Living in fear of the Freaky Family women
by Donald K. Sanders
I’m hoping that the new year will bring something new for me to write about. I can only make up so many stories before I run out of ideas, and sooner or later someone will catch on to me plagiarizing other people’s written material.
Well, since I don’t have anything to write about, I’ll just recap all of the bad things that happened last year. Of all of the many, many things that I did last year, only one turned out good: I was involved in a power struggle with the Freaky Family. (Freaky because they’re perfect.)
You see, the Freaky Family (FF) is controlled by my mother-in-law and her six daughters. Up until this year I was afraid of them, but about six months ago I thought it was time to step up and take control because I’m a man.
I must say that it went pretty well at first because they were actually listening to me. I was going to take advantage of that right away! For awhile I was right in the groove. At dinner I sat at the elbow of my mother-in-law, I never had to do dishes, and I did chores only when I wanted.
By chores, I mean little jobs like mowing the grass and cleaning leaves out of the gutter. I’ll let you in on a secret that demonstrates just how smart I am. If the yard actually needed mowing, I would clean the gutters. If the gutters were full, I would cut the grass that didn’t need to be cut. To top it off, I would splash a little water on my shirt so it would look like sweat. Add a little hard breathing and walla — royal treatment from the women.
Then there was a rebellion. I noticed a huddle of women in the kitchen but didn’t think anything of it until just before Thanksgiving. My next trip down to San Jose, it dawned on me what they were up to.
I walked in and started huggin’ and kissin’ like we usually do but then I was directed to the back yard. I noticed right off that something was missing but I didn’t quite know what it was. Then I saw it. There on the ground was a little teeny weeny chainsaw. I could only fit two fingers in the handle and the bar was well over six inches long. I thought, “Isn’t that cute.” From the corner of my eye I saw a big ole giant stump. Like a detective, I turned around to see if the giant redwood was still there and it wasn’t.
“We want you to make us a stumpchair,” they all said.
This stump was eight feet high and six feet across. Now, every time I go down there, I’m cutting that damn stump with the little six-inch chainsaw, and the women are standing in the window watching.
After about a year of cutting on the damn stumpchair they wanted me to load it in my truck. Do you have any idea how much a stump that size weighs? Needless to say, it made my butt pucker and I’m still walking funny to this very day.
Last week, the damn six-inch chainsaw ran out of gas and they accused me of breaking it. I became very upset and walked off while my wife sharpened the chainsaw blade with her fingernail file. Then things really got bad.
At Thanksgiving dinner I usually sit at my mother-in-law’s elbow where I can dazzle her with my brilliant conversation. Not this year! They made me sit at the kiddie table.
These are nice kids and I love them dearly, but they kept throwing vegetables at me because they know I have a deep distain for anything green. My chair was so small that I could only fit one of my sore cheeks on it. I hate that darn stump!
The women kept pushing me toward the back of the food line, forcing me to make my own plate. I was going to load it up, but there was only one little piece of turkey left on the platter by the time I got to it.
Towards the end of the meal I worked up enough gumption to walk up to the women and say, “Please ladies, can I have some more?” The dining room went silent. I decided to go out and work on the stumpchair some more.
Well, the moral of this story suddenly came to me when I dropped the chainsaw on my toe. It was clear as day to me that the Freaky Family women don’t need no stinkin’ man to tell them what to do.
I’m afraid of them again and I think they are trying to take over the world.