Wednesday, March 21, 2007

I Don't Practice Feuderia

As Athena leapt from her father's head fully cloaked in armor, so too was Mr. DeWinter squeezed from the neck of his mother by a dermatologist by the name of "Arnie". As pictured above, just moments before he emerged dressed in his infamous White Linen Pants, coated in a fine layer of chocolate dust, an unlit cigar in his hand.

As he dusted himself off, surveying the look of shock, horror, awe, more horror, and utter disgust displayed in the faces of his mother and "Arnie", Mr. DeWinter looked about exam room #4 with its pale yellow walls and its large photos of various skin diseases (the most prominent of which being the photo of a particularly bad case of psoriasis complete with magnified inset, as "Arnie" was considered something of a specialist in the field), smiled politely and asked, "What are the chances that a guy can get a match around here?"

Despite an overwhelming urge to vomit when she found herself in his presence, Mrs. DeWinter took her little bundle of joy home with her. As time went long, Mr. DeWinter took, much to his mother's dismay, to calling her "Ma." As in, "Hey Ma! What's this cassarole shit? What's a guy gotta do to get a steak around here?" Or, "Hey Ma! I told ya a dozen times, starch on my white shirts, see, STARCH."

Each and every time he opened his mouth it became a greater and greater burden to bear. And she wondered to herself what the protocol was for having "birthed" a full-grown man. Do they stay for 18 years, or could she make him get a job and an apartment and relieve herself of her suffering?

I believe the final straw came one bright sunny day when upon returning from 18 holes with the retired neighbor, Carmine, Mr. DeWinter threw down his clubs on the living room floor in front of her weaving loom (she was currently working on a highly satisfying depiction of the senior Mr. DeWinter expelling their demanding son from their cape cod via the front door with what might have been considered by the neighbors as undue force, but she never really cared what the neighbors thought anyway) and in a state of great agitation announced that she obviously didn't have her heart in cleaning his clubs. "This nine iron is disgusting! And there's still piƱa colada on one of the woods! Do you take no pride in your work, woman?"

The particulars of Mr. DeWinter's expulsion from the familial homestead need not be gone into here. Suffice to say that the DeWinter family parted ways on the best terms under the circumstances. He's still allowed in their quiet little cod on holidays or birthdays, anniversaries and such. And Mr. DeWinter makes due with giving orders to his cat army for fetching of fine chocolate, clean linen pants from Morty the Dry Cleaner, and exotic cheeses. Ah, the politics of compromise.


winter said...

I wish I could be troubled to yawn.

rebecca said...

what the F is that a picture of.


Anonymous said...