I know. I know. You want an example of Dork's need to upstage me. Let me offer you one: Hamsters.
Paul and Glen Peterson are the first kids in town to buy and raise hamsters. They buy their pair after filling out an advertisement on the inside back cover of a Superman comic book. It states kids can make hundreds of dollars raising hamsters. All they have to do is pay ten dollars plus shipping costs. Their original pair has already had about thirty babies. After I watch them run around in and out of their cages, I get a kick out of the little rats. "Hospitals use hamsters in their scientific studies," Glen tells me. "You can get fifty cents apiece for the babies." He's quite the salesmen. So is his brother. They know they have my undivided attention before they offer to sell me a large female.
"She's pregnant," Paul says.
Glen then adds, "Look how big she is. She'll probably have more than a dozen babies."
'Yes," agreed Paul, the brighter of the two. "That'll be at least a five dollar profit for you right off the bat. Beside all that, hamsters make fine pets.”
That last part really hooked me. I should've asked them if they had sold any hamsters to hospitals. I didn't. I discover later they only sell them to rejects like me. And to Dork. That's what I said, Dork.
I spend the first morning building a cage for Polly. I know. Most people call parrots Polly. I name her Polly anyway. I spend an additional two dollars and seventy-nine cents for the cage material at the hardware store.
Polly's fun. She doesn't bark or meow or pee or crap big time on the floor like a puppy. She does those jobs in her cage. Her poop reminds me of Sen Sen, the licorice breath refresher that a lot of kids eat like candy. Sometimes, I do. I once suggest to Dork that he use Sen Sen every minute of the day. Even when he's asleep. I already mentioned that Dork has pig pen breath, didn't I?
Well, anyway, back to Polly. She's a charmer. And she's totally quiet. She doesn't stink. Much, that is. She likes to crawl from my right open palm down to my lower left open palm and then to my lower right palm. Whenever Polly does that, it tickles. Every once in a while, I give her a kiss. She doesn't seem to mind at all.
Dork comes down the basement and takes one look at my Polly. "What's that?"
"Don't you know anything? She's a hamster. She's going to have babies. And I'm gonna make money selling her babies to hospitals that do scientific studies, using hamsters."
"I know," says Dork.
Of course, Dork doesn't even know what a hamster is, but he knows hospitals do scientific studies on them. You getting the picture?
"Where'd you get it?"
"From Paul and Glen."
An hour later, Dork brings home a teeny little female hamster and cage material from the hardware store. "I paid only fifty cents for her," he announces. "I got a better deal than you."
Of course, Dork gets a better deal than I do. He does that all the time. Ask him if you don't believe me. All you have to do is ask him. But, remember what I said about his upstaging me. I almost laugh aloud. To tell you the truth, his female isn't even half Polly's size.
"I don't think that teeny thing of yours can have babies."
"Why?"
"She's too small."
"Not."
"Or too young."
"She'll have plenty babies."
"Won't."
"Will."
"We'll see."
So, Dork builds a cage twice as large as mine for a hamster half the size. I'll have to admit his cage is better looking than mine. All that for that dinky hamster. It goes to show you what the Napoleon Complex does to a person.
Then, get this. A few weeks later, Dork announces, "My hamster had eleven babies."
"I don't believe it," I protest. Polly hasn't had her litter yet and she's bigger than a full size sewer rat. Dork's female is so small she doesn't even have a name except the one I gave her, Tiny. Plus, I don't believe him. "Show me," I say.
"Come down and see."
I can't stand the look on Dork's face. When we get to the basement and approach his cage, all it holds is a pile of shredded paper. "Where's Tiny and her eleven kids?"
"Underneath that paper," says Dork, who lifts a bunch. He's wearing that stupid grin of his. I see Tiny and then count eleven pink baby butts.
I can't believe it and walk over to Polly's cage. She's just starting to shred paper and stacking it in a corner of her cage. "Wait," I tell Dork, "Polly's going to have at least a dozen babies."
"She will not," insists Dork.
"Will to," I say.
"Won't."
"Will."
"Bet."
"A dollar."
"Done," Dork says, adding, "If your hamster doesn't have at least a dozen babies, you owe me a dollar."
"And if she does have a dozen, you owe me one. Which is what's going to happen."
"Won't."
"Will."
Of course, I deny he's my brother. I live here with these people in this house, but I'm certain Doc and Mother aren't my real parents. I don't look anything like them or their other kids. Dork and Crazy Annie have dark hair and dark skin, as well. Me, I keep winning the "Who's got the most freckles?" contest held each summer by our city's recreation department. Well, at least I'm good at something.
Because of my hair color, many adults call me "Red," "Redhead," or "Carrot Top." First off, my head's not red. Whoever made up that term, redhead, must've had an IQ of about one point above a plant. I ask you this: Have you ever seen hair the color of a fire engine, except for that on a circus clown's head, which is fake anyway? Auburn is the correct word.
Carrot Top? You ever see carrots grow in a garden? What's above ground? Green leafy material, right? Thus the top of a carrot is green, not red. That's what. What's below ground? The carrot that's what. And it's orange. Not even close to auburn. I make my case.
If I sunbathe like Crazy Annie and Dork do at the city swimming pool, I'd end up in the hospital. I have to place a towel around my shoulders all the time. Anyway, all I get are more and more freckles. So I can win the freckle contest. Well, that's one thing this reject's good at. So, you can't blame me for figuring out all by myself that either a couple who couldn't afford to feed me—or a high school girl who let her boyfriend go too far—gave me to Doc as payment for delivering me.
That poor couple or the high school girl should've first given Mother a questionnaire in order to determine if she'd be a fit parent to a bed wetting freckle-faced kid. I’m certain she would've flunked outright.
Back to Polly. After she started tearing paper for a nest, I'd check at least six times a day and three times at night in order to see if she had any babies. One morning, she was under the shredded paper, staying there.
"This is it," I said aloud to no one there.
I lifted a gob of shredded pieces. There she was. Underneath. Polly and her big button eyes and cute little nose. Also I count three little pink butts.
"Three?" I yell at Polly. "You're going to have more than three, aren't you?" But no. Three is it.
Upstairs, Dork hears me. In a split second, he's at my side. "Did she have her babies?"
"Yes."
"A dozen?"
I don’t answer him. He takes an extended look at Polly and her three babies." Dork grins. "She probably ate the other nine."
"She did not."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Anyway, you owe me a dollar."
"Not yet I don't."
"What do you mean 'Not yet I don't'?"
"That's what I said. You got a problem with 'Not yet I don't'?" As usual, I'm taller and looking down on him, lording it over, you might say.
"Yeah, I got a problem with not yet you don't. You owe me a dollar. Give it to me. Now." Dork pushes out his right open palm, which hits my chest. "Grease it with a buck."
I'm so angry I can hardly see. Tiny cost only a half buck and has eleven babies. My big, fat, Polly that cost me a dollar has three. I turn to Tiny's cage. The midget's babies are fooling around outside their nest already, probably making fun of me—like their human owner. I'm so furious I pick up the cage and toss it to the floor.
Dork can't believe it. He picks up the cage and warns me, "If you hurt any of my hamsters, I'll—"
I shouldn't have asked him the question. But I did. "You'll what?"
Instantly, Dork opens Polly's cage door and grabs her. Faster than a jet plane, he pulls her out and throws Polly to the floor and stomps on her with his heel as if she's a fire that needs putting out.
I can't believe it. I kneel and pick up my poor Polly. "You---you murderer," I yell at the top of my lungs. "Murderer," I scream louder as I gently lift Polly off the floor. She's as limp as a hot dog long forgotten in a boiling pot. "You killed her, you—" No doubt about it, she's deader than a door nail.
I put the limp Polly back in her cage. Up the stairs I fly. "Mother."
She's on the couch reading a book but her eyes lift up. "What's the matter?"
"What's the matter? I'll tell you what the matter is. He killed Polly, my female hamster. He stomped on her and killed her. Just like that. He killed her, the murderer."
"Who killed whom?"
"Dork. He murdered Polly, my female hamster."
"There's no Dork in this family that I'm aware of."
"You know who I'm talking about."
"Who?"
"Your half-pint olive-skinned son who’s older than me and constantly kisses your ass, that's who."
Oooooh, that did it. She pops up from the couch like a Jack-in-the-box. What used to be her brown eyes are now the color of the flames of hell. "You, young man with your garbage mouth will go to your bedroom right now, and don't come out until I tell you."
"You're not my mother. And I hate you," I yell before I run to my room, slam the door, jump on the bed, stuff my head into a pillow, and cry my fool head off. Eventually, I fall asleep. I don't even eat supper. I pee the bed that night with all my clothes on. In the morning, I'm a mess.
Later, I wrap Polly in some Kleenex and place her in a Brick House Robusto cigar box Bob Martin, half owner of a grocery store, gave me. I bury her behind the garage. A couple days later, I bury the three babies in a Barret cigar box next to her.
One Sunday after mass, I ask Monsignor Gille if hamsters go to heaven after they die.
"I'm sure God has a special place for them," he told me, which made me feel better.
Now, you have your example of how Dork will do anything to upstage me, even if it leads to murder.
There's still a question as to who won the bet. I never pay Dork that dollar. That would be the day if I ever did pay him. That's for certain.
Paul and Glen Peterson are the first kids in town to buy and raise hamsters. They buy their pair after filling out an advertisement on the inside back cover of a Superman comic book. It states kids can make hundreds of dollars raising hamsters. All they have to do is pay ten dollars plus shipping costs. Their original pair has already had about thirty babies. After I watch them run around in and out of their cages, I get a kick out of the little rats. "Hospitals use hamsters in their scientific studies," Glen tells me. "You can get fifty cents apiece for the babies." He's quite the salesmen. So is his brother. They know they have my undivided attention before they offer to sell me a large female.
"She's pregnant," Paul says.
Glen then adds, "Look how big she is. She'll probably have more than a dozen babies."
'Yes," agreed Paul, the brighter of the two. "That'll be at least a five dollar profit for you right off the bat. Beside all that, hamsters make fine pets.”
That last part really hooked me. I should've asked them if they had sold any hamsters to hospitals. I didn't. I discover later they only sell them to rejects like me. And to Dork. That's what I said, Dork.
I spend the first morning building a cage for Polly. I know. Most people call parrots Polly. I name her Polly anyway. I spend an additional two dollars and seventy-nine cents for the cage material at the hardware store.
Polly's fun. She doesn't bark or meow or pee or crap big time on the floor like a puppy. She does those jobs in her cage. Her poop reminds me of Sen Sen, the licorice breath refresher that a lot of kids eat like candy. Sometimes, I do. I once suggest to Dork that he use Sen Sen every minute of the day. Even when he's asleep. I already mentioned that Dork has pig pen breath, didn't I?
Well, anyway, back to Polly. She's a charmer. And she's totally quiet. She doesn't stink. Much, that is. She likes to crawl from my right open palm down to my lower left open palm and then to my lower right palm. Whenever Polly does that, it tickles. Every once in a while, I give her a kiss. She doesn't seem to mind at all.
Dork comes down the basement and takes one look at my Polly. "What's that?"
"Don't you know anything? She's a hamster. She's going to have babies. And I'm gonna make money selling her babies to hospitals that do scientific studies, using hamsters."
"I know," says Dork.
Of course, Dork doesn't even know what a hamster is, but he knows hospitals do scientific studies on them. You getting the picture?
"Where'd you get it?"
"From Paul and Glen."
An hour later, Dork brings home a teeny little female hamster and cage material from the hardware store. "I paid only fifty cents for her," he announces. "I got a better deal than you."
Of course, Dork gets a better deal than I do. He does that all the time. Ask him if you don't believe me. All you have to do is ask him. But, remember what I said about his upstaging me. I almost laugh aloud. To tell you the truth, his female isn't even half Polly's size.
"I don't think that teeny thing of yours can have babies."
"Why?"
"She's too small."
"Not."
"Or too young."
"She'll have plenty babies."
"Won't."
"Will."
"We'll see."
So, Dork builds a cage twice as large as mine for a hamster half the size. I'll have to admit his cage is better looking than mine. All that for that dinky hamster. It goes to show you what the Napoleon Complex does to a person.
Then, get this. A few weeks later, Dork announces, "My hamster had eleven babies."
"I don't believe it," I protest. Polly hasn't had her litter yet and she's bigger than a full size sewer rat. Dork's female is so small she doesn't even have a name except the one I gave her, Tiny. Plus, I don't believe him. "Show me," I say.
"Come down and see."
I can't stand the look on Dork's face. When we get to the basement and approach his cage, all it holds is a pile of shredded paper. "Where's Tiny and her eleven kids?"
"Underneath that paper," says Dork, who lifts a bunch. He's wearing that stupid grin of his. I see Tiny and then count eleven pink baby butts.
I can't believe it and walk over to Polly's cage. She's just starting to shred paper and stacking it in a corner of her cage. "Wait," I tell Dork, "Polly's going to have at least a dozen babies."
"She will not," insists Dork.
"Will to," I say.
"Won't."
"Will."
"Bet."
"A dollar."
"Done," Dork says, adding, "If your hamster doesn't have at least a dozen babies, you owe me a dollar."
"And if she does have a dozen, you owe me one. Which is what's going to happen."
"Won't."
"Will."
Of course, I deny he's my brother. I live here with these people in this house, but I'm certain Doc and Mother aren't my real parents. I don't look anything like them or their other kids. Dork and Crazy Annie have dark hair and dark skin, as well. Me, I keep winning the "Who's got the most freckles?" contest held each summer by our city's recreation department. Well, at least I'm good at something.
Because of my hair color, many adults call me "Red," "Redhead," or "Carrot Top." First off, my head's not red. Whoever made up that term, redhead, must've had an IQ of about one point above a plant. I ask you this: Have you ever seen hair the color of a fire engine, except for that on a circus clown's head, which is fake anyway? Auburn is the correct word.
Carrot Top? You ever see carrots grow in a garden? What's above ground? Green leafy material, right? Thus the top of a carrot is green, not red. That's what. What's below ground? The carrot that's what. And it's orange. Not even close to auburn. I make my case.
If I sunbathe like Crazy Annie and Dork do at the city swimming pool, I'd end up in the hospital. I have to place a towel around my shoulders all the time. Anyway, all I get are more and more freckles. So I can win the freckle contest. Well, that's one thing this reject's good at. So, you can't blame me for figuring out all by myself that either a couple who couldn't afford to feed me—or a high school girl who let her boyfriend go too far—gave me to Doc as payment for delivering me.
That poor couple or the high school girl should've first given Mother a questionnaire in order to determine if she'd be a fit parent to a bed wetting freckle-faced kid. I’m certain she would've flunked outright.
Back to Polly. After she started tearing paper for a nest, I'd check at least six times a day and three times at night in order to see if she had any babies. One morning, she was under the shredded paper, staying there.
"This is it," I said aloud to no one there.
I lifted a gob of shredded pieces. There she was. Underneath. Polly and her big button eyes and cute little nose. Also I count three little pink butts.
"Three?" I yell at Polly. "You're going to have more than three, aren't you?" But no. Three is it.
Upstairs, Dork hears me. In a split second, he's at my side. "Did she have her babies?"
"Yes."
"A dozen?"
I don’t answer him. He takes an extended look at Polly and her three babies." Dork grins. "She probably ate the other nine."
"She did not."
"Did too."
"Did not."
"Anyway, you owe me a dollar."
"Not yet I don't."
"What do you mean 'Not yet I don't'?"
"That's what I said. You got a problem with 'Not yet I don't'?" As usual, I'm taller and looking down on him, lording it over, you might say.
"Yeah, I got a problem with not yet you don't. You owe me a dollar. Give it to me. Now." Dork pushes out his right open palm, which hits my chest. "Grease it with a buck."
I'm so angry I can hardly see. Tiny cost only a half buck and has eleven babies. My big, fat, Polly that cost me a dollar has three. I turn to Tiny's cage. The midget's babies are fooling around outside their nest already, probably making fun of me—like their human owner. I'm so furious I pick up the cage and toss it to the floor.
Dork can't believe it. He picks up the cage and warns me, "If you hurt any of my hamsters, I'll—"
I shouldn't have asked him the question. But I did. "You'll what?"
Instantly, Dork opens Polly's cage door and grabs her. Faster than a jet plane, he pulls her out and throws Polly to the floor and stomps on her with his heel as if she's a fire that needs putting out.
I can't believe it. I kneel and pick up my poor Polly. "You---you murderer," I yell at the top of my lungs. "Murderer," I scream louder as I gently lift Polly off the floor. She's as limp as a hot dog long forgotten in a boiling pot. "You killed her, you—" No doubt about it, she's deader than a door nail.
I put the limp Polly back in her cage. Up the stairs I fly. "Mother."
She's on the couch reading a book but her eyes lift up. "What's the matter?"
"What's the matter? I'll tell you what the matter is. He killed Polly, my female hamster. He stomped on her and killed her. Just like that. He killed her, the murderer."
"Who killed whom?"
"Dork. He murdered Polly, my female hamster."
"There's no Dork in this family that I'm aware of."
"You know who I'm talking about."
"Who?"
"Your half-pint olive-skinned son who’s older than me and constantly kisses your ass, that's who."
Oooooh, that did it. She pops up from the couch like a Jack-in-the-box. What used to be her brown eyes are now the color of the flames of hell. "You, young man with your garbage mouth will go to your bedroom right now, and don't come out until I tell you."
"You're not my mother. And I hate you," I yell before I run to my room, slam the door, jump on the bed, stuff my head into a pillow, and cry my fool head off. Eventually, I fall asleep. I don't even eat supper. I pee the bed that night with all my clothes on. In the morning, I'm a mess.
Later, I wrap Polly in some Kleenex and place her in a Brick House Robusto cigar box Bob Martin, half owner of a grocery store, gave me. I bury her behind the garage. A couple days later, I bury the three babies in a Barret cigar box next to her.
One Sunday after mass, I ask Monsignor Gille if hamsters go to heaven after they die.
"I'm sure God has a special place for them," he told me, which made me feel better.
Now, you have your example of how Dork will do anything to upstage me, even if it leads to murder.
There's still a question as to who won the bet. I never pay Dork that dollar. That would be the day if I ever did pay him. That's for certain.