My sister is a lovely human being. Honest. She is. We don't live especially nearby each other anymore, and we both have full plates at the moment, but there is a understanding between us that transcends circumstance and geography (as is probably the case with most siblings). When I'm in crisis mode and in need of counsel, my sister has an insight into matters that is invaluable. She may be slightly nuts, but she is fiercely loyal and a good friend. As they say uptown, she "has my back."
As fate would have it, my sister and I didn't cross paths over the Christmas holidays. With both of us being married and having kids (she has two boys, ages 8 and 12), the logistics of getting everyone together proved too difficult at the time, so we decided to celebrate the holiday and exchange gifts at a later date. That date ended up being today. Victoria (her name) and da brudders came over and paid a long overdue visit. Unlike most pre-pubescent ruffians, Victoria's sons are incredibly calm, polite and well-spoken and are tirelessly cute and gentle with my daughter, Charlotte (just shy of 2 yrs old).
It was a lovely visit, especially with my wife confined to the apartment these days in preparation for the stork's next offensive. Victoria showered Charlotte in gifts, including a lovely teddy bear to add to the sprawling, plush menagerie that is threatening to take over her little room. In turn, I furnished the boys with some MTV swag and some compact discs for the 12 yr. old (ever since learning of his gestating interest in music, I've been feeding him a constant stream of discs by artists like Iron Maiden, The Clash, Motorhead, AC/DC, Black Sabbath, the Sex Pistols, Black Flag, the Circle Jerks and, of course, my beloved KILLING JOKE). This holiday being no different, I gave him a handful of my old doubles by bands like Motley Crue, the Sisters of Mercy, a couple of old Punk compilations and a brand, spankin' new copy of the new album by heroically stentorian metal band, THE SWORD, with the explicit instructions to PLAY AT WELDING VOLUME!
The lad's evidently been taking this advice to heart. In what can only be construed as an act of retaliation, sadism and revenge for this, Victoria then bestowed on my ecstatic toddler a SING ALONG WITH ELMO. This disarmingly shrill little device provides ceaseless airrings of that insipid crimson gremlin's "greatest hits," disquietingly amplified at volumes that pose a continued threat to my sanity. Charlotte was, of course, instantly addicted to pressing its many sickly, candy-colored buttons, prompting the soulless, demonic bit of shiney red plastic to play "The Chicken Dance," "If You're Happy & You Know It, Clap Your Hands" and Elmo's hysteria-inducing theme song ("La La La-La..") in neverending rotations. I guess this is the thanks I get for introducing her sons to the joys of rock'n'roll.
Next Christmas, I'm getting that kid a bass amplifier, a year's supply of air-horns and a bazooka.
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