Anyway, she recently posted that he’ll be released in September and he’s told her (via tinny, collect calls from the big house, no doubt) that, if she won’t have him back, he wants nothing to do with the two kids she bore him. Me? I’m not shocked. And I’d be sad, but let’s face it, those kids are headed for a life of copper-theft and meth-addiction. It’s a sad fact that haunts my family. Brian’s presence—or lack thereof—will do nothing to change that situation.
Cousin Brian and his 'ho' in better times.
He does have the chance to start anew, however, a proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes of failure and soiled Burger King wrappers strewn about the floorboard of his EZ-Credit ride. And I’d like to help him on that path. With an open letter. That I hope he’ll (never) read.
Dear Brian:
What’s up, dude? Long time no talk. How was prison? Was the food as bad as they make it sound? What about the ass-rape? I hope you’re leaving “in-tact”. Haha. J/k. (sort of).
So anyway, look… I know we’ve had our differences, but I want to see you succeed. You’re family, man, (though not a family man—zing!) and as much as you’ve let me down throughout the years, I hate paying hard earned money to keep you off the streets. See, I’m a firm believer that you should be ON the streets—but only if you learn how to act like a human being. And I really think you can. I think you just need a little guidance. And who doesn’t like receiving life-coaching from their younger cousin? So listen up.
First—you’ve gotta keep your un-condomed dick out of the ladies. I get it, I get it. Fucking with a condom sucks. But man, it’s a necessity! Seriously. There’s a reason I’m childless (not quite ready financially) and you have… 7? 8? By… how many different women? 4? 5?
You made your first baby with a teacher from your alternative school when you were 14 or 15. I remember that she fled to Idaho in the wake of the disaster. Hopefully that means that child had a chance (but genetics are a bitch, so who knows?). You were at the alternative school because when you were at regular kid school, you tried to cut another kid’s neck with a box-cutter. Damn, B! See, that’s the kind of shit normal people DON’T do… but I digress. So you knocked up a teacher from your special school, and she left, and you were living with me and my parents because your mom couldn’t handle you anymore and your dad remarried and tried to have a normal family… and every morning, your bus would show up to take you to school-- the short-bus, no less-- and my dad would yell down the stairs, “Brian! The short-bus is here!” And he loved you, buddy, but he was sick of your shit, too. We all were. You just didn’t get it.
Again, I’m off-track here… forgive me.
So you made a baby then, and eventually, you left my home. I wasn’t sad, really, but I was still rooting for you. I know you bounced around, met some fly-ass ladies and threw illegitimate children into them. You had a couple of kids with a chick named Jessie (one of them named Quentin—after Tarantino—yikes) and I know that Jessie subsequently hung herself. To death. Dang, B! You’ve sure got a way with the women’s, man. And then you made a couple of other kids with some other floozy, a few more with someone else, and then you met Adena, your most recent victim. You gave her children named “Damien” and “Cobain LaVey.” You always were a poet, bro. Oh, and by the way, way to NOT fuck those kids' chances up from birth with satanic, suicidal names, man. j/k.
But see, this is a big part of the problem. You’re procreating. And you shouldn’t be. You’re not Catholic, and you’re not an aristocrat with wealth to spread around. You’re a societal leech and I don’t want to pay for your fucking mistakes. Knock it off, buddy! : )
Next—you need to keep your anger in check. Look, I know this one is like telling a rabid dog to mind its p’s and q’s You’re wild, you don’t know any better. When you were younger, you were diagnosed as having a “chemical imbalance.” They gave you lithium for a while. If you saw a mental health professional nowadays, you’d probably be told you’re bi-polar or something as equally un-surprising. In fact, none of this is surprising.
When we were younger, we used to play the shit out of some GI Joes. We’d have them fight with guns and with fists, bayonets and grenades. We loved our Joes. We’d give them consequential existences—build them shoe-box residences and make them live real lives (it was either really gay on our part, or really creative) with wives and bills and shit. And sometimes, as a part of life, they’d die. We’d blow them up on the 4th and make elaborate back-stories about their demise. Once, a terrible natural disaster swept their imaginary community and 10 brave souls were lost. This was all fine.
It was weird when you’d hang them in the fireplace from the flue-chain and start a fire, though. Or when you’d microwave them to death. For no good reason. I couldn’t get behind that, man, and you cost me some really good action-figures with your craziness. That was wack. It was like the time you nailed the real-life kitten to the tree when you were six. That was messed-the-fuck-up, dude. That’s serial killer shit.
So I think you should probably see someone who can help you with all of that. Perhaps you just need to talk to someone (though I suspect that you honestly just need lots of psychotropic medication—but let’s see what the professional says).
Finally, you need to learn a trade. Look, I think you sneaked out of (alternative) high school with a diploma. Great job! But unfortunately, only moving past high school won’t get you far these days. Look, I know, I know… Bill Gates didn’t graduate college. Neither did Mark Cuban, or Richard Branson. But they’re all geniuses, Brian. You listen to Disturbed and have Jim Morrison lyrics tattooed underneath the silhouette of a howling wolf on your shoulder. Honestly, with your disdain for authority and love of poorly executed, homemade facial piercings, you’re probably not cut out to mop the bathroom at Hardee’s. But that’s cool, too. That’s why God created HVAC training. Do I want you coming into my house to fix the furnace? Probably not. I’ll never forget the time you stole my social security card from my desk drawer and I ended up with a warrant out for MY arrest when, after a routine traffic stop, you told the cops you WERE me and then you failed to appear in court. That sucked, dude. So yeah, you probably shouldn’t look into home-residence HVAC work-- too much temptation… but maybe like, you can fix the boilers in schools after-hours or something. How much trouble could you get into then? (don’t answer that)
So look, pal, this is only a start. I don’t expect these simple steps to change your life immediately. You have to work at things, brother. It takes time. But start small, and dream big. That’s what I always say.
So remember:
1) Condoms, condoms, condoms!
2) Ix-nay on the Emper-tay.
3) Learn a trade/ gainful employment
Before you know it, you’ll be on the road to normalcy, champ. Hang in there, slugger!
Your Cousin,
Brandon
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