Inhatredance
We all know that you run this risk of inheriting things from those who came before you – a/k/a family members – when you’re born into this here world. Unfortunately, for most of us, we aren’t in danger of being so annoying that you want to slap us silly with a carp, because we’re tallying gogillions of dollars for doing nothing more than being a somewhat attractive blonde - who would otherwise be the “before” girl in a rhinoplasty ad - that’s part of a family who is galactically smart and ambitious. Inheriting bozillions of dollars is like getting a financial form of herpes. I mean, you didn’t get the $$$ because you failed to practice safe shopping, you inherited it. What I mean is, no matter what you do – buy flying cars, underwater houses, gold horses, Michael Jackson’s nose, or stock, your bank account goes down for a while - and just when you think it’s gone forever BAM! You get your next emailed bank statement, and your balance shows you’ve got trazillions in your checking account because it actually made it to the 15th of the month to your surprise! Unlike the herp – which may or may not be STD’s answer to braille – tons of money does not run people off. As I said, I am not fortunate enough to be in one of these families that hands down tons of ducketts to the next generation.
I’ll tell you this though, I did get a lot of inhatredtance when I was born. This is one of my trademark words (patent pending) that I made up to fit whatever is pouring forth from the damaged lobe of my gourd that directs my fingers. Inhatredtance is simply the inheriting of things that you hate. In may case, I got a few from seemingly two main sources. My dad’s dad was a swillhead supreme who I remember as not having an imagination – he named 8 out of his 10 boys Joseph - and being very loyal – he and my grandmother were married forever and had all those kids despite being poorer than the New Deal (and he always stuck to drinking only whiskey). The only quote that I can directly attribute to him, because I actually saw him say it, was, “I look better in the dark.” He was about 80 when he said this, and he wasn’t lying. But I’m 33, and I do too. I guess I forgot to mention I inherited that, and I hate it. Anyway, I’ve been told by some of the Joseph’s and my father that ol grandad also had an intense hatred of Robins (yes, the bird). He said, according to my sources, that they were the “meanest bird in the yard”. I’ve never been told where this came from, or been given any specific acts of aggression that grandad took out on Robins – maybe hurling a pint of Tom Moore at one of them – but he apparently hated them. And you know what? So do I. I can’t stand them. A Robin has never rested on my bulbous, over-sized nose and tried to peck out my squinty little eyes, but they still piss me off. Watch them gallivant around a yard with their chest stuck out, chirping loudly, and making all the other birds get out of their way. I am pretty sure they can’t read, but somehow they still know you’re not allowed to kill them. It drives me nuts, and I can’t handle it. I owe this all to my grandfather, even though I never talked to him about this goofy nonsense. I’ve got enough stuff going on in my life where I could use my Robin-hating time for other more productive things, but I can’t let it go. Weird. Hated them all my life, but I’ve ever done anything to one of them. I just sit there and stare at them like a cat does a fish in a tank. When I am put in a nursing home, I’ll be the guy pushing all the other geezers off the best seat on the porch so I can continue my war of “stares” with those damn birds. By that time, maybe I’ll be able to throw my spare set of dentures or extra pills at them.
My dad was forced into Catholic school by his parents. From what he has told me, the Catholic school he attended was very strict; they also apparently didn’t believe in refrigeration, because all the milk they served at lunch was warm. Before you could go to recess, you had to eat all your lunch. My dad hates milk, sour cream and mayonnaise because of this. I guess the milk thing just kinda of creamed and tang’d on out from its original form, and manifested itself into all things creamy. Well, like guzzlin’ a Budweiser at 10:00 a.m. for no particular reason, I too am in agreement with this seemingly insanely ignorant theory. I have no medical intolerance to lactose, cream that is soured, or naise that is mayo’d, but I just can’t handle the stuff. I even used to throw my mom’s bottles of the offending condiments over the railroad tracks next to our house when I was younger. She hasn’t had a good egg sandwich since I was 10 as a result. Throwing big ass jars of mayonnaise is probably what helped me learn how to throw so hard and accurately when I played little league baseball too. I mean, sour cream? It spoils, and then you want to eat it? My Hispanic friends say this is a truly American concept, and that no such condiment appears when you eat something south of the border for real. It makes me wonder if there are a lot of Mexican children throwing tubs of sour cream across the border as we speak.
Another bit of inhatredtance I got from my dad was a dislike of Pink Floyd – which I am pretty sure I have touched on before, but I’ll grope it again. O.K., all you guys did acid, saw a bunch of crazy stuff, and heard weird noises. I get it. Why does every song have to have a ticking grandfather clock in it, or end with Pink Floyd calling internationally collect for Mrs. Pink Floyd? And what was that movie The Wall all about? I went to see that once when I was drunk, at midnight, in college; I came out at 3:00 a.m. sober, and wanted to go to Home Depot to buy some hammers for some reason. I know a lot of people dig them, and I can respect that. I’ll give them their due, they sold a ton of albums and still do to this day. I just don’t get it, or like it. They were another one of those bands that sold all kinds of records, were making money, and then decided they hated each other and busted up. Maybe that is why my dad hated them, and my distaste for him not being rich, and me not being the son of a galactically rich guy allowed me to catch on. Money! That’s what it’s all about.
One thing my grandfather gave to both my father and me is a fondness of the drink. It’s too bad he succumbed to Anheizer’s – that’s what we called it, since he drank himself there – before I could have a drink with him. We could have talked about how much we hated Robins together, and he probably would have asked me to find him a Cadillac to drive. Maybe he wanted to run over Robins with it, I don’t know. He did once make a run for it from his geezer prison (nursing home) clad only in his drawers, which ended with him jumping into a Cadillac and trying to take off. Needless to say, he was apprehended more quickly than a most-wanted fugitive who moved next door to John Walsh. In the end, inhatredtance isn’t all that bad - unless you let it consume you. It just depends on what your family made you hate, and what you do about it. I’d imagine if you get together with your family enough to discuss these issues you might end up hating them. This may solve the initial problem, but cause another one - Be careful is all I’m sayin’.
