Watching Tom Cruise Have Sex With Your Dad is Awkward (and so is this title)

By Apryl’s Antics

It’s 1983 and who the hell is Tom Cruise? I didn’t really care because my dad was taking us to the movies to see “Risky Business”—a teen movie!  My dad never took us to anything without Clint Eastwood in it. This was an anomaly of monstrous proportions. Was he visited by the three ghosts of teen empathy?

So, we’re in the theater and Tom is dreaming about the naked babysitter and I’m okay. Then Tom’s parents are going on vacation and leaving him in the house alone and I’m still fine. Then Tom does his Bob Seger dance and I feel better because watching a guy lip sync in a shirt and underwear is good, clean family entertainment. After that, Tom gets a hooker and I start to get nervous. They do it on the stairs, which is kind of awesome and horrible at the same time. Then comes

the TRAIN SCENE  and I’m wishing I could climb up into the screen and throw myself on the tracks because my parents and my 10-year old brother are there next to me and all I can think of is that they’re wondering whether or not I know what is actually happening and if I’ve done this sort of thing (even though they don’t have subways or commuter trains in Florida) and do I have SEX and how often and when did I start and do I use protection and am I a hooker or a slut and is it time for an all girl boarding school or prison and how can I get out of here or will myself to spontaneously combust and then my dad actually says right there in the theater, “WHERE’S RODNEY DANGERFIELD?”

So there you have it. My father thought he was taking us to see “Easy Money”. I’m not sure which is worse.

Happy Birthday, Sis!

Updated by Apryl’s Antics 3/3/10:  I have a pretty awesome husband. He had arranged for a sitter to arrive after the kids got home and told me to be ready to leave. We hit the road and headed towards a little sushi restaurant we haven’t tried, yet. It was still daylight and I wasn’t ready to eat, so I suggested we stop by one of my favorite stores to do a little browsing….Goodwill. Yes, I have a profound love for thrifting. Here’s why:

I found a wicker, two-handled purse! What a birthday!

But wait, there’s more. I also found this:

A two-handled purse with elephants!

If only I could combine the two. But, you can’t have everything. And Mayopie, I bought the wicker one. It’s mine. You can’t have it.

My Brother’s Back Hair Is So Long He Could Donate It For Wigs

My brother eats lucky charms. Not the cereal. Real lucky charms that he steals from little kids.

My brother spends his Saturdays with a fork wandering the highways searching for fresh roadkill.

My brother saves his finger and toenail clippings in a coffee can for a secret project he won’t tell us about. Occasionally he lifts the lid for a lingering whiff. I’m wondering if there really is a “secret project”.

My brother owns every record you’ve seem advertised on TV. His favorite is Zamfir, Master of the Pan Flute.

My brother goes to Walmart and pokes babies when the parents aren’t looking. Now you know why your kids mysteriously freak out at Walmart.

My BFF and I once super glued my brother’s toothbrush to the bottom of the bathroom drawer and he didn’t notice for three days.  This one’s true.

Who needs a jersey when you can just shave your name on your back?

Updated by Mayo:

Oh, truthy, ay? K.

Apryl ate a roach once. I think it was just a leg.  I ate poop when I was 2.  My wonderful sister watched the whole thing happen rather than try to save her little brother from ecoli poisoning.  Nice. (That was going to be her ace in the hole. Boo ya! I stole that one from her.)

One of these days I’m going to pay someone to chase her so I can get a shot of her running.  Now that’s some shit you have to see.

My sister has more back hair than I do, and it’s all braided.  It kind of looks like Predator lives in her shirt.

I’ll be back with a photo.  Food calls.

 

 

 

My Sister Likes To Smell Sweaty Feet

That’s really not true. But I need to strike back and I’ve been busy.  Rather than tell a long story, I’m just going to say some mean stuff.

She licks the remaining contents out of cans of everything.

She once killed a man, not to watch him die, but to make his children watch him die.  Then she ate his children.

She loves the smell of farts.  She follows people around just waiting for it. It’s disturbing.

She’ll eat anything off of the floor, even if it isn’t food.

Okay, Apryl: You go next. I’ve got work to do. This helped, though.  Just update this post and let me have it, wussy face.

My Brother Was A Lesbian Once

In order for this post to make any sense at all, go here.  First off, I don’t want to see anyone’s kids get hurt. That video is fucking hilarious, though. Even my kids thought so. Well, the boy wasn’t too impressed, but the girl loved it. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Now since I’ve become a mom, I’m a little less entertained by kids getting kicked in the head. I think it has something to do with being able to project your kid into that scenario and getting all nervous that the other parents are judging you for letting your kid wander out into the middle of an acrobatic performance. Or is it just that I’m feeling like beating the living daylights out of that acrobat for kicking my kid in the head? (Bitch needs to watch out where she does her cartwheeling. This is a children’s birthday party!)  Either way, I’ve grown older than that girl in high school who watched that video several times EVERY DAY for about two months.  Am I less mean now? Probably not. I’m just a different kind of mean. The kind of mean that doesn’t mind telling you about the funny as hell shit my brother did when he was little. Like the time he ate poop. That was really funny. I’ll have to tell you about it sometime.

It’s a little known truth my brother dabbled in the lesbian lifestyle when he was three.   He carried my purse around…in the crook of his arm like he was a little old lady about to go shopping. It was a two-handled wicker job with a raffia elephant stitched on it that my Grandma brought me back from some tropical vacation. Clay will tell you the elephant made it masculine.   I say you could have bloody skulls stitched on it and it would still be a two-handled purse. 

He wasn't fooling anyone dressed up as a pirate, either.

Around the same time , he commandeered one of my larger baby dolls and would dance with her to my mom’s John Denver records in the sunken living room. (Remember sunken living rooms? They were like regular living rooms only about three steps lower than the rest of the house. I always wanted to fill ours with water and turn it into a swimming pool, but Mom wouldn’t let me. What’s the point of a sunken living room if you can’t fill it with water? Stupid 70′s.) Anyway, the doll’s name was Sha Sha. He LOVED Sha Sha and kissed her all of the time.

I don’t know what my mom must have been thinking at the time. The purse, the dolls, the show tunes…. I FORGOT TO MENTION THE SHOW TUNES! I’ll save that for later, too.

It’s On The Way–with pictures

I swear. I’m going to kill him.