What is a ‘son-of-a bitch list’ ? Good question, dear reader. A son-of-a-bitch list is a list of those who have wronged you, sons of bitches with whom you have a score to settle. Huey Long had the first handwritten son-of-a-bitch list that he’d keep in a small notebook in his jacket pocket. Whenever someone pissed him off, their name was written down, then, when he had the opportunity, he would fucking ruin them.
I’m a sophomore in high school, but I’ve often been accused of being ‘an old soul.’ That’s a moniker that secretly fills me with pride. I digress, as I often do, but I bring this up only to point out that I pride myself on being slow to anger, and being far more empathetic and courteous than my age would suggest. My baby sister, Elizabeth Grace, was ‘a big surprise’ (don’t say the ‘accident’ word around my mom, unless you want an hour and a half lecture on ‘unexpected blessings’ and ‘never, EVER saying that in front of your sister’) that ‘unexpectedly blessed’ that blessed my family when I was ten years old.
If I’d had a brother, it would have been claws out, adamantium rage. But instead, I’d had a baby sister. The moment I’d seen Lizzy, my heart grew three sizes, and any trepidations I’d had about going from only child to big brother were gone. Poof. Vanished. Like they’d never existed. This was my sister, and God help anyone who even thought of hurting her.
I’d been a great big brother. My mom, God bless her, had me constantly questioning her every decision when it came to Lizzy. “Mom…mom…mom!..at school today they said that you should really put a lock under the sink or babies and toddlers can drink bleach and die.
There’s not a lock on ours. Do you want my baby sister to die, mom???” I’d been overprotective, sure, but in my defense, my sister never ate any Cascade pods and died. And my dad, who had begrudgingly put down at least eight Budweisers at having to operate a cordless drill, had installed a small padlock beneath our sink after I reminded him of the mortal danger every 5 minutes for two days straight.
I’d babysat, I’d played with Lizzy, it was never a chore, I loved my baby sister, and a couple of my friends in the fifth grade had laughed at me taking care of my little sister. “Hey Danny, are you gonna come play ball, or change your sister’s diapers?” my buddy Steve had asked, making a couple of my other friends from school snicker. I’d open hand slapped Steve like the bitch he was (and is, btw), and he’d run home and told on me. My mom lectured me. My dad got on the phone with Steve’s parents and asked when Steve planned on apologizing. Steve’s folks were appalled that my dad would suggest Steve apologize when I was ‘so clearly at fault.’
“Let me stop you there. Danny takes care of his sister. I don’t know why Steve was giving Danny a hard time about that. I think it’s good that Danny cares so much about his little sister. Steve is a good kid, and he’s welcome here anytime. I’m sorry Danny had to straighten him out…Well I understand how…okay…okay…well Barry, you’re Steve’s dad, and I understand you’re upset…okay, well if you want to come over and have a beer I’m happy to discuss it with you…Barry, if you’re feeling froggy then jump, okay?..I’ll be home all night, so you just come over and I would abso-fucking-lutely love to DISCUSS this further…”
Steve’s dad never came over.
My dad smokes and drinks and sometimes flies off the handle, but he gets me.
Anywho, I’ve again digressed, the point is: I love my sister, I’m a decade older than her, and and I’ve taught her how to read and finished dozens of coloring books with her while my parents went out on date nights, and yes, as Steve suggested I even changed Lizzy’s poopy diapers, which I doubt many ten year old boys would do. But I’d been old enough to help out, and I did with zero pushback. Overprotective? Maybe. But more than anything, I love my baby sister more than anything in the whole wide world and cherish our relationship. Now she’s six and I’m sixteen, but that love and protectiveness has only grown.
Everything was going great, but then the fluffy pony bullshit started. Fucking Hasbio. Girls love unicorns and horses and pegasuses…pegusai…?..those fucking horses with wings–little girls squeeeee over that shit enough already. Why did those assholes have to make them real?
After less begging than I’d have hoped, Lizzy got a fluffy pony for her sixth birthday. I’d been kind of curious at first, is this thing a fucking robot? How the fuck is there a talking fucking Jack Russell terrier size pony? A pony that size is enough! The thing can fucking talk? Christ.
My sense of wonder was quickly stamped out by the dumb bright pink filly with the bright blue mane. I’ll begrudgingly admit that she was an adorable foal, even her constant inane prattling about ‘sketties’ and ‘huggies’ and other cutesy, baby talk was eclipsed by her prancing around on her tiny ‘hoofsies’ as she ‘splored’ our house that must have seemed gargantuan to the kitten-sized baby fluffy pony. Unfortunately, she grew up and quickly became a spoiled brat in a matter of weeks.
Lizzy named the fluffy ‘Princess Caroline’, after the lead fluffy on Fluff TV and ABC’s joint venture: “Princess Caroline’s Monday Night Mysteries.” Admittedly, my sister’s fluffy did bare the exact same coloring as her namesake. (“I swear to God, if that fucking show wasn’t on network television and Fluff TV, I would have saved at least fifteen hundred dollars on that shitrat…” Dad had said, more than once).
Only Princess Caroline proudly proclaimed her name to be “Pwincess Cawowine”, which was kind of cute the first dozen times, but quickly lost its charm as Pwincess Cawowine grew older and fatter.
By a year-and-a-half, she was fully grown, and getting fatter–my mom and sister unable to resist her pleas “Pwease widdle mumah Wizzy, pwease big mumah, gib Pwincess Cawowine skettis! Pwincess Cawowine owny widdle fiwwy, but want to gwow up healfy and stwong, and be good mumah someday, hab pwetty babehs!”
That garish pink and blue, sentient cotton candy looking bitch got bowl after bowl of sketti, despite my dad and my protests that they were spoiling the mare.
“Pwincess Cawowine, am not mawe! Am onwy wittow babbeh fiwwy! Dummeh Daddeh, dummeh wittow mummah bwudda…Need skettis to gwow up, big and stwong!” the 20 pound mare constantly insisted whenever her need to gobble up two cans of sketti was questioned.
Up until today, I’ve ignored the fat shit’s high pitched complaints and requests for ‘upsies.’ My mom and my sister have spoiled this biotoy rotten. But today something…well something fucking happened, okay? And this ‘old soul’ is slow to anger, but what you don’t do is ever…ever…fuck with my relationship with my sweet little sister.
“Hey Lizzy, how was your daaaaay, baaaabeeeee?!?” I sing in the goofy sing-song voice that she and I have perfected since she’s been able to speak.
“My day waaaaaaas perfect, baaaabeeeeee!” Lizzy loudly sings to me, right on cue.
“My day was also perf…” My falsetto ‘perfect baaaaabeeee!’ is abruptly cut off by a real raging bitch of a fluffy.
“Widdle Mummah Wizzie! Pwincess Cawowine is twying to hab tea pawty wib you!” My sister’s fluffy screams in her high pitched awful fucking voice.
My precious angel of a sister and I have had this exchange when I got home from school for as long as Lizzy has been able to talk! (Lizzy’s elementary school lets out earlier than my high school). Now this fucking twat, who would dare to call itself a pet, wants to break our streak?!? This fat bitch of a fluffy needs to STFU before I defenestrate (i.e., throw out of a fucking window) her, and laugh as Princess Dumbshit falls to her fucking death…
I grit my teeth. “Listen to me…‘Princess’…” I say, squatting down so I’m almost at eye level with this bio-beast. “…please don’t interrupt me and ‘widdle mummah’ when we’re singing our ‘how was your day’ song. It makes me so happy when I’ve had a bad day, like I had today, and I just want to be home and away from all the stress of the outside world…”
“Pwincess Cawowine, no know what siwwy ‘not daddeh’ say. Pwincess Cawowine am habben ‘high tea’ wif widdle mummah…no need intewupcies!” my sister’s fluffy screeches at me.
I see red. Then I take a deep breath and see that my sister’s room is set up with a tiny pink table with a tiny plastic pink tea setup before my sister, that awful fluffy, and several stuffed animals.
“Sorry big brother, Princess Caroline has been wanting a ‘high tea’…” My sister says, trying to defuse the situation, no doubt seeing how I was aggressively unhappy with the ‘Pwincess’.
“Hey Lizzy, no worries! I know you girls need your tea time together!” I say forcing a smile. “now let me have a dance with this pretty, pretty Princess!” I smile fondly as I reach down for my sister’s fluffy, she looks uncertainly up at me, but her programming seems to take over, her front hooves raised up for “bestest upsies” as I scoop her up and bring her ear to my mouth.
“Princess Caroline, I humbly beg your forgiveness, I didn’t mean to interrupt high tea, and humbly beg your pardon…” I utter, before immediately realizing how fucking stupid fluffies are. "I’m sorry I made ‘wowstest offensies’ when you and my sistah were having “hib tea.” I say feigning deference to this stupid cunt.
“Wet Pwincess Cawowine downsies naow!” my sister’s fluffy yells in a surprisingly shrill volume. I drop ‘Pwincess’ from my arms immediately. “Ouchies! Wowstest dropsies hurties!” She bitches; although, she’s fine.
“Danny!..” my little sister cries in response to her fluffy’s overly dramatic ‘huhu’s’, “don’t hurt Princess Caroline!”
“I didn’t mean to…she’s fine!..she’s faking it!..fine…bye.” I say, dejectedly.
My sister scoops up (with some effort, because she’s a goddamn chunk) Princess Caroline, who blows a raspberry over my sister’s shoulder.
My heart is broken, when my sister joins that godawful fluffy, and blows a raspberry at me in response…
Congratulations Princess, you’ve made my son-of-a-bitch list…
