This is a story that's been near and dear to my heart for many years. If you have a weak stomach, this tale is not for you.
Names have been changed to protect...nevermind. There are no innocent parties in this one.
Julie was a coworker of mine. A striking blonde with a damn funny nature about her. Her hair was usually pulled back in a pretty up-do with that one perfect lock of hair resting lazily against her cheek. The kind of girl who snapped back like a rubber band after all three of her boys were born.
Because she was normally so well arranged, I immediately took notice when she lurched into the office with the haggard gait of a woman who'd birthed quintuplets in a cotton field the night before.
"What's wrong hooker?" The obvious question.
She cut her eyes in my direction in a manner that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I'm not an idiot. I turned slowly back to my computer screen and pretended to check my email.
After a few minutes, she lunked down in the chair I kept in my cubicle for visitors. She smelled like booze. Since Julie wasn't much for alcohol, I knew I was in for a treat.
"You won't believe what that mother fucker did this time."
I assumed she meant her husband, because he was an ornery sort. "Did he cheat on you?!" I would have been appalled, because nobody cheats on that.
"Wrong mother fucker", she corrected, with an index finger wobbling weakly in my direction.
"You're going to have to say little mother fucker if you want me follow the conversation." I reminded her, retreating quickly with a "sorry" after her eyes snapped back to mine like she'd bite me right in the face if I kept on.
She'd been known to refer to her children as little mother fuckers, but it had always been in a funny way before. This shit was serious.
"So last night...", she begins slowly, sipping in medicinal quantities of Diet Coke to regain some semblance of composure. "...we go after work for Mexican. It's all good. Fine. We all get home, and Jake gets the shits."
Jake is the five year old youngest child of Julie and Derek Anderson. And nothing new there. Kids get the shits.
"Derek and I are on the back deck just talkin', ya know. After a little bit, Derek goes in to get a beer."
I'll have to tell the story in my own words from here on out, because anything after that was just a Turrets-like stream of consciousness that sounded a lot like a Pantera record being played backwards.
It turns out Jake's Mexican food experience had been rather unfortunate, because he indeed did have an explosive variety of the shits. Worse even, he ran out of toilet paper halfway through it. Rather than yelling for one of his brothers to bring him a roll, he slid off the toilet with a drippy, shitty ass and went in search of a roll in his parent's bathroom, depositing an oozing trail of fecal sludge through the living room and master bedroom.
The master bath happened to be stocked with twelve, I said TWELVE, rolls of brand new toilet paper. One would think the treasure had been found and the story ends there, right? Wrong.
You ever see those senseless crimes on CNN where no explanation could possibly validate such heinous behavior? This was one of those times.
Instead of grabbing a roll of toilet paper, Jake zeroed in on Julie's $220 Lise Charmel bra that was hanging on the doorknob.
I felt like I had known this bra personally. We'd discussed it at length. It embraced the boobs in a way that no other bra ever had. It was delicate and soft, yet strong all at the same time; a gift from Derek, who'd carefully selected it himself on a work trip the prior year.
Soft yet strong. Much like Charmin. Jake pulled it from the knob and then proceeded to sop up the runny shit on his butt with it.
Please don't make the mistake of thinking that's as bad as this story gets.
After defiling a fucking French masterpiece, Jake then snuck the bra to the pantry and hid it behind some boxes of Hamburger Helper in an effort to conceal his crime.
Now. What system of logic leads a person to conclude that these actions make the most sense?
This was around the time that Derek came in to get that beer and quickly discovered a horrific crime had taken place, for the sludge trail wound through the living room carpet and over his house shoe.
Derek was an electrician, which also qualified him as an investigator in a round about way. Plus it's not really that tough to crack a ten minute old crime committed by a five year old. Derek began his interrogation with the child and Jake said he'd just gone to find toilet paper and wipe. That's all. Jesus, Derek concluded. What a dick. But fine. Shit happens. He decided to clean the mess on the floor up as not to upset his dear wife who wasn't done forgiving him for backing her car into the mailbox.
He rejoined her on the back deck hoping to resume his plea for makeup sex. Julie and Derek had been married for eleven years. They'd kept a bottle of champagne in their pantry that they'd planned to drink on year ten but Derek had the ass flu. He convinced Julie that they could die tomorrow and they shouldn't wait for a special moment to drink it.
She agrees. That sounds nice. So Derek goes to the pantry to retrieve the bottle, which he's shocked to discover has been smeared with the stench of bean burritos past. It's still wet. The whole pantry had been contaminated with a Mexican strain of fecal bacteria that evidently turns normal children into sadistic sociopaths.
It was then that Derek discovers the lifeless body of Julie's fancy French bra, beginning to congeal to the box of Cheesy Ranch Burger.
After Derek threw up in the kitchen sink, he had no choice but to notify his wife on the latest events in the Anderson home.
There came to pass an epic hide-tanning, a deep clean, some cursing and gnashing of teeth, and then the worst part.
It's about to get gross, ya'll. Now's your chance to close your browser.
Jake told his Daddy he still didn't feel very good. So Derek told him to have a Popsicle at the kitchen table to settle his stomach. He then rejoined Julie, who was back on the deck crying, drinking all of Derek's beer, and singing country songs. At this point I don't think I would have left the children alone again, but OK.
After a few moments, Julie said she'd be right back, she just had to go pee.
And this is your very last chance to quit reading.
"So I go in there", she tells me, "and he's sitting there at the table, just being a good boy. And he's got something red on a paper plate. And it has a string on it..." I quit listening for the most part after that, but here are some facts I did manage to gather.
- Jake's older brother had once told him that tampons were Popsicles. It was his best guess.
- Julie, dead-eyed and without emotion, took photos.
- They tried to salvage the bra but it ended up in the boneyard with the ones from WalMart. Lost it's magic I guess.
- Julie thought her old "Popsicles" were harmless, hidden away in a sani-container in her bathroom.
- Jake will not be a rocket surgeon
- Jake was upgraded from little mother fucker to mother fucker
In case you're wondering, when Jake was asked why he had done this whole thing in the first place, two bulbous tears formed in the corners of his eyes and a raspy little voice whispered back, "Your toilet paper is too scratchy."