------------------------------------- The name's Peter. From New Jersey. 22 years old. Absurdly sarcastic. Read much more in my "about me" by clicking on the link below. =) Side note: Many people are wondering why there are no "non-anon" questions on my blog. It's because I answer them privately so my blog doesn't get overwhelmed with questions. Side side note: I don't do promos. Side side side note: I don't reblog unless the post is something I really feel needs to be seen.
Just a few days ago I was spending the night at my Grandma’s house to keep her company (as I do quite often; I’m Grandma’s boy – don’t you dare judge me), and as always, a fucking whirlwind of unfortunate, but somewhat comedic ridiculousness ensued.
It was dinner time and the pizza we’d ordered was just delivered. I told Grandma to sit down while I set the table and got everything ready (plates, drinks, napkins, etc.). She insisted she’d help me set the table, but once I gave her my infamous bitchface, she knew it was best that she just sit down as directed. She’s very old, has very weak knees, is very unsteady on her feet, and every time she tries to help, something gets broken, lost, or killed (RIP Agnes, her goldfish …long story).
I think you see where this is going. Just as I was pouring her drink, she said: “Oh, I forgot my glasses inside.” Immediately, I said: “Don’t worry about it; I’ll get them for you. SIT DOWN. Please. =)” Well, good ole Granny didn’t listen. As soon as she stood up, she tripped over her own slippers and down Granny went. Sometime during her 3 second journey to the floor, she’d decided that grabbing on to both of my legs would somehow save her. In a way, it did, because she went down very gently and didn’t hurt herself at all; but remember, I was pouring drinks at the time, so the way that she latched on to my legs during her unfortunate descent scared the FUCK out of me, causing me to drop the glass, which shattered upon impact, sending small shards of glass into my right foot.
But the fact that my foot was bleeding enough to solely support a local blood drive wasn’t my concern. My concern was getting Grandma (who couldn’t get up on her own because of the bad knees) up off the floor. Little did I realize, this would prove to be about as easy as it would be for a pigeon to lift a rhinoceros.
Now I don’t say that because she’s huge, but she’s definitely not a small lady, and seeing as I have the body of a prepubescent 12 year-old girl, this was going to be quite a feat to accomplish.
I went behind her, put my arms under hers and tried to lift her. After about ten minutes of trying that (and FAILING miserably), I finally realized that this method of lifting just wasn’t working, seeing as the circumference of my biceps is directly proportionate to the circumference of an empty roll of paper towels.
Keep in mind that the floor now looks like the crime scene of a homicide, as blood continues to gush out of my foot.
I then went in front of her and grabbed both of her hands to try and give her a boost upward. But because the tiled floor is slippery and her legs are about as sturdy as a loose twig in a hurricane, my efforts to give her a boost just resulted in her sliding across the kitchen floor like a hockey puck in an ice rink.
What now? There was no way I could lift her on my own and she surely couldn’t get up on her own. So I called my uncle and asked him to come over to help me get her up. He said he’d be there in about a half hour. So what did Granny and I do in the meantime? Well, I cleaned up my half-amputated foot, sat down on the floor next to her, pushed aside the shards of glass all over the floor, and we ate the fucking pizza. That’s right, we had a pizza party for two on the floor of the fucking kitchen.
I was pretty bored today and decided that since my mother was closest to me in proximity, fucking with her would be a good boredom buster. I needed a good laugh at her expense, so I decided to ask her a question that was way beyond her 3rd grade level of intelligence.
I asked: “Mom, do you think President Obama is doing a good job? Would you vote for him again next year?”
She replied: “Sure. I’d vote for him again.”
Hmm. This wasn’t quite the response I expected. I expected her to ask who Obama was and how it’s possible for someone that died a few weeks ago to be president. So I decided to ask a question I KNEW would render a stupid response.
I asked: “Mom, who’s the Vice President?”
She promptly and confidently replied: “Al Gore.”
There it was. That almost incomprehensible lack of intellect and awareness that I have come to know and pretend to love. So, I politely thanked her for the information and proceeded to convulse in laughter as I walked away. I’m so easily entertained.
Does anyone else find the “Twilight” series as ridiculous as I do? This is the voice that plays in my head every time I hear someone mention it: “Twilight: The story of a young girl choosing whether to commit bestiality or necrophilia.” In laymen’s terms, it’s the story of a girl torn between the decision to pork a dead guy or a wolf. Recounting such a heartfelt story makes me all warm and tingly inside. If you didn’t catch the sarcasm (in which case you should probably introduce your head to the nearest wall), that translates to: I’d rather be hung upside-down by piano wire over an erupting volcano than read/watch that rubbish (no I’m not British, but I like that word).