I am King of the Worst Liars.
Actually, I’m not.
I’ve always sucked at lying. That’s the truth.
Or is it?!
I suck at lying.
I’m not sure why this is because when you grow up as an only child and you only have you and your penis (Mr. I.M. McGillicudy) to play with you end up coming up with a lot of shit in your imagination like answering the question of “WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THAT BATHROOM, RODNEY, YOU’VE BEEN IN THERE FOR TWENTY MINUTES?!” and this is a golden opportunity to say “I’m POOPING” but instead my adrenaline starts pumping and OH GREAT I JUST LOST MY BONER so I yell back “I’m totally NOT masturbating because I’m busy...eating...cheese!” and my mother is like “The cheese is in the fridge” and I’m all like, “I took a slice in here because it’s better when it’s dark and..um..you know what? I’m totally jerking off.”
At some point something’s gotta give.
Example #1: Laser Belt
My aunt had an antique store in which my mother used to decorate my room with all kinds of shit from this store because what else would be MORE MANLY for an 11 year old boy than to have a nice, baby blue, hand painted Tiffany Lamp with pretty white flowers all over it?
Oh, hello there, testosterone. I know you’d like to come into my room but there’s this lamp in here so you’re just going to have to stay outside while my penis transforms itself into a vagina.
I HATED THAT LAMP.
I hated that lamp with every fiber of my masturbatory-bathroom-cheese-eating being.
Until one fateful day…
I was in my room listening to records (I. Am. OLD) and it was probably AC/DC or Accept or Scorpion or Krokus or Iron Maiden or Great White before they got into the business of manslaughter and DAMN I MISS THE 80’s but I was doing what most normal boys do:
Singing in front of my dresser mirror and jumping around on my bed.
Like I said:
I was an only child (read: LOSER). Cut me some slack.
So I’m singing out loud and jumping around and the rock is blaring and then I realize I’m missing one critical rock accessory to all of this:
Something to swing over my head.
I need to swing something over my head in reckless abandon like a microphone but I don’t have a microphone but if I did I would totally ROCK. THAT. SHIT. OUT.
What to use?
My pillow? NO! Too fluffy.
My cat? NO! Too fluffy.
I reach down, grab my belt and start swinging that baby with the giant dirt-bike belt buckle (are you getting the full picture here?) over my head like I’m trying to fly with it.
And then it happened.
“HERE I AM…..dun dun dundun…ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRIC…”
At some point, mid-circle, the belt decided to just…
Yes..the belt decided to simply release itself from my sweaty pre-pubescent grip.
Giant belt-buckle first…I saw it…in slow motion…
FLY STRAIGHT TOWARDS THE HOMOEROTIC LAMP.
The Tiffany Lamp shattered into more pieces than Lindsay Lohan’s career.
I grabbed the belt and threw it under my bed as I heard my mother making a beeline for my room and burst in without even ONCE ASKING IF I WAS EATING CHEESE.
The fuck, mom?
Mom: “WHAT HAPPENED!?”
Me: “I don’t know.”
Then..this gem miraculously comes out:
Me: “It just..it just EXPLODED.”
Yes. Good one, Rod.
Because lamps just tend to fucking EXPLODE randomly and without warning.
In my head, this made sense because I knew that if there was something really hot and you poured something really cold on it that it would crack in half so why couldn’t that happen to a Tiffany lamp sitting on a dresser in the middle of the day? Right? RIGHT?!
Mom: “You always hated that lamp.”
Yes I did.