I awoke to the sound of the TV blaring and my bed shaking. Hesitantly, I opened my eyes to see my son, PJ, bouncing up and down on the bed with his butt. He was playing some sort of tug-o-war with Willy, our little white foster dog.
Willy was an appropriate name for this hound because he had what appeared to be a lightsaber between his legs. I’m not even exaggerating. His lipstick could make Chanel jealous. Although the dog’s manhood was semi-pornographic and definitely less than appropriate, my kid didn’t even seem to notice.
“Good morning Mommy!” he greeted me in a chipper little tone.
Voices from an infomercial blasted out of the TV behind him.
“Shhh!” I begged, remembering it was Sunday. “Mommy is so tired PJ. Turn down the TV and play quietly.”
“But I’m hungry!”
“Make yourself a bowl of cereal,” I instructed.
PJ hopped off my bed and stomped into the tiny attached kitchen to make himself a bowl of kiddie cocaine. The fur ball followed, hoping for a hand out or perhaps a dropped morsel. He wasn’t having much luck because little PJ hoarded food like a toddler in Somalia.
I closed my eyes and pulled the blanket over my head but I knew it was already too late. I had to pee. That was it, I was up for good.
God damn it.
I rolled my albino-sausage legs to the edge of the bed and made an attempt to sit up. The fruit of my loins returned with his bowl of fruit loops and his fuzzy white shadow in tow.
The TV blared on.
“Mommy! Mommy! We need to buy a Copper Chef!” PJ excitedly informed me.
“It’s a great deal!” he continued. “Guess how much it is! It’s not $129.99!”
“I don’t know? How much?”
“It’s not $99.99!”
I began to giggle.
“It’s not $69.99.”
I lifted an eyebrow.
“It’s just three easy payments of $19.99 if we order today. Plus we will get a second one at NO CHARGE!”
I was impressed. Maybe’s PJ’s adult life wouldn’t be too terrible after all. I figured even if I messed him up there was now hope for my little dude landing a gig on the home shopping network.
It was clear PJ needed to get out of the house for a while and away from the TV.
Plus, I needed a mimosa.
“Come on mom!” PJ continued while handing me my cell phone, “If we act now they will throw in Eric’s cook book at NO CHARGE!”
“PJ! LISTEN TO ME! Get dressed, let’s walk to Whale Beach and get brunch!” I figured that was something we would both enjoy, plus I was hoping to get Willy some exposure and a possible home as soon as possible.
Well, PJ was obviously my kid because faster than an exploding pimple hits a mirror, his pajamas were off and he was fumbling through a drawer.
I called Willy over to me and attached an “Adopt Me” scarf around his neck in an attempt to attract potential dog adopters. Glancing under him, I considered using it as a diaper instead.
PJ must have been really excited to go because before I could blink, he had the front door open. Like a flash of lightning, I watched in horror as Willy took his one shot at freedom!
That’s right! That little overly erect cotton ball bounded out the front door.
With my nightgown still on, I headed to the door and began to shout, “Willy! Willy! Come here boy!” but it was too late.
I looked down the hall to see Willy dash down the adjacent stairs, across the hallway and through a courtyard.
“SHIT!” I screamed. “PJ, STAY here!”
There wasn’t a second to lose.
Shoe-less and bra-less, I ran with stealth speed down the staircase. My mammoth mammeries began pounding me in the face full force, like two under filled water balloons on a trampoline. Unsuccessfully, I tried to squeeze both under my left arm as I continued after the dog.
When I reached the courtyard, I could see Willy had gained speed and was headed towards the highway. Willy had seen his one chance at freedom and he was taking it. I felt a gust of wind and helplessly watched as Willy’s scarf caught air. It resembled the cape of a super hero and I could almost swear it was giving him momentum.
Still, I would not give up!
“Willy! Willy! Good boy! You want a treat?” I called out.
Thank God! The chase was over…
Willy looked me in the eye and gave me a smug little smile. I think it might have been dog for the middle finger because he turned right back around and headed full speed for the intersection.
I picked up my pace, after all I would not be held accountable for losing my foster dog! Willy was my responsibility and I could not let down the rescue. I refused be known as the woman who turned her foster into road kill!
I was still twenty feet behind Willy and watched in horror as he began running through the rows of moving cars. This was it, the end. I could hear screeching tires and women screaming. At any second there would be a bloody mess, I just knew it. Willy’s remains would soon resemble Mama June’s used tampon.
Despite Willy’s impending automobile doom, I idiotically continued to follow pursuit.
Thankfully, Willy made it onto the curb. He stopped and gave me another one of his smiles before bolting through a crowded parking lot. I continued not far behind. Some people were shouting obscenities, others were cat calling me. I had just put my bare foot onto the sidewalk when I noticed them.
My jiggling juggalos had escaped!
Both my breasts had bounced out of my pajama top and were resting exposed on my rib cage. OK, it was more like my stomach.
I did my best to tuck them back into my top and continued the chase. I was a few yards down, virtually out of breath and panting like a birthing hyena, when I saw Willy next.
To my delight a teen-aged girl reached down and picked him up.
“Is this your dog?” she asked as I approached.
“Yes, well my foster dog,” I managed to cough out, still out of breath.
“Why were you chasing him? He just came right up to me!”
I gave that damn juvenile delinquent the death stare. “He needs a forever home, maybe you should adopt him,” I sarcastically suggested.
“I already have a dog,” she said with her nose up as she handed him back to me.
I grabbed Willy and held him tight against me as I made the hike back to our apartment. I verbally scolded him as I walked. “Bad Willy! Bad dog!”
“Willy!” PJ screamed as we made our way through the front door. “Mommy you were gone a long time!”
“Willy is a BAD dog!” I asserted. “He almost got us both killed! He’s going into the crate today!”
My son just shook his head sensing that it probably wasn’t the best time to argue with me.
Once Willy had begun his sentence in doggy time out, I put on some real clothes, secured my breasts and slapped on a little face paint.
It didn’t help.
PJ and I were off. The sun hit my face and I hoped the day might turn out OK after all. Soon I would be sipping on a mimosa and listening to the relaxing sounds of the ocean waves crashing onto the sandy shore.
We were about halfway through our journey to brunch when PJ spotted it.
“Mommy look, some kid lost their snuggly teddy bear!”
What I looked down to see was anything but snuggly. Some perv had dressed a damn bear up as a woman in real woman’s underwear! I bet he probably had sex with it too before dicarding her lifeless body into the ocean.
We were now witnesses to some sort of sick teddy bear bondage murder case.
What the hell is wrong with you people?
Well, I wasn’t gonna try to explain THAT to my kid so I just agreed with him and then pointed out a large sea-bird, anxious to leave the furry critter crime scene.
After breakfast I was feeling pretty giddy from my pitcher of orange juice infused hooch. PJ wanted to walk the main street and check out the shell shop. I was fine with that, but first a little stop at the corner store for a sixer. I had to keep my noon time buzz afloat after all. I grabbed the beer, paid for it and then stuck five inside my beach bag. Number six went into a plastic cup so I could sip while we walked.
We had just turned the corner facing the shell shop when we saw it.
Parked right there in front of our destination was the biggest piece of shit automobile I had ever seen. It was an old truck covered in so much rust I was amazed it was still in one piece!
Sitting in the bed of the truck was the skeleton of what must have once been a grand piano. It was tied down with ropes and held together with duct tape.
It even came with its own hillbillies!
I’m not joking!
Right there in the middle of the little beach town, a man obviously down on his luck sat on a plastic crate in the bed of his decaying vehicle and played what was left of his piano. From his lips came the lyrics of a song his granny must have played for him back in the deep south. Or maybe it was just some song they sang over the fire at the hobo camp.
Back to my story.
The hootenannying hillbilly was not alone. Another yokel wearing a torn up hat and the remains of a flannel shirt stood playing a tambourine. As he thumped his foot I noticed three dirty toes sticking out the front of his boot. He began belting the words to a song I didn’t recognize.
Why, it was the Moron Tattered-Knuckle Choir!
Both men smiled at PJ and me revealing jig saw puzzles in lieu of teeth. Black goo sat near their gum lines and little yellow dangling nubs encompassed the ends. They reminded me of bits of half chewed corn. Well, at least in the few spots the teeth actually remained. I wondered how those suckers were still intact. Maybe they used some kind of magic hillbilly super glue.
Suddenly the music stopped.
“Hey little man!” one of the harmonic hobos greeted PJ. “Would you like to come aboard our truck and play something?”
PJ smiled and looked up to me to see if it was alright. “Yeah, go!” I encouraged him.
Even though it was not the cleanest place to be and these men were total strangers, I had a hard time believing their truck could gain a speed faster than that which I could run. So, I figured it must have been safe enough.
Plus I was drunk.
This was one the funniest things I had ever seen and I wanted to see how far it could go.
PJ got up there and played probably the worst piano I had ever heard. Still the gathering crowd cheered and clapped for my little Mozz-Fart.
The other hobo limped over to me, “Your son is a natural!” he lied.
I just laughed. Then I reached into my bag and produced a bottle of beer. I handed it to hobo number one. “I don’t have any cash, but I can tip you in beer!”
“Thank ya ma’am!” he excitedly exclaimed while accepting my gracious gift.
“Do you have a cup?” I asked. The man looked at me a little confused. I showed him what I had in my hand. “I poured mine into a cup so I wouldn’t get a ticket!” I proudly confessed.
“Well, in that case,” he said, “I want yours!”
Faster than I could have released a beer belch, that hound dog grabbed my cup, put it to his decaying mouth and took a sip. He handed it back to me.
I looked inside to see if he had left a tooth behind.
Nope. It was all clear.
So, I did what any inebriated imbecile would do in a situation like this.
I took a drink. I guzzled down vagrant backwash.
Alcohol is supposed to kill germs. Even hillbilly germs.
PJ finished his 5 minutes of fame and I tipped the other clodhopper a beer. I decided not to tell that one about my cup idea.
After pouring myself a second beer, we headed to the shell shop.
A little while later, when the sun was starting to get low, and PJ had his pockets full of dried star fish and shark teeth, we began the long journey home.
When we finally neared our building I let out a sigh of relief. I was ready for a hot bath and a nap. Once we made it to our door step, I slipped the key into the lock, pulled it open and then…
That fluffy little mother fucker.
But that’s another story.