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Sometimes when I’m bored, I fantasize what hell is like. As I am scarily gay and have committed a veritable smorgasbord of sexual sins, Sarah Palin (!), George W. Bush and Fox News have convinced me that I’m going straight to hell after suffering a major stroke or massive heart attack. Before I had children, I naively thought hell was the standard fire and brimstone shit which I found comforting as I’ve spent season after season in Palm Springs and ADORE the dry heat.
Fuck it, I thought. Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven, right?
How frighteningly naive I was! Having raised my son the last eight years, I can now tell you that fire and brimstone would be a comfort compared to what I’m certain God, Satan, and Sarah Palin have in mind for me. I have it on good authority that hell is an eternal carpool, trapped in a subcompact car with a pack of tired and hungry 8-year-olds with neither snacks nor drinks.
Recently, I dragged my fat ass through the seven-circles-of-hell rush hour traffic to pick up my son Ethan and his grade school cronies at school. You might imagine that when Ethan saw my bedraggled face and body from across the blazing asphalt that serves as his school’s play yard, he sprinted across the pavement waving his arms while jubilantly shrieking, ‘Thanks for picking me up dad, you’re the greatest. I love you so much!’
You would also be VERY, VERY, VERY wrong.
Ethan slunk up to me with a scowl on his face. I couldn’t tell whether I’d arrived too early, too late, or he was just pissed off that I’d arrived at all. The only ‘acknowlegement’ I received was a guttural grunt indicating his displeasure. Excuse me, but what the fuck was that? In an instant, I channeled my inner tranny who made her angry, sequined appearance by snarling at my son, ‘Bitch, don’t be givin’ me shade…I just wanna get paid!’ As usual, my gay slang fell on deaf ears as straight-boy Ethan doesn’t speak fag fluently. However, Ethan’s glittery, metrosexual friend Brandon was able to interpret.
‘I think your dad is pissed off that you didn’t say ‘hi’ when he came to pick us up,’ Brandon confides to Ethan.
‘I didn’t feel like it. I wasn’t happy,’ Ethan responds.
‘Ethan didn’t feel like saying ‘hi,’ he wasn’t happy,’ Brandon reports.
‘Yeah, got that. Thanks, Brandon,’ I say.
I take Ethan gently by the shoulder and turn him around to face me. While hugging him closely, I whisper in his ear a deal I am certain he cannot refuse. In exchange for some Pirate’s Booty Popcorn, Kit-Kats, or Fruit Roll-ups, whenever I pick Ethan up from carpool and he is feeling unhappy, mopey, or morose he should do what any Academy Award winning actress like Bette Davis, Marilyn Monroe or Liza Minelli would do. Fake the shit out of that smile and wave at me like a beauty queen on crack. Ethan pulls slowly away from me and far from being horrified, seals the deal by shaking my hand heartily. As we all walk to the car, I begin to rethink the deal I’ve just cut with the devil, as my now weirdly happy son Ethan hums AC/DC’s HIGHWAY TO HELL maniacally.
Hye@ You goota do what you gotta do!
Sorry for all the mispelled words, but when I type my response, I don’t see any letters!!
Hell is also my 8 month old smiling at me at four in the morning.
Girl you are so right…that SHIT is Armageddon as far as I’m concerned.