This is the monthly Guest Blog... The title was hard to decide on. It was a toss up between the actual title and "My Brother Is An Asshole".
My amazing friend Lauren has mad skill when it comes to making me laugh. She has a really fucked up sense of humor... it's a common trait for us. While other people laugh at Napoleon Dynamite... we can laugh at shit blowing up and murderers chasing us.
Fucked up.
Like I said.
As with anyone who has a really messed up sense of humor, it stems from a childhood trauma. We all have them, but if you have siblings-NAY- if you have OLDER siblings the stories are bound to be that much worse.
Without further procrastination on letting you read this gem, I present to you the story that made Lauren that much more quirky. THANK YOU SO MUCH... you are amazeballs.
My amazing friend Lauren has mad skill when it comes to making me laugh. She has a really fucked up sense of humor... it's a common trait for us. While other people laugh at Napoleon Dynamite... we can laugh at shit blowing up and murderers chasing us.
Fucked up.
Like I said.
As with anyone who has a really messed up sense of humor, it stems from a childhood trauma. We all have them, but if you have siblings-NAY- if you have OLDER siblings the stories are bound to be that much worse.
Without further procrastination on letting you read this gem, I present to you the story that made Lauren that much more quirky. THANK YOU SO MUCH... you are amazeballs.
Fun fact: Taxidermy is from the Greek “taxis” meaning arrangement and “derma” meaning skin.
Arranged skin.
ARRANGED SKIN.
How is that, in itself, not creepy?
Arranged skin.
ARRANGED SKIN.
How is that, in itself, not creepy?
I cannot be the only person in the world who is afraid of taxidermy animals. Rephrase- I am not afraid of taxidermy animals. I am terrified, petrified of them. It doesn’t matter what animal or the size. That shit is creepy. I can’t be within 3 feet of them. For serious, every single muscle in my body tenses as tight as possible and I stop breathing, just staring down the lifeless eyes of something that was probably delightful. Maybe we could’ve even been friends.
As with any childhood trauma story, it’s always hilarious if it happens to someone else. So at the urging of my bitch friend Taylor (I say bitch out of love… actually no, she is a bitch for laughing as hard as I know she did), I will share this horrible moment of my youth.
My gramma had a taxidermy deer head on her living room wall. Even though everyone kept reassuring me that it was deader than dead could ever be, I didn’t believe it. I would stare at the stuffed corpse for hours, waiting for it to come back to life and attack…
I just knew the deer was stuck in the wall and could only get his head and neck through. At any second he would bust through the wall like Bambi’s dad on steroids and chase me, probably to try to kill me.
Definitely to kill me.
Definitely to kill me.
At some point in the near future, my gramma moved into a nursing home and gave some of her old stuff to the family. Guess who got the deer head? Oh yes. Luckily, mom thought it was ugly and tacky but couldn’t throw it out because grampa had shot it. It was/still is kept in the garage.
My traumatizing moment was the day my brother (Mike, age 9) decided that I (age 6) wasn’t scared enough. I had been coloring or something when Mike decided to grab the deer head, sneak up behind me, and jab me with the antlers, yelling a deer call. Naturally, I started screaming and running around the house in pure panic. Naturally, he chased me, still making that noise.
I scrambled into my room and almost got the door shut, but he shoved the damn face in the opening. I started crying and screaming louder, trying to get the fuck away from it. He thought it was the funniest thing ever and started making the noise louder and trying (ok, succeeding) to shove more of that thing through the crack.
This is the most vivid moment of my horrible story. Cry-screaming, putting all of my weight into closing and locking the door without touching the deader than dead thing while my asshole of a brother continued making the creepy deer noise and thrashing the head through the opening of the door, trying to get the antlers in.
This entire story only lasted about 4 minutes. I have no idea how it ended. I’m just so traumatized I get stuck on that scene…
 |
| The Actual Deer Head |
Stop laughing, you bastards!
Most people (except Mike, who still occasionally threatens me with it) acknowledge my intense semi-irrational fear and respect my request to keep all of the obviously, permanently dead things on the other side of the world, or at least not make me come near it.
Today, I was with my other bitch friend Aneela (I won’t even pretend I say it with love. She’s a bitch and I told her to her face. She laughed harder. That bitch.). She brought me to Abercrombie and Fitch. They have a HUGE moose head over their register. I was having a mini panic attack, despite being halfway across the room. She asked me to come with her to the register.
I gave a nervous laugh and said, “Hell no.”
I pointed at it and just said “Moose.”
I gave a nervous laugh and said, “Hell no.”
I pointed at it and just said “Moose.”
It took her a second before she realized exactly what I meant… then she exploded with laughter.
My friends suck.
My friends suck.
Somehow in her conversation with the sales guy, one of us mentioned my intense fear of the moose. The guy said that it was a replica-there was no way they could have a real one in every store.
Direct quote, “Do you know how many moose we’d have to kill?”
Direct quote, “Do you know how many moose we’d have to kill?”
I laughed, but that knowledge didn’t make it less creepy. I will never be able to work at Abercrombie & Fitch because of their stupid moose.