All Along the Watchtower

When I was a teenager, I ran with a pretty rough crowd; I was a rocker and a stoner who loved to chase girls and mastermind mischief. Our group never had anything in the way of a leader, but some of us could always be counted on to come up with brilliant ideas to occupy our time. At least they seemed like brilliant ideas at the time, but that's probably because we were young and stupid. Seriously stupid. Most of these brilliant ideas seemed to center around a common theme like, "Hey, let's go find some pussy," or "Hey, let's get fucked up," both of which are, of course, absolutely brilliant ideas, but my personal favorite one was, "Hey, let's get fucked up and find some pussy!"  Unfortunately, the reality of it was that we would rarely find any girls or only some of us did and if you didn't get a girl, you were stuck going Han Solo, but even if we did or we didn't get a girl, you could always count on getting wasted. Some things are just reliable like that and just as reliably, I still can't get a girl...

Occasionally, I would put forth some sort of minimal thought and effort into my critical thinking and come up with some brilliant ideas of my own; a master plan, if you will. Let me give you a tiny tidbit of advice here. If you ever hear me say the words, "I have a plan," run. Just fucking run. Don't look back, just keep running. Trust me, it's for the best, not to mention your own safety. More importantly, if my mention of said plan is followed by the words, "What could possibly go wrong?" forget running, you should probably Duck and Cover.

On second thought, you should probably just go ahead and bend over, stick your head between your legs and kiss your sweet fucking ass goodbye. Yeah, it's that bad.

It was late one Halloween night, when I was a wee lad of just sixteen, or so. We'd been busy scaring trick or treaters, punting pumpkins and festively decorating homes with eggs and toilet paper tinsel ('twas the season and all that shit). The hour had grown late, the streets were deserted and the town was dark, One of us had a brilliant idea which had something to do with getting wasted (it was a pretty popular theme). We had managed to accumulate mass quantities of beer, several bottles of Jack Daniels and a large bag of some very low quality weed. We were drunk, stoned, bored and stupid; a recipe for disaster if ever there was one. Idle hands and minds being the devil's playground and all that shit. We had the will and the means, what we didn't have was common sense and a place to chill. We were trying to figure out where we could go to guzzle down our favorite alcoholic beverages and smoke our wacky weed unmolested. 

There were eight of us, my car and a trunkful of party favors.

That was when it happened; like a bolt out of the blue, I had a sudden epiphany. It seemed as if the heavens opened up and a solitary moonbeam shone upon me like a halo. It was like a lightbulb turning on over my head' Unfortunately, the lightbulb popped and no one noticed.

"Let's go to the water tower," I blurted out.

"And do what?" my friend Dave asked.

"Climb it, dipshit," I responded. "Climb that bitch and get fucked up."

Heads nodded and glory was imagined in the alcoholic fog of our underperforming brains. Everyone agreed that it was indeed a brilliant idea. I honestly believe that we were so messed up that if I had suggested playing tag in traffic, everyone would have agreed that it was a brilliant idea too. Morons. They had the power, they could have stopped the insanity at any time, but nooooo... they just had to listen to me. Who in their right mind listens to me? Sweet jumping baby Jesus.

Dave called shotgun, I closed the trunk and we all piled into my car. I miss that car, it was such a sweet ride. A 1972 LeMans with a big ass 350 and it was cherry as shit.

Dave, Doug and I were in the front seat and when I turned my head, I saw the other five guys were crammed into the back seat like some sort of sausage factory. If that last sentence didn't contain any overtly homoerotic overtones, I don't know what the hell would, but it just wasn't like that, okay? Fuck. I'll tell you when to put your mind in the gutter and it's not going to be in this story.

I cranked up the stereo and we peeled out of the parking lot; nitwits on wheels. It took maybe three minutes of breaking various traffic laws and possibly a misdemeanor or two as we weaved our way to our destination. Miraculously, we arrived at our destination unscathed and without harming anyone else. Property damage was pretty minimal, depending upon your definition of minimal. Your definition, mine and that of law enforcement may tend to differ somewhat. Remember kids, it's only illegal if you get caught.

I hopped out of the car and I watched as the sausage unlinked itself from the back seat and exited the vehicle. Yeah, I know that was a really bad pun. They can't be fucking zingers every fucking time. Work with me here, people.

I walked around to the back of the car and I popped the trunk. I turned around to see all of my friends staring up at the water tower with their mouths hanging open. Idiots. This is why I'm the evil genius.

"Are we really going to climb that?" Doug asked.

"Of course we are,"  I answered.

"B-but what if someone falls or gets hurt?" he stammered.

I looked at Doug as if he were a particularly slow member of Congress and I said, "D-don't be such a pussy. We're going to climb it, we're going to hang out and we're going to get wasted. Grab some beer and get going."

"How are we supposed to get the beer up there?" Dave asked me.

Fucking assholes and their obvious asshole questions get obvious answers from other fucking assholes. Now say that shit three times fast.

"We're going to carry it. How the fuck did you think we we're going to get it up there? It's not like your mom's here and we could use her pussy. Hell, we'd even have room to spare."

"Fuck you, dickhead," Dave shot back.

A witty retort if ever I've heard one. The sting of butthurt was strong in his tone.

"What I meant was," he contined, "How are we supposed to carry everything up there? I know we have to carry it up there, I'm not fucking stupid."

"Yes, you are," I told him. "You're just in denial about it."

Sometimes, it's tough being an evil genius. Like a demented fucking Einstein on meth or crack, or meth and crack, or crack, meth and just a little bit of heroin thrown into the mix for fun (whatthefuckever, you get the picture), I laid out my carefully crafted plan.

"I have a backpack and a gym bag in my car. We can fill them both up with beer. We can stuff more bottles in our pockets, along with the booze and we can just climb on up."

Everyone agreed that it was a brilliant idea and it was. That's why I'm the fucking mastermind, bitches.

We packed up the beer and I went to lift the backpack. Holy shit, it was heavy, but I didn't dare look like a wuss; the pack would atack any weakness. I picked up the backpack and put it on my shoulders, adjusting the straps. The bottles of beer clinked together, making a cheerful little sound. I liked that sound, but I'm a very easily amused idiot.

I was just about to start climbing the ladder when Dave's voice stopped me.

"Wait," he said, "How am I supposed to carry this gym bag up there? I can't climb the ladder with just one hand."

I turned around and I looked at Dave as if he were something that I had just scraped off of the bottom of my shoe.

"Do I have to think of everything for you?" I asked him. "Take off your belt and loop it through the handles of the gym bag, Buckle it up and wrap it around your neck while you're climbing up. That should solve everything."

"I can't do that." Dave squealed like a little girl. "I'll break my neck."

"I know," I said and then I smiled.

I'm such a dick.

"Look, dude. Throw the belt over your shoulder and climb up. The weight will be fine and you shouldn't have any problems."

And there you have it, yet another brilliant idea from yours truly. It's not always easy being an evil genius. It's sort of like a curse, really, You know, like the kind of curse that a really pissed off, batshit crazy Gypsy lady would put on you. I did that once, you know. I actually pissed off and I mean really pissed off, a batshit crazy old Gypsy woman. She actually cursed me, too. I laughed at her. I thought she was going to have a stroke. She was wild-eyed and the spittle was flying. Her voice grew louder and more shrill as she continued to curse me and all my future generations (sorry, boys). Or, maybe she was just asking me if I liked pizza. I don't know, I couldn't understand a single fucking word she said. I'll tell you this, though, I'm still here and she's long dead. Who's the one that's laughing now, bitch? And I'll still be laughing, all the way to Hell.

Gypsies...

Gypsies, tramps and thieves, At least that's what all the people in the town would call them.

Look, this was a fairly simple and easy to accomplish plan. It only had two steps.

Step 1 - Climb the water tower.

Step 2- Get wasted.

How fucking hard could it be? Why did these knuckleheads have to keep trying to screw up the execution of my painstakingly crafted master plan?

I looked up at the water tower. The top of it seemed to be a long, long way off. I took a deep breath, released a long sigh and I started to climb the ladder. The backpack full of beer pulled at my shoulders, weighing me down and making my climb an arduous one, but I was determined to reach the top and I was damn sure going to do it. I can be one stubborn son of a bitch when the mood strikes me.

We were all strangely quiet as we started our ascent, but we were soon back to our normal rapport of insults and stories about the dubious virtue of our mothers. I was about halfway up when I heard a shouted, "Oh, fuck!" followed by a loud crash. The sound of breaking glass shattered the stillness of the night.

"I dropped the beer," Dave yelled.

Well, no shit, Sherlock. Thank you, Captain Fucking Obvious.

"It slipped. It wasn't my fault."

The fuck it wasn't. Everyone yelled obscenities at Dave, but we continued our climb. By my reckoning, we still had well over a case of beer with us, plus the whiskey and the weed, It would have to do. I told everyone to be quiet and to stop making so much noise. I hoped that no one had heard us and called the cops. We'd be shit out of luck and trapped if they showed up.

After what seemed like forever, I made it to the top, which was a good thing because my arms felt so numb, I thought I was going to fall off. I pushed open the grate and I climbed onto the catwalk, with the other guys following shortly thereafter. It had been a hell of a climb and my arms hurt like a bitch, but I acted as is it had been nothing. I cracked open a beer and chugged it down. Nectar of the gods. I think it was Bud, or Mickey's, or some other nasty shit like that. It's not my fault; I didn't know better, I was young and stupid. Now, I'm older and just as stupid, if not more, but at least I know what good beer is and it sure as shit wasn't the swill that we drank that night or any other, to be honest. You know what, though? It worked; it did the trick, it brought the buzz and in the end, that was all that really mattered. Besides, without any girls around, there was no need to go all out and spend our beer money on fancy pants high-brow crap like wine coolers or Boone's Farm Berry Hill. Sometimes, quantity has a quality all its own.

We looked out over the town and beyond, to the bay; it was a beautiful sight and then it was over and done. Time to party.

We had just finished our first round of beer when one of the guys lost his fucking mind and chucked his empty bottle over the railing, where it then followed the laws of gravity by landing below in an explosion of glass. This was quickly followed by several more bottles and subsequent explosions before I was able to put a halt to this particular brand of madness.

"Stop that shit, you fucking imbeciles!" I hissed "People will hear it, if they haven't already, get pissed off, if they aren't already and call the fucking cops, if they haven't already. I really don't feel like getting busted right now, so please stop throwing the bottles and calling attention to us, you stupid fucks,"

Sometimes, it's like I'm The Brain and everyone else around me is a fucking Pinky.

It seems that in the land of the fuckheads, any imbecile can be king. You know what? It's good to be king.

We drank and we smoked, we laughed and we joked; trading gossip and insults and telling stories about all of the girls that we weren't having sex with. We had a really great time for all of about the next twenty minutes, or so.

That's when the first cop showed up. We watched as he got out of his car and looked up at us. He shook his head, walked back to his car, turned his spotlight on and shined the light at us. The light was blinding.

Personally, I thought it was pretty rude. Fucking inconsiderate, if you ask me.

The cop looked back up at us and then he yelled, "What in the hell are you boys doing up there? Get your asses down here, right now!"

Crickets. We didn't say a word.

"I ain't fuckin' wit' you boys," the cop yelled. "I said to get down here right now and I meant every goddamn word."

"No! Fuck you!" my buddy Mike yelled back. "I ain't coming down until I finish my beer."

You know, that might not have been the best thing for him to say, you know, given our current situation and all.

The cop yelled again, "I'm gonna' kick yer ass when I get my hands on you, boy,"

The cop then picked up his radio and called in the situation just as a second squad car pulled up. About a minute later, they were joined by a supervisor,

We were pretty fucked.

Whose brilliant fucking idea was this, anyway? It really wasn't my idea that was at fault, though, it was the  fault of the idiots who botched the execution of my perfect plan that were at fault. So.... not it.

We quietly discussed our options and we didn't have too many. Okay, we only had one. We were trapped and we knew it, but we didnt think that the cops would climb the water tower to come after us. In for a penny, in for a pound, we decide to stay up there and party until we finished off all of our consumables. Since we were getting busted, we might as well go out with a bang and Fuck The Police! Damn, I'm so fucking gangsta.

Two more spotlights were now trained on us, joining the first. More squad cars arrived. The shit that we were in was getting deeper by the moment.

The police continued to order us to come down and we continued to ignore them. We kept our eyes on the prize, which was becoming incoherently intoxicated and we were winning. Burnouts 1, Cops 0. We kept drinking our beer and passing the bottle of Jack Daniels back and forth, while snoking bowl after bowl of whatever that nasty shit was that was trying to pass itself off as marijuana.

I should have expected it, but I wasn't all that long before empty bottles started sailing over the railing again. For some reason, that seemed to really get the cops all agitated and shit. We heard the squelch of a PA.

"You boys probably think that you're pretty funny right about now and y'all probably think that you're pretty screwed. Let's all be reasonable here. You'd best do the smart thing. the wise thing and climb on down, right now. We'll get this all sorted out and talk it over some. Y'all be home before the night is over. Do the right thing, fellas and come on down." said the artificially amplified Voice of Reason and Authority.

This completely reasonable offer was met with a ragged chorus of, "Fuck yous." I must confess that the harmonizing wasn't all that it could have been, but we were a tad tipsy, so I blame the alcohol for our lackluster acapella performance.

Doug suddenly stood up, said, "I have to pee," walked over to the railing, whipped it out and just let it fly. Literally. Doug was treating the cops to a golden shower. 

I really hoped that the police appreciated a little kink. I mean, they're cops, after all and what cop doesn't appreciate a little kink? Pleas, pleas and please, do not leave any stories about kinky cops in the comments section. On second thought, if you have kinky cop stories, go ahead and leave them in the comments section. I really want to read that shit. Btw, I didn't misspell please, it's pleas, as in pleading or begging, so who's smirking now, you smug motherfucker?

Doug was pissing on the cops. Holy fuck! We were doomed. We were fucked. We were doomfucked. I couldn't go to jail, I was way too pretty for prison. It was weird, but a strange sort of calm descended over us and one by one we all stood up and walked over to the railing, where we all joined Doug in showing our appreciation for the boys in blue. Our eight gun salute did not go unnoticed. We watched and laughed as the cops scattered like cockroaches, panicking and running about. You'd have thought we were hitting them with mortars, for fuck's sake.

We didn't actually hit any of the cops, but we did clean the dust off of a couple of their cruisers. Needless to say, they weren't very appreciative of our efforts. Honestly, common courtesy just seems to have gone by the wayside. We then hunkered back down, ignoring the police and their blah, blah, blah chatter over the PA. We finished off the alcohol and the pot, talking about what we were going to do once we got out of jail and wondering if we would be able to escape from the country before our parents could catch us and kill us. Our prospects weren't looking very good. We knew we'd have to come down eventually and as soon as we sobered up enough, we would make the long climb down to face the axeman. Do be careful with that axe, Eugene.

After we had sobered up some, we did manage to climb back down without losing anyone; I wasn't able to get close enough to my target, which is a good thing. I guess. Que sera, sera.

When we hit the ground, the cops roughed us up a little bit, before tossing us into squad cars and taking us down to the police station. We weren't handcuffed or anything, just thrown into the back of the police cars with a 'thump'. 

"Ouch!"

"Watch your head."

When we arrived at the police station, we were bitched at, yelled at, screamed at (spittle flying from the mouth and everything) and alternately, we were pushed, shoved, tripped, slapped and smacked upside our respective heads. I remember a couple of those hits had me seeing stars. Talk about a fucking buzzkill.

In the end, nothing serious happened to us. The police called our parents and allowed them to decide our fate, They did this with a particular relish in my case, as most of the police officers involved knew my father personally and they knew exactly what he would do to me, once I was released. I would have been safer in jail. The police knew as well as I did that my father would be angry that I had embarassed my family and pissed off the cops. He thanked the officers for their discretion and shook hands with each of them, assuring them that I would get what was coming to me. The cops laughed and told me to have a good time when I got home. Fuckers.

And it really sucked when I got home. My father kicked my ass ten ways from Sunday and my mother cheered him on, wading in every now and then to smack me with her wooden spoon. If you're Italian, you know exactly what I'm talking about. They're a staple in every Italian household except mine, I hate the fucking things. I got to play with one of those more than any other toy during my childhood. The fun factor really sucks.

At the end of the day, I considered it a learning experience; indeed, I learned a valuable lesson, that night.

Always have an escape route.

Thanks for stopping by. If you enjoyed this story, please check out this one:

Who's The Boss?

Don't Touch That Dial - Sneak Peek

Here's a sneak peek into the next story. There are just a few paragraphs here, but it's almost finished. I'm just working on the editing and the ending, but it's getting there. Edit: Apparently, I'm rewriting the entire story, but it's important to get this one right. Let me get started by painting you a little picture...

All names in this story have been changed. Where possible, I have avoided using them entirely.

That first sweet kiss and a first broken heart. The things that we choose to remember and the things that we choose to forget. We pick and we choose and we throw away the parts that we don't like, only keeping those that fit in with our preferred narrative. Memories are funny things; they have an ability to sneak up on you at the oddest of times, these dreams of the past that smolder and burst into flames, opening a rabbit hole that sometimes you tumble down, down into the vast kaleidoscope of days remembered and days that were best forgotten; days where you learn all that your heart is willing to reveal and the many dark secrets that it still keeps. Moments of mourning for all that once was, all that was lost, with all that remains now ashes and shadows. Ashes and shadows.

Atlantic City was the first city that I fell in love with, the first place that I ever truly called home, a home to summer loves and the world in which I came of age. Like scenes projected onto a celluloid screen, the past comes to life.

My family owned a summer home at the foot of the Boardwalk and California Avenue. It was a cramped little condo, so small that there was barely enough room in which to draw a breath, but it had a spectacular ocean view that never failed to steal my breath away.

The city was vibrant then, it lived and it breathed, undulating with the flow of people. The mind's eye takes in the vast panorama of the beach and the ocean beyond, partially obscured by the roofs of the shops and arcades that once lined the boardwalk. Laughing gulls drift lazily overhead like so many summer clouds, their cries a lonely chorus of ephemeral notes. Blink and it's gone forever.

Atlantic City is where I stole my first kiss, drowning myself in the sweetness of her lips, awkward and fumbling and sweet, making my move in a poorly lit tunnel beneath the old Convention Hall, my first kiss on my first date with the girl who would become my first girlfriend and in time, my first heartbreak. 

Salt water taffy and fudge from the candy stores; ice cream on a warm Belgian waffle; Mack Fries with apple cider vinegar; pizza on almost every corner; and that warm sugar scent of cotton candy in the air. 

Summer jobs; working at a real newspaper stand at night and hawking newspapers on the beach by day; casting custard across the counter at King Kone; hustling hoagie rolls for Amoroso out of the back of a bread truck; slinging slices and working the grill at Three Brothers from Italy; ruling the world from my lofty perch while making change at Fun Spot and Playcade arcades at the height of the pinball and video game era and a posh lifeguard gig at the California Villas, where the closest I came to saving lives was skimming bugs from the pool. Basically, I was a glorified pool boy, cleaning the pool, hauling lounge cushions and babysitting brats. 

The Ice Capades, parades and arcades on the boardwalk, fireworks over the ocean on the fourth of July, sand castles, skateboards, and tourist traps. The amusement piers; Steel Pier, Steeplechase Pier, Central Pier and my favorite, Million Dollar Pier, with their carnival rides, games and sideshow like atmosphere. I can still see the crowds running from the "Wild Ape Woman."

People were everywhere, you couldn't escape them in Atlantic City. Gambling had been legalized not long before and people would throng to the shore, emigrating en masse and emptying entire cities, while filling the catacombs and coffers of the casinos. Dreamers dropping dollars on daydreams.

And that's the end of the sneak peek. If you like what you've read so far, give this story a shot:

Primal Forces

The Big Squeeze

My youngest son loves hugs and so do I. I mean, who doesn’t love a good hug. I’m not talking about those fake things that you give to people you haven’t seen in a long time, but the squeeze you so hard to me kind that says everything you never could. The kind of hug that bares your soul and is nothing but pure, unconditional love. The hug that says I love you, I need you; you are the most important thing in the world to me. Everybody needs and deserves a hug like that, even an old bastard like me. A big squeeze, as the little guy calls them, is one of the best things in life. I am a spontaneous hug monster, when it comes to my kids and you never know when I’m going to pounce. No matter how good, or bad I might feel, there’s nothing like a big squeeze, to make me feel a whole lot better.

My two youngest sons still love hugs, but at thirteen, my oldest is way too cool for that kind of stuff. He let me know. Apparently, he’s a man now. He actually said that with a straight face and to my credit, I didn’t laugh and piss him off. It’s kind of strange, but since the divorce the boys and I are closer than we have ever been and we communicate amazingly well. I am quite the keeper of secrets. Oh, my… the horrible and terrible secrets of nine year old boys… I think we communicate so well, because I treat them with respect, speak to them as the little adults that they are and actually listen to them, when they have something to say. I must confess, I didn’t always do all of that, but I’m learning. This fatherhood stuff is nothing more than some huge, bizarre and freakish experiment, except that you’re experimenting with lives, so don’t screw up too hard, or too often. To be honest I don’t know how or why it all works, but it works and that’s all that matters.

It was a Sunday and it was getting close to the time for us to leave Philly and head back to Baltimore. Son #1 and I had been talking earlier and he had opened up to me; I knew he was hurting. The divorce has hit him the hardest and I know that he really misses me. The shame is that the children are condemned to pay for the sins of the parents. Nobody wins in a divorce, not the children, anyway. My oldest and I have always had a very special and close relationship. I lost sight of it, for a time, but I’ve regained my vision. Now that special relationship is shared by all four of us and that’s just the way we like it.
I’m their father, not their friend, but there’s so much more to it than that.

While we were chatting, I asked him a few questions and explained to him that I asked the first set of questions, because I’m his father and I needed the information to help me do my job more effectively. I further explained that I asked the second set of questions, because I love him and needed that information, because I cared. He answered my questions and then he told me that he thought I was the best father ever.

“You’re far from perfect,” he told me, “But you do your best. I love you, Dad.”

Three simple sentences. Thirteen words. I could never have imagined that so little could mean so much. I could have died fat and happy, right then and there. I was beaming. Never had I received higher praise, not even when someone calls me an asshole.

As we were getting ready to leave, I ambushed all three boys, with spontaneous hugs. The little one squeezed me harder and harder, as if he never wanted to let go. The medium one was the same way and I squeezed him back, my heart dropping through my chest. When I pounced on the big one, however, he tried to push me away. Too cool for hugs, remember? No way. Never let the moment pass you by, never let it get away. I hugged him even harder and whispered in his ear, “Don’t fight it. I can see how much you need this. I love you, buddy; it’s okay. I love you and that’s all that matters.”

He fought against it a little more, quite half-heartedly and then his hands dropped to his sides. That was okay; I hugged him even harder.

Suddenly, it was as if a dam had broken and he threw his arms around me and hugged me back, as hard as he could.

“I love you, Dad,” he said and that was when the tears started. He was unleashing a flood of emotion that was of biblical proportion and I stood as solid as a mountain as I let it wash over me.

“I told you that you needed this, buddy. It’s okay, everything will be alright,” I told him. “I love you, too.”

We hugged each other a little bit longer and then he got his emotions under control. Shortly afterward, we finished loading the car and we began our journey. None of the boys wanted to leave. It’s not that they didn’t want to go home; they love their mother and their home, in West Virginia. They just wanted to be with their dad. I didn’t want them to leave, either, for when they leave, my heart goes with them and then it’s a long, cold and lonely drive home, to a place that isn’t really home; a place where the echoes of laughter and tiny footsteps have faded.

We made our way down to Baltimore, where we met up with my ex-wife, said our goodbyes and I began the long journey home, dreading the emptiness that would greet me.

There’s actually a point, to this story. No matter how hard someone tries to push you away, don’t let them. Don’t give up and don’t give in. Fight harder. Pour your heart and soul into it; those are your strengths, use them. Break through and be prepared to catch them, when they break. Lend them your strength, fill their heart with your love and NEVER, ever let go. We only get one chance at life; learn to live it well, never miss an opportunity to let someone know how much you love them, to find forgiveness, or help to bear a burden. It’s never too late, until it is.

I had thought this story was finished and except for some minor editing, was “in the bag”, but then something else happened that I thought should be included.

My children came to visit, over Spring Break. As soon as we got here, my oldest son asked if he could speak to me privately and we went back to my bedroom, for a few quick words. When we got there, he turned to face me and looked over my shoulders to see if anyone was looking and then he threw his arms around me and hugged me as hard as he could. I was pleasantly stunned.

“I love you, Dad,” he said, “and I’ve missed you. I’m not hugging you, because I just farted, or anything.”

Sigh… I’ll take what I can get…

The Rules

Most parents, I think, want to provide their children to the best of their abilities, giving their progeny all that they can. For one group of parents, this seems to entail the giving of material things; cars, clothes, money, etc. For another group of parents it could be more emotionally, or faith bound; love, wisdom, morality, etc. A third group of parents would be a combination of the first two groups in that they try to teach a balance between the first two approaches. A fourth group are the parents who believe their children should learn and earn their own way, in this world. Finally, there is a fifth group of parents, the neglectful ones, those who are unfit to parent; human refuse, the abusers, addicts and alcoholics. One very popular way of providing a head start for children is a college education savings fund. This is a wonderful idea and a noble concept. My ex-wife and I started something similar, for our children; we just call it something different. This Fund for Understanding, Caring and Kindness, or FUCK, as I like to call it, will provide funding for the years of intensive therapy that our children will need, by the time we are finished with them. It’s a cold, cruel world out there and I want to prepare my children. In one of the most competitive and bleakest job markets in living memory, I want them to have the ability to adapt and overcome any and all obstacles. I’ve come up with a formula to help them gain a competitive edge in the cutthroat corporate world, or perhaps a path of enlightenment towards an outside of the box type of career. Alternative employment, maybe entrepreneurship; sometimes you just have to make your own opportunities.
My children are all very intelligent. I know that every parent says that, but mine truly are and they make me so proud. One of the first sentences that all three of my children learned to say was, “Mommy fell, it was an accident.” And they would say it with such glee! It just warmed my heart, let me tell you. While I thought this was pretty hysterical, my ex-wife failed to see the humor in this. It’s not like I would have actually pushed her down the stairs, but hey, accidents do happen and you should always have your story straight.
It is in this spirit, that my children and I have developed certain rules to live by. Nine little rules to follow. Think of it as a nine step program, a guide, or an outline. It doesn’t just apply to being an assassin, remember, teach your children to think outside of the box; they could use these rules to also become a drug kingpin, serial killer, union/community organizer, lawyer or even a U.S. Congressman. That’s right, the sky’s the limit!

THE RULES

#1 Be prepared. Always dig the hole first. Digging a hole isn’t illegal and it’s usually not that suspicious. However, digging a hole with a body next to you might raise a few eyebrows.

#2 Always have an alibi. Again, be prepared. Work this out in advance. Remember, always keep your story simple and straight.

#3 No witnesses. Ever. Always dig that hole a little deeper. You know, just in case.

#4 If you have someone else do the work for you, you’ll have to get rid of them, too. No loose ends.

#5 If you have a secret and you tell someone, it’s not a secret, anymore. Don’t trust anyone with your secrets. If you spill your guts to someone, you’ll need to get rid of them.

Rule #6 is my favorite. This rule was the brainchild of one of my children. I’m so proud! 

#6 Fire makes DNA go DNAway.

#7 Don’t get caught.

#8 If you do get caught, never admit to anything. Do not answer any questions. No one there is your friend. There is only one person who can help you and it’s not God.

#9 Always ask for an attorney. The attorney is the only one you talk to. If you can, get a good Jewish lawyer. They rock! Come to think of it, Johnny Cochrane really kicked some ass, with the whole OJ thing. “If the glove does not fit…” Indeed. The Chewbacca defense was brilliant, as well. So, black lawyers are cool, too. If I haven’t offended your particular ethnic group and you’d like me to, please explain why someone of your ethnicity would make a great attorney. I breathlessly await your reply.

Demented? Well, maybe a little, but they’re still words to live by. Remember, there is always an alternative approach, so teach your children to think outside of the box; it opens up worlds of opportunities for them. My middle son wants to be a research scientist, in order to invent the zombie virus. He might even do great things for mankind, before he destroys it, perhaps something like Soylent Green. And to think that the zombie apocalypse could happen within my lifetime. How exciting!

Don’t judge me. I’m just fucking with you.