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Saturday December 24, 2005

The Fourth Generation of Fury: My Nephew Inherits My Childhood Superpower



As we're driving to Baltimore to stay at my sister's house for Christmas, my mom tells me how my little sister (23) is doing. "She's doing well. She's got new confidence, a new figure, and a new personality." I immediately equate this to new antidepressants. I tell her not to worry because I will flush out the old Tiffany in five minutes. I know how to push her buttons, especially the large red one called "time for more counseling." This is almost a Christmas tradition for me, stemming from our childhood. Unfortunately I can't do it this Christmas because she's the only drinking buddy I'm going to have on the Disney Cruise. I'll let you know how that turns out, let's just say I'm surprised I got invited back after getting drunk and puking in the Disney Elevator last time.

We get to my sister's house, and the second Christmas tradition begins, trying to embarrass me with stories of my childhood. Quickly, something that I had blocked out long ago becomes the topic of conversation, the superpower I would harness as a young child when I got angry. It first started when I was barely walking. My dad spanked me on the diaper just to be an ass, and it made me angry. VERY angry. So angry that I would start screaming louder and louder, and turn red. (I wish I had turned green like a mini-incredible hulk, that would have been awesome) Eventually, I would suck in a huge breath to let out one final ear piercing scream, then my eyes would roll back in my head and I would pass out and fall limp to the ground. You want to spank me? Fine, I'll freak you out by faking my own death at one year of age. Enjoy your panic attack, you brand new parents who have no idea what you're doing. Then I would turn blue, slowly let out the huge breath, and piss my pants.

The first time this happened, my hysterical mom waited about 30 seconds and I started breathing shallowly as she was dialing 911. I eventually came to, and mastered this trick for use in public places: the mall, the shoe store, and eventually in Kindergarden. I didn't think I pissed my pants every time I did this, but my mom assures me that I did. Fantastic. I do remember the time it happened in Kindergarden, clear as day. I was flicking off this Asian kid because he said something stupid, or because he looked stupid, and when he came at me I made a run for it because I assumed he knew Karate. Some idiot had designed the sandbox right next to the concrete walkway, and when I tried to juke the Asian kid, my feet went out from under me. Sand on concrete is like wet ice. Or, sand on wet concrete when I was done with it. My head bounced off the concrete like a basketball and I was out for about an hour. When I woke up I was in the clinic, and had to wear these horrid short-shorts from the lost and found that smelled like assholes for the rest of the day. Thank God we moved that year to put me in another school system to avoid a lifelong nickname. I would also like to thank my parents for not making me a millionaire with an open and closed lawsuit.

I figure this little trick, which I did a dozen or so times in my childhood, cost me about 5 IQ points a pop. Then there was all the blacking out in college, so I'm down to a reasonable level... perfectly suited for my soon-to-be-launched Starbucks career. Andrew, pictured at the top, has now inherited this power of mine. When my sister called my mom to ask what to do, my mom let her know that it was genetic. My grandfather did it, my dad did it, I did it, and my Nephew does it... Four generations of fury.
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