sister, Carrie, with her mother Diane, who was my father’s first love, and ironically this Titanic love affair overlapped his fawning over my mother. Go figure.

We’ll do the math later.

Mind you, my father and mother were married for nine years prior to my birth and my half-sister is ten years my senior.

You can do the math, later too.

Yes it gets weirder, but yet again, don’t all families?

My mother set out to entrap my father and forgot to take her birth control pill, a move that has become popularized, and seems to be prevalent in the mating behavior expressed in the lyrical world of Hip-Hop, which suggests that I am in fact an O.G. Baby of a mommy looking for a baby daddy.

I want to punch myself right now.

For some reason, I feel a sense of reprieve after conjuring Riley Freeman from The Boondocks. Hearing his quaint gangster intellect beg the appropriate question in place of myself the little John, that comes to life inside me that never quite had the courage to verbalize the absurd shit that was transpiring around me brings needed comedic relief i.e. "I mean damn bitch...all I want is sum of dat-titty-milk...I ain’t responsible for dis-mother-fucker...it ain’t my fault he be out tryin to get sum new pussy...dat-b-his job bieutch...he-b-a-man...nigga...now why aintchu feedin me!"

Utterly fucking ridiculous but that is what I am thinking, ugh!

The cherry on my mental cake is complete as I imagine Axl Rose sashaying: "Welcome to the jungle we got fun and games we got everything you want...honey we know the names..."

Shame on mom!

She knew what kind of man she decided to marry. I digress.

Adversely, I believe that the nutty professor, played by the great Dr. Vicki L. Baker, W.A.R.’s girlfriend, who he had swooned while she was purchasing a 1972 orange Corvette from my father during his employment at Van Chevrolet in Kansas City just prior to my birth and obviously during his marriage to my mother, loathed me.

Aside, and, if nothing else, my father could be considered a culturally adept man and a model-poster-boy for polygamy all while taking up residence smack dab in the middle of America...hee-haw...Rednecks unite!

Here we come!

Who doesn’t find screaming shitting needy infants and bloated bitchy women repulsive when your agenda is to be a baller and shot caller?

Anyway, for Vicki, I quickly became an unwanted reminder that she had chosen a man with a family. What a stereotypical botched semblance to harmonious American fascist family idealism. Isn’t the vulnerability of childhood great especially when you get to be the outlet for wild pedophilic desires?

Nice!

I am not sure but I think this feller named Donald Winnicott once suggested that a mother hates their baby prior to the baby actually hating them, and prior to knowing that the baby can even be cognizant of knowing that it is hated. Now, I fucking am not all together sure if this is a direct quote and being that I am not writing an academic paper having recently dropped out of a PhD program to write this book...I ain’t gunna worry-bout-it! That is what I’d like to refer to as a nice paraphrasing. So too all the academics...behold my nuts resting upon-ith your chin! If plagiarism is literary blasphemy, then let the dark Lord Satan reign.

With that said, I never presented an opposition, or questioned these behaviors, for the most part.

Oh, duh, how is a defenseless child with a pacifier in his mouth going to know anything about prenatal behavioral science? Without further ado let’s traverse the reignited romance with W.A.R.

....But I shall give credence to Christopher Hitchens’ revisions of the Ten Commandments where he coins the 5th Commandment as being as follows: Hide your face and weep if you dare to harm a child.

I think that is more fitting.

Fake bake stench and cheesy gold chains

W.A.R. during this colossal time of my life was not a fat man, although, we couldn’t go so far as to qualify him as being California fit either. While lying on his back, we connected stomach-to-stomach....euuu...little boy and grown man, father and son, both wearing their matching tighty-whities. Typically, I preferred to forgo my other favorite under garments, which were Bat Man Underoos, to be more like dad, how touching, no pun.

W.A.R.: I am so sorry baby I’ll never do it again.

Recalling his sun baked smell, if it was during the sweltering hot ass midwestern summer, or his fake baked skin if it was during the colder than a witch’s tit of a winter. A man can accomplish so much when he is tan.

My gag reflex is provoked as I recall his sparse chest hair, cheesy gold chain and lastly that fucking stench of his staple man smell dowsed with Halston Cologne, which is maybe one or two notches above Old Spice, or Brut interlaced with strong pungent hints of Marlboro Lights 100’s.

To this day that smell immediately places me back to that horrific time period. This olfactory torture chamber propels gothic desires as I negotiate multilayered flashbacks.

Sublimated dark fantasies emerge.

Day Dream:

The desire to implement serious ill will to any audacious foe that would unknowingly dare to bring a similar potent level of pheromone funk is enormous. I imagine myself behind the wheel of a very large Mack Truck on an open desert highway high out of my mind on a fuel-injected desire to kill this unconscionable olfactory doppelgänger. It matters not that this sod has seemed to manifest out of the ether; it only reconfirms my suspicions that we might be living in hell, and although, being an atheist I contemplate the comfort of nihilism.

My cultural proclivity to the western hemisphere’s Christian indoctrinated notion of Heaven has me postulating over its opposites. Has Beelzebub cosigned this ethereal synchronistic manufacturing of what cannot be completely considered a random happening of a mad-man wearing dated cologne?

Is this all to remind me of our human plight?

Feeling briefly like an innocent Pakistanian being surveyed by an overhead armed predator drone, I cower, or hell, it could also be a heavily armed Apache helicopter looking for live targets...either way.

Quickly, I recall being a not so god-fearing American and feel blessed to not be living in the McCarthy era.

My bloated sense of entitlement now turns its hatred towards these fictitious audacious pheromones of foes I hope never to encounter.

I have been gravely offended.

Refocused and behind the wheel of my day dream that sees me recklessly steering my fantastical eighteen wheeler, that is now currently aimed intent on plowing their un-lubed ass at Mach speed while they, in their seemingly innocent unassuming hygienic mistake lye duck-tapped bare ass naked, ass-up, mind you, to a hospital gurney smack dab in the middle of Route 66.

I am feverishly headed westbound.

Within moments my rig will plow into them leaving their stain appropriately applied to the under carriage of my speeding fury.

The Smiths were onto something with their classic song, Barbarism Begins at Home.

End Day Dream.

Crying and being hollowly consoled while lying on top of this guy’s chest hearing I am sorry, it will never happen again, was a regular occurrence, hence a reccurring lie. The splendor of this particular crying episode could have either followed several different doting and loving parental exchanges of W.A.R. and Dr. Vicki Baker copulating right in front of me.

Who knows?

I mean their sex could have taken place anywhere, and at any time, for instance, as I stumbled in for my morning bowl of Fruit Loops in the kitchen, or, hell, even as presented earlier with me lying right next to them in the same bed.

Only the fly on the wall knows for sure.

For most intellects like these a, purdy-mouth, ain’t used for talking.

I distinctly recall lying next to them in their bed, and having the beads of their sweat hop onto me, as they discreetly moaned in their syncopated rhythmic fucking.

Animals Should Not Try to Act Like People.

If they were guests’ on Jerry Springer’s program I imagine them saying something similar to the following: "John, you ungrateful little bastard! You...boy... should be happy for all of this happenin’ within inches of you...we were learnin-ya-sumthan...boy!"

This behavior. Wait, let me get more honest and appropriately aligned with my families ideology and what would more than likely be their methodology, of rhetoric.

First of all, they could never out themselves, let alone even cop to having actually perpetrated these behaviors.

Goddamn, I so wish that someone out of the numerous family members, or even employees of my father, who have witnessed his rage on more than one occasion would have had the courage, or humanity, to step in and do something, anything.

I guess his rage is a whole other bag of worms.

I was fucked from the inside out within this family.

The truth, if not confronted, solely, by me, would remain a mystery forever, until now.

I can hear my mom’s voice opposing such claims as the sadistic defender to all my father’s behaviors, even still, while allegedly vehemently hating Vicki.

Maybe my mother was too scared to intervene?

The lame buzzer goes off in my head and then I hear my mother’s recanting voice over in my head: Oh, this is all just a bunch of bullshit! It’s all just a figment of John’s imagination! As she then pulls away from Blue Ridge Mazda in her brand new demo. Is this not utterly unconscionable, gross, and sleazy?

Ahh...the sweet, precious taste of mother’s milk.

When you gotta go ya-gotta-go, right?

I guess.

Animal impulses seem to rule the day.

I recall scooting myself to the edge of the bed as these two, Dad and Dr. Baker would go for the gold, fucking. I would inch little-by-little eventually until I encountered the edge of the bed. The options were limited. I just simply oozed myself down onto the carpeted floor. There I would then gently reach back up to grab a pillow and shimmy the over-hang of the comforter to drape over me while attempting all-the-while not to disturb their enthusiastic fucking.

On the floor in a little tee-pee between the underside of the bed and mattress so I could keep warm while these two hillbillies bumped ugg-leez.

As if they didn’t notice me as a small toddler in their bed.

Heaven forbid I disturb their escapade, or break the fourth wall.

You know maybe I am not being a good son, a truly patriotic grateful American suburban youth.

Hasn’t Jesus taught me to turn the other cheek?

Maybe they just got amnesia about me being in the bed?

I mean I was only five, six, seven, or whatever time that other time happened.

Fuck filial piety!

You know I shouldn’t have been just innocently sleeping alone with my dad in a California King sized bed. It is only fair that Dr. Girlfriend marches right in and fucks her man while I can smell the Salton Sea emanate throughout the thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

Life is just...life is always just and fair, John, why can’t you get that through your little cranium! This message has been brought to you by: Jesus Christ and The Church of the Latter-day Saints and Proctor & Gamble.

Now, I am realizing, I should just have been grateful to unwillingly witness this Gallagher-esque 3D performance.

Some kids never get to have the birds and bees conversation with their folks.

I am so blessed...thank you Jesus!

With grand heart-felt family moments shared like these within my own little proud nuclear family, it becomes difficult to pin-point exactly why I am even ruminating over the past?

The loving refinement taught through these role-models surely can’t be questionable.

Who would ever dare to question the merciless imperialistic patriarch, W.A.R?

Nonetheless, maybe for those outside my family dynamic would commonsensically acknowledge how these unconscious under-cover lovers are modern day reenactments of royal dip-shits!

Awe, that’s it, John, all you need to do is hug-it-out.

Puke!

Scrolling through these memories, it’s as if, I am re-traumatizing myself all over again, in hopes to just erect my middle finger with enough substantial evidence to support its hoisting. Strolling around my family bonding memory bank, fast-forwarding, to and fro, while the instant replay button quickens rapid eye movement as I feel a connection to the rolling projection screen that triggers PTSD evoking imagery...ahh memories.

Empathy for what returning war veterans must mentally negotiate after they land back on our god-fearing soil to reconnect with their loving families and status-quo American desires, dreams, and aspirations of having their G.I. Bills honored, provided they are still alive, that is, upon their return, which is such a beautiful ironic pendulum for those poor soldiers, to negotiate, anyway. This is just a thought that pours into me like an obscure comedic sense of tragedy. Well, not to be redundant, but what an irony.

I won’t ever insert the statistics of all those soldiers who have died in battle not being able to aptly claim their G.I. Bill.

As I successfully usurp these suppressed memories that have lain chained to some bedpost in a remote region of my grey matter, it feels as if my brain is a bladder full of piss that begins involuntarily releasing itself all over my own mental theatre. In receiving a glorious barrage of images from numerous related eventful screaming alcoholic rage-full outbursts, emotionally torturous, physically violent episodes, I am reminded that despite all this quality time, there are really so many good memories to choose from.

Let me think here, or maybe, just maybe, I am attempting to remember something specific....hmm...tick-tock...tick-tock-doc!

Oh, that’s it...making room for psyche has allowed for the following to emerge in all this mercurial spewing.

Drum roll please....bam-dum-baa-dum-bam-baa-dum-baa—dumb—Dr.Vicki Lynn Baker’s token sensual back-rubs where she would ever so gently and delicately graze my prepubescent hairless ballsack repetitively as her backrub would seductively transition from parental doting to a Ling-Ling rub, minus the tug, which according to my old therapist in his steeped Freudian horseshit mumbo-jumbo postulated that this may have made me feel somehow unconsciously cheated out of something.

As if, what I wanted was a full release from her, what-the-fuck-ever!

But he was probably right, anyhow.

Old boy, Freud, would’ve probably had a pedophile hay-day with this scene, god love-em, if he was still around with ole Anna Freud, his daughter, we could have all had a real banging party. Sigmund, W.A.R., and Dr. Baker could have sat around doing Scarface amounts of cocaine while they watched me and Anna embark in a little kiddy-porn for their adult viewing pleasure, a very "uheimliche," or un-home-ly scene if you ask me.

Is it not uncanny how human genius coalesces more times than not into maniacal self-serving human absurdity?

A brief sidebar and to disclose a little personal information as a young practicing psychotherapist myself. If I had ever had gotten the chance to meet him, Freud, I would have much rather punched him in his nasty hinged jaw followed with: "What the fuck is a matter with you...getting high on blow and fucking having an incestuous relationship with your daughter...Sir, emotional incest at best, you nasty bastard!"

Similarly, tangently, I would also love to do the same to that motherfucker, no, actually, I would rather drop-kick this guy square in the balls, the great Enrico Fermi the 1938 Nobel Prize winner and coined father of modern nuclear physics, think Atomic Bomb, or Hiroshima and back hand his pal J. Robert Oppenheimer.

This leads me to the enormous amount of wonder surrounding what I would like to do to the marketing geniuses of those who supported and scribed out the great heroic martyr, Mr. Christ.

Oh, and while I am spewing trivial irreverent hatred upon those that are obviously way more intelligent than myself, I also would like to personally ball-dip the Yahoo News nit-whit, or whoever deems themselves the programmer of those fucking arbitrarily noteworthy captions that impedes the accessing of my email account.

For what I wouldn’t give to go without having to witness the absolute meaninglessness of random news flashes like: Saved by The Bell Cast; where are they now?

Who fucking cares, oh yeah, duh, let’s see, would most Americans, monster-truck-going, reality—T.V. show enthusiasts, want to watch American Idol, or the images of Darfur’s genocide unfold? I know, I am being silly, tee- hee, that kind of stuff just doesn’t really happen: "Ha-Ha-Ha...giggle snort like omg totally!" I totally love American Idol...but guess what LOL Dancing with the Stars is really, secretly, my favorite new show now!

Speaking of disconcerting news flashes, I must say that not only was the violence in the home quite an obscure message slash massage, no pun, for me to be exposed to as a child but the compacted oddity and confusion that was coupled with it all vacillating between the extremes from sensual overtones to rage-full outburst, then back to gift giving propelled an emotional roller coaster for me to negotiate as a child. It was so difficult separating between my adult care takers, parents, inconsistently vacillating between being vicious sleazy perpetrators in my life while within the very next unpredictable beat they’d jump to being attentive providers.

Is that bi-polar behavior?

Regardless of the countless trips to Chucky Cheese or the ridiculously frivolous expensive gifts bestowed upon me as a small child they were never quite able to circumvent the absurdity of these mindless vile behaviors. How do you recover and deal with the phantom limb of the etheric emotional body being amputated in childhood?

I’ve got it!

Everyone run quickly...jump in the Chevy we’re off to McDonald’s play ground here we come!

Yippee!

Okay, I know, I am getting way ahead of myself, but for some reason my recent experience with my Dad and Vicki wants to be stated here.

Okay, a lot has changed; similarly, a lot has stayed the same since I was a small child. For instance, my family has recently gone in on purchasing and renovating a condo for me in Sherman Oaks, California.

There are multiple layers at work here.

First of all, my financial dependency to the life of material and financial comfort my father has continued to provide can no longer remain a fantasy. Holding up in really small apartments in Venice, California with towels for curtains somehow allowed me to believe that I was somehow, despite being employed by my father, actually independent. Not so.

I suppose part of my psyche’s desire is to acknowledge my personal shortcomings and blessings provided by my relatives so I can evolve—a.s.a.p.

I can’t see myself staying here mentally or physically...indefinitely, or at least it’s not the plan, although, we know how plans have a funny way of working out.

Needless to say, this refurbishing of the condo, which I didn’t really want to go into because it’s happening extends past the starting point from where I began this story with my inquiry into my father’s political position on Barrack Obama, however, I do feel the following interaction that transpired between Vicki and I aptly surmises her behavior nicely and also simultaneously aptly quantifies my claims.

Prior to this refurbishing venture I had not spent so many cumulative hours back to back with either Vicki, or my father, in over a decade, and the reasoning for this decision came rushing back over me all too quickly.

I don’t want to get to this point in my current life yet without sharing about my history, but I do feel there is a pertinent connecting sleaze-ball vibe that could encompass what I’ve been trying to convey.

Considering that Dr. Vicki Baker is now in her mid-sixties making comments like the following...it is safe to say her level of awareness has obviously not evolved over the past several decades.

Nonetheless, this being one of many subtle interactions, my hope is that it will provide insight.

Without further ado, after having just grubbed a fabulous casual meal at the Hamburger Hamlet on Van Nuys Blvd right below where I was working as an unpaid, therapist at Counseling West acquiring hours towards licensor. Dad and Vicki were enjoying their evening mugs of Miller Lite and had gotten sufficiently krunk. As we were leaving the restaurant and had just stepped outside, Vicki turned to face me.

At the time I had longer hair.

Let’s just preface this for the kids at home. I don’t know if you have ever been touched in an icky way but this, for me, was one of those ways.

Dr. B begins running her fingers sensually through my hair gathering it up and tautly pulling it from my skull, heaven bound, and slurs the following: You know what they called this when I was a kid?

Slightly frozen: Uhh no, what?

I felt so uncomfortable and grossly violated—an instant emotional dark tractor-beam back to a familiar feeling that found me similarly frozen in my childhood...psyche—had been activated.

Dr. Baker: (slurs) They call it finger fucking.

I have since shaved my head.

Pardon the back and forth montage of my life.

Even to this day this vacillating back and forth from switching out the wearing of, The Parent Hat and then erratically jumping to wearing The Perpetrator Hat, is present.

As you can imagine for a child’s mind this was a fucking emotional carnival ride to try and negotiate.

Not to be a borderline paranoid schizophrenic, but, for me, the swaying imagery and very real behavior of my relatives humoristically parallels the absurdity of the truth mongers of those attempting to sell me botched messages from Fox News, as if, all is right in the world.

Hail Bill Hicks!

Anyway, I suppose there’s no need to draw a direct correlate between our nations bi-polar—esque like political shenanigans and how they trickle down into American family politics.

Just know that attempting to deconstruct and hypothesize the when and where along with trying to time, or get a handle on what in fact triggered, The Parent Hat being traded for the Perpetrator Hat was truly a mind fuck.

I know that I have essentially said the same thing in the two prior sentences; however, it was a pretty impacting punch.

America the galactic parent....mood-shift....America the great global perpetrator of genocide!

I am going to visit a clairvoyant American Indian this weekend at Feather Falls Casino in Oroville, California. Maybe I’ll bring some popcorn and inquire how I could smudge this white woman out of my head.

"Dr." Baker...this utterly unconscionable fuck-face throughout my life has gone from helping me with math homework, cutting up sweet little cantaloupe and watermelon chunks, and even placing them into orderly little cute Tupperware containers in the kitchen refrigerator for snacks, to the gentle attentive benign application of rubbing sunscreen on my little pink sweet prepubescent body so I could keep from being sun burnt at the pool.

Now—Zip-zap-poof-POW!

This highly educated twat is grubbing on my ball sack, watching me get the tar beat out of me and all the other cosigning licentious behaviors she approved of either through silence, or participation.

They call it finger-fucking.

You sleazy nasty pedophilic bitch....good job...right on!

Would it be an uneducated hillbilly-ism and slightly misogynistic to postulate she is a dumb cunt?

Shouldn’t a grown ass person know better, especially a highly educated human being, someone that received a PhD in education?

Doesn’t it just warm the cockles of your heart?

Well it kind of makes me wanna stick a pencil in her neck. Thanks teach.

No Child Left Behind!

Is it any wonder that I would have a cantaloupe food fight with my friend, Doug Jacobs, now deceased, that would find Dr. Baker cleaning the hidden cantaloupe seeds off the wall up to three years post our food fight?

Psychoanalyze that a bit for me would ya!

By the way, where was W.A.R. during these intimate massages? Better yet what was mother doing when I would return completely terrified from a weekend at dads and preceded to develop what I now know was an undiagnosed form of enuresis? I mean we know Willie Albert Rickel was up in da hizzy when I was getting these little hairless nuts groped upon. I know for a fact that the guy didn’t bolt down to the local Quicky Mart for some leche.

Let me think and dare to postulate a smidge.

Now, considering the previous evidence, is it not, now plausible...while considering my dad’s behavioral repertoire of scholastic conscious mindfulness to tolerate, or even quite honestly, to direct Dr. Baker in the perpetrating of these fun house ball grazing activities? Particularly while considering...well I guess you are able to engage your own doubts at this point, however, further down the road there will be substantiating evidence that W.A.R. loves himself sum good ole boy voyeurism.

However, let us not soon forget, or justify Dr. Baker’s own educated adult decision making capacity and give her such an easy escape route especially while considering that we all have free will, praise Jesus! Nothing being said to the fact that with her extensive doctoral training in education, she would undoubtedly have seen her exposed to just that, hours upon hours of what...that’s it kids you’ve got it education, especially regarding the development and well-being of children...hmm. Hi-5 the loving cosmos and the slowly evolving organism that is man-kind.

With that said let’s first push-on to a little excerpt about the elusive Dr. Vicki Lynn Baker than the good ole Zoom-Zoom—Blue Ridge Mazda:

Insert charities below and reveal jazz hands of Scholars and Dealers:

Kansas City, Missouri (Focus/PRWEB) December 21, 2010.

The Vicki Baker Scholarship was established to provide college scholarship funds to financially disadvantaged students graduating from one of the district high schools. North Kansas City Schools Education Foundation serves as the fiscal agent for the Vicki Baker Scholarship funds. North Kansas City Schools Education Foundation will disperse the Vicki Baker Scholarship funds each July as directed by the Foundation Board of Directors. Checks will be made payable to the designated institution of higher education with instructions to credit the scholarship recipient’s account. Each scholarship for the Class of 2011 will be awarded for a minimum amount of $1000 and up to $2500.

(http://www.nkcschools.org/sites/default/files/Vicki_Baker_scholarship-2011.pdf)

While we’re at it, and as mentioned above, let’s push onto the piety of Blue Ridge Mazda: Kansas City, Missouri (Focus/PRWEB) December 21, 2010.

Blue Ridge Mazda, Kansas City’s oldest and most experienced Mazda dealer offers a full line of quality Mazda cars and trucks. In addition to the business objectives of providing Mazda vehicles of exceptional quality and affordability to residents of the Kansas City area, Blue Ridge Mazda approves of and supports the efforts of the Mazda Motor Corporation to use earnings from business operations to assist numerous charity organizations around the United States.

(http://news.yahoo.com/s/prweb/20101222/bs_prweb/prweb8033563)

Nothing like a little cognitive camouflage voila’ jazz-hands mesmerizing others with your own self-canonizing sainthood to deflect from your true pedophile desires with some good ole fashioned philanthropy...ehh?

One might think at least for Vicki that she would have actually picked up on an hour or two of this information and possibly applied these wonderful insights at home especially considering she would have been privy to first hand insider knowledge surrounding the adverse effects and treacherous outcome of bad parenting...and dad...well he’s in a class of his own.

No such luck.

The profundity of knowing that Dr. Baker knew exactly what child abuse consisted of, along with knowing that she had an illustrious career, where she received numerous accolades for her outstanding job, intervening, on a daily basis, in the lives of all those poor troubled children at the North Kansas City High School where she was a Principle for twenty plus years, makes her behavior with me a laughable irony.

"God is good...god is great...he put a pedophile up on my plate."

Maybe she could talk to the school board and see if they could work this little ditty into the children’s curriculum as a new sing-a-long song versus the kids doing the pledge of allegiance to an inanimate object, the American flag?

God bless America!

I guess their hoping that as long as YOU don’t know the truth...it’s all good!

Beating a dead horse, you’d think that the countless hours of continuing years of education and constant exposure to the latest techniques on how to be a good educator and parent might infuse her home life, right? I mean she was involved with the lives of children on a daily basis...WTF! Meanwhile back at the bat cave she acts-o-fool! Oh...and obviously still is...involved with the lives of children...hint-hint DCFS.

Things that make you go...hmm.

Anyway, with that particular episode of the great Dr. Vicki Baker rubbing my little walnut carrier, age six, or so, with love of course, making her a thirty-something year old woman; this happening would take nearly a decade of time to pass for insight, coupled with some discovered carnal knowledge to surface and illuminate the depths of her obscenity.

I guess it takes time to see through your own particular family dynamic, provided that you can even survive it without killing yourself, becoming completely fucked-up on drugs, involved in gangs. You know the stereotypes. If one comes out alive, rehabilitating one’s trust, confidence, and over all self-esteem is going to be a lifetime work.

Let’s jump around a bit here...hang on.

I’d like to jump ahead, or back, in my life during my early twenties to a specific incident that transpired while I was working out back in the wash bay at Blue Ridge Mazda on one particular day, where both Thomas, my cousin, dad’s side, and I had been summoned to my dad’s office where we received curt instructions to go to his new home and retrieve either this, or that.

At this point, I had never stepped foot into his new Missouri McMansion.

Those other times that saw me rarely break my personal vow to never stay overnight with them made at the age of twelve was while he and Vicki still lived at the haunted-molester-duplex.

Anyway, what I would end-up discovering that day at dad and Vicki’s new home with Thomas completely trumped whatever he had originally sent us to their new house to retrieve...and it was completely benign in comparison to the discovered carnage.

Quite frankly, recalling this memory nearly makes me lose my train of thought.

On a deep level, I truly feel that there are at least two prominent unconscious levels why my father sent both Thomas and me to his house that afternoon.

It all seems way less random now.

Post M.A. degree in Clinical Psychology and an MBA degree along with a year of a PhD Depth Psychology program under my belt.

Can you say career student kids?

I should probably remind you that no financial aid was needed. Dad footed the bill for it all: GO TEAM DAD!

There is no doubt this was the easy route.

While still being an employee of his company, I wouldn’t be able to qualify for any student loans due to the fact my income is too high. Anyway, kind of a weird double-bind situation you know.

It’s like do I say: "Fuck you and thanks but I am going to go work at Subway and get school loans like everyone else!"

Ha, see, I am a little spoiled pig-fucker.

I must say this family loan, versus taking the seemingly more difficult route has nearly killed me emotionally, mentally, and spiritually, if there is such a thing.

Interesting thought...is how this allows for dad to devalue and trivialize my process being that he is paying for it all.

Hail Caesar!

It’s like paying for Catholic private college with drug money.

Where was I?

Oh, that’s right hypothesizing why my father had sent Thomas and I to his new McMansion.

Okay.

My first hypothesis is that W.A.R. was essentially ordering me to his new home that I had yet at that particular point refused to set foot into.

I was twenty-one.

I feel it was a pure exhibitionistic power move on his end. Since I hadn’t been in his haunted-molester-plex but a few times since making my pact at twelve.

Secondly, I think on some level dad knew unconsciously, or sub-consciously, whatever, if he left both Thomas and I unattended to grab this monkey wrench, or whatever he had sent us to his home for...we would probably regress and snoop to discover exactly what he was trying to keep hidden in his very dark closet.

Actually, I don’t give him this much credit.

I think it was all unconscious.

Euu...Montague, how utterly Jungian, of you!

It’s like the successful crook...that after years of building a multi-million-dollar empire leaves his business journal and accounting information at an Applebee’s.

After studying the mumbo jumbo psychology of our slowly evolving species for a few years, I feel it was in fact his submerged unconscious guilt that propelled his order.

Again, this is just an amateur hunch though...so I don’t step on the toes of Dr. Phil, or anything.

Nonetheless, Pandora’s Box would be usurped when I would discover a Polaroid sex-picture turned upside down in a closet drawer.

This is my amateurish hunch.

What do you think was his purpose for sending us out to his house?

I think, well I know, that in finding this one particular picture while being accompanied by Thomas and within only moments prior to being intercepted by Dr. Baker’s timely coincidental arrival...where she seemed to materialize out of the ether was very cosmically telling to my dad’s after thought, paranoia...of sending us on the mission.

Rushing into the home from the garage Vicki emitted this riled-up shaken level of concern and paranoia that oozed through the air with self-consciousness that, for me, implied fear and guilt.

My thought upon reflection is that my father had a delayed epiphany post his hubris narcissistic showmanship of blindly sending us off to be left unattended in his new palace.

Yeah, now that I mull it over, in fact, considering my father’s sociopathic capacity it makes more sense that Vicki was sent to intercept us, hence her rattled disposition.

I’ll give dad this...he sure was close but as they say, close only counts in horseshoes.

To this day re-conjuring this memory still repulses me.

This all went down around when I was twenty-one.

Is this a decade from when I claimed Dr. Baker was grubbing on my ball sack?

I am horrible at math, I have always hated teachers...hmm...I wonder why?

This excavated evidence seemed to provide concrete proof that W.A.R. was not only a voyeur during my childhood but was still fully actively engaging in the process.

The contents of the photo revealed that the old behaviors were still very alive and well.

Ironically enough that didn’t hit me instantly though.

I guess them professionals call it shock; anyway, digesting this image took some time. The skeezed out feelings that emerged from that Polaroid provided crystallized clarity to how these two adult caretakers made me a child sex object. Their fucked-up-ness that was revealed with this find proved tantamount in exacerbating all my psychological frailties. This image helped codify, pierce, and sear through my stored childhood unconscious memories like a Viking ship of retrieval and peeled back all the infractions into an instantaneous crystallized waking moment of consciousness, voila instant enlightenment!

When I discovered this Polaroid in my early twenties it was as if I recovered, unfortunately, a lot of submerged childhood memories and they just began to re-flood my mind and...let me tell you they weren’t good ones.

I mean these two weren’t the Himalayan Yoga psychologically conscious retreat going proud parent types who would consider going off to chant Om-Namah-Shivaya to hone their parenting skills. These two have been locked into the same fucked-up behavioral pattern since I was a baby, if not prior. For that matter this kind of behavior doesn’t just come and go without some serious intervention, self-reflection, and hard internal emotional work with oneself and quite possibly with a qualified professional.

Picking-up a fucking parenting book from the local bookstore was not on their radar.

Duh, that’s right doctor....doctor...Dr. Vicki Baker.

Ha-Ha!

Yeah, there’s a god.

OMG!

I just recalled how my dad used to love listening to these motivational cassette tapes of this very successful businessman who also so happened to have a hair-lip, much to my father’s delight. This interwoven with dad’s fanatical listening to his Bob Seger and Neil Diamond 8-track tapes would make for a auditory ritual that could only become the envy of the deaf.

Fucking hilarious!

If an educational tool could line his pockets with cash, dad was down; however, if it should aim to shift his consciousness, or his sexual repertoire, hark, I-spy, blasphemy!

Hi-5!

Sorry about the back and forth.

This Polaroid image I discovered provided a straight line to a Where’s Waldo LSD-acid trip. It was a very fluid thread that emerged coupled with a kaleidoscope of Dionysian imagery. This image provided carnage for the ethical code that these two reprobates aligned with; although, like most, it remained a secret to the outside world.

Again, I am sure all of this would instantly be denied by my family.

I think that reality also speaks volumes...but what’s that?

With all that said, I feel quite goddamn confident at this juncture in my little story, all education aside, and just shooting from the hip, from my good-ole-common-sense pee-shooter that it’s a safe approximation to deduce that if W.A.R. enjoyed watching Dr. Baker getting fucked by his well-endowed minimum-wage African American employee, James the porter King most sexual acts probably not being of question, or scope of their practice.

Zip-Pow-Poof—

I opened the drawer in one of the numerous sprawling master bedroom closets, over-turned a Polaroid, and from my p.o.v. that image brought waves of insights and terror that came washing over me.

Call me crazy, but somehow this picture allowed me to not only personally substantiate that both W.A.R. and Dr. Baker are sick and twisted fucks but at least two very kinky individuals.

My hats off to ya, but, you don’t expose a child to this type of behavior!

Whatever two consenting adults...hey I am all for fucking sheep, chicken, dogs, horses, goats and whatever else you want to cross-pollinate with: Just don’t fuck with an innocent child!

Sure, I wasn’t a child at that moment, no, I was a recently married early twenty something, although, I think this picture nicely substantiates and bolsters my claim regarding their kink.

Anyway, let’s get to the juice.

How might you ask, did I identify that this black man doing a heroic plowing of Vicki’s crotch in this discovered Polaroid was in fact James?

Don’t worry; we’ll get to fucking James!

Pondering, absorbing, this image for even a moment tossing it around my cognitive grappling-pit, it’s like having a snap-shot of a family reunion where you see your Uncle’s back. You can just tell by the posture of the person because you’ve seen them on a daily basis throughout the course of your life. Plus there was something distinguishing that gave it all away to me. Being that I’ve also worked side-by-side with James at Blue Ridge Mazda in one of the wash bays detailing cars since I was twelve until twenty-two where I finally escaped Alcatraz, and moved to Venice Beach, California...I can confidently say I had a pretty hardy idea who this guy was from all angles...well at least while his pants were on.

The hilarity in all of this for me was, or is—even still to this day- we both remain employees of Blue Ridge Mazda.

Let’s go into this picture a little bit further.

The unmistakable mane of curly golden hair that had been wildly disheveled and yet frozen into a snap-shot in the form of Medusa like styling was a head-dress brought to you by Vidal Sassoon and some good old fashion fucking: "Because if you don’t look good...we don’t look good!"

At this point in the drama...I had walked from the drawer over to the bed where the picture had been taken to line-it-all-up.

Sure enough whoever the photographer was...had snapped the image at the foot of this very bed...in the master bedroom where I was now standing.

Wild shit!

James was obviously doing a quintessential Olympian like pummeling of Vicki’s wanton-vagina.

This observation made sense.

I could see Vicki’s arms, legs, and hoo-haa spread wide open; actually, James was blocking this region with his large member.

With that said this is a pretty intense image to digest especially post a failed motocross career, stint in the Marine Corps, years of continuous fucked-up abusive behavior from parent to child, nothing being said about the dysfunctional marriage that I was currently experiencing.

The discovery of this picture did not bring any ease to my fears of infidelity possibly transpiring from a Cronus like father figure who relishes in eating his young...either physically, or psychologically, if you will...with my opportunistic exhibitionist now, ex-wife, Amy.

I mean wasn’t it, or shouldn’t it have been...the job of some other guy to bring wenches to his father, not his son, me?

It would seem only appropriate considering W.A.R.’s polygamist patriarchal malevolent behavior.

The only character qualities at this point that gave this approximation any fallibility would be Amy’s ethics, which weren’t without shade.

But let’s remember kids she was on the dad sauce at this point: demo (free car), job, insurance, and perks.

Again: "Things that make you go...hmmm."

Holding this psychological delicatessen and empirical evidence of my father’s cuckolding and voyeuristic captured delights not only crystallized a very interesting dynamic between him, Vicki, and James, but my mother as well.

I mean come on...my very own birth-mother had been cosigning all these licentious behaviors all my life. At no point throughout my life did either Vicki the well educated faux step-mother, nor my very own mother, step in to abate my suffering. Vicki constantly willingly initiated and participated in the vile behavior and my mother passively reeled, playing martyr, coveting her own misery, distracting me with slippery jazz hands claiming that: "It was what I wanted to be around my father and that she just couldn’t leave because it would hurt me."

Never mind the traumaS-laden child with insomnia, enuresis, and rage!

Mom never had a problem with watching me scream, cry, drool, shake, and convulse when I would retell my weekends to her, after being exposed to both Vicki and my father over the weekend. To no avail. She, in fact, never had a problem sick-ing him on me like a fucking rabid dog at her whims. I mean one of my mother’s most coveted favorite stories she would gloatingly, sadistically parrot to me was the following: I remember how you used to ‘beat’ your head on your crib for hours as a baby. It was always followed with a hearty solo laugh...can you say emotionally inept neglectful mother?

There goes that innate mother drive right out the window and here enters Harlow’s Monkey.

Holding this photo handily implicated and validated all my childhood midwest suburban horrors.

I could no longer be brain washed, either implicitly, explicitly, and, or through hush-money. Straight-up physical superiority and psychological abuse had worn a groove into my psyche and my grasp on any childlike innocence was gone...forever...if it was, at all ever present...to begin with.

Fuck you motherfuckers!

Having this evidence yet again concretized these fuck-heads’ outlandish behavior.

Dr. Baker’s pedophile ball-grazing, massaging escapades of some years gone by were no longer something that I thought...I had merely imagined, or wanted.

Also the animal-like-hunch riddling my intuition with piercingly white-hot-suspicion surrounding the fidelity of my marriage kept coming in waves. The plausibility of my wife and father having an affair seemed visceral. The discovery of this carnage simultaneously produced two diametrically opposed feelings: one being relief and the other fear. It completely boggled and flooded my young underdeveloped abused psyche.

It is imperative to present that out-right, boldfaced lying even while the right hand might in fact be firmly placed on The Holy Bible while the left hand reaches, stretches, with a snake-handling-preacher fervor heaven bound, would absolutely...be nothing...for a good ole down home midwestern sociopath like my father and to keep any obstacle worth annihilating, like this, kept as a family secret...unto the grave.

A secret like this, in most families, and most assuredly mine, will always go to the grave.

Maybe yours is the same?

These sub-humans regularly acted out physical violence, coercion and fear when I was a child...hell, even as an adult, to win me over to their way of seeing things. Nothing, again I say nothing was, or is beyond their unconscionable desire to evade the light of consciousness.

The airing of this familial dirty laundry as I stroke these keys on my computer brings on baroque images of rhetoric from bygone ages as reels of footage drape across my mind in black and white History Channel-like imagery elucidating how the tyrannical dogma of how agriculture, religion, and industrialization emerged on the backs of children by proxy of our species’ narcissistic desire to fill the world and multiply...with more mindless ignorant fucks that malevolently impose their wills on the next oncoming generation of the new batch, of children...a never ending, ever returning cyclical shit cycle.

Wailing...weeping...and gnashing of teeth all reminiscent of...Hades.

But hey, all I know is that the plight of humanity is way above my pay-grade.

With that said, upon discovering this Polaroid in my early twenties and with W.A.R. not being present to immediately defend his actions while waving his Men in Black mind-eraser-wand, I also had adequate time to actually ponder the profundity of my tweaked-out family dynamic.

If this non sequitur rant that will encapsulate the totality of this book has any message...let it be for every child to write their Memoir, autobiography, whatever, thereby letting the future generations of parents know that all