I’m sorry for the time that I thought it would be an awesome idea to take all the stickers off of all our VHS tapes. You and Grace spent many long hours watching each videotape and then locating the corresponding stickers. The living room looked like a fluttery, adhesive, snowy fairy-land. I was just trying to bring a little joy to your life.
Sorry for that time that Grace and Lana called around two hundred 1-900 numbers when you weren’t home, resulting in a hellstorm phone bill. And for that time I tried to order myself and Alvin and the Chipmunks Tape when I was 5. I really really wanted to hear Alvin sing the Beach Boys. It’s all about cultural enhancement.
I’m sorry for each and every time that I used lotion and/or perfumed powder after a bath, making the bathroom look like a fancy old lady had exploded.
I’m sorry for the time that Lana and Grace tried to use a toy blender to make you wine, but instead just chewed up the grapes and spit them into a glass and didn’t tell you that when you drank it.
Sorry for trying to teach our Cocker Spaniel to swim in the indoor hot tub.
I’m sorry for the time I thought I was an Olympian at age 4 and tried to backflip off the microwave while the babysitter was there. It was fucking amazing until I pretty much just rocketed my tiny, frail body right into the paneling and screamed for 2 hours.
Sorry for the time you broke your hip and I laughed because that was the funniest fall I have ever seen.
I’m sorry for telling you about the time that my friend Keith and I ran from the cops at that party when I was in high school. And how he almost slammed his car into a cop on the way out of there, and how I almost fell of the car as he almost hit that cop.
Oh, fuck. Did I tell you that story yet? Shit.
Sorry for asking for a trampoline for my birthday, and also sorry that Grace and I spent the next 12 years using it to try to kill one another.
I’m sorry I refused to wear anything but a black-and-white polka-dot bikini and black furry snowboots for the better part of two years. I just looked so fucking bitchin’.
I’m sorry for that time Grace and I used a whole loaf of bread to make tiny little breadballs without your knowledge and spread them all over the backseat so that way you’d get to pick them out of the carpeting for years. It was a fantastically wheat-y snowball fight.
I’m sorry for spinning doughnuts in wheelchairs in the Oklahoma City Mall and almost getting us kicked out. Who knew that ramps and wheelchair brakes were basically THE BEST FUCKING THING EVER?
Sorry for the birthday card I made you one year out of notebook paper that just said, “I’M A COW. MOOOO. COWS.” Even I’m not really sure what I was going for there. It was clearly a rough time for my creativity.
I’m sorry for the time you almost let me fucking drown at Six Flags when the log ride flume nearly ripped my tiny ass off the bridge. I’m sorry you dried me out under the hand driers in the bathroom. Sorry for the time you dropped me when I was a baby and I stopped breathing. Sorry for the time Santa went on a fucking DIET and only wanted carrots and water. Seriously–fuck Santa that year.
I’m sorry that you have to tell your friends that I’m a comedian in comparison with your Veterinarian Daughter. But really, after a childhood like that, I really think this is the best that I can do.
Sorry for anything you did to your parents as a child (or as an adult)?
—Favorite Comment From The Last Post: From Kelly: “One word, four syllables: Sorostitutes. *Please* tell me how these life-size Bratz dolls get dressed to go out for a night of warm Shlitz in cans and erection-induced “dancing.” A strip of denim does not a skirt make, sweetheart, and I really don’t think your hooch should be waving at me–we don’t know each other like that. High heels will only make it harder for you to climb back home to your studio apartment on Mount St. Slutovich. Also: the perrrrrfume that they were smells like a mixture of unicorn tears, daddy issues, lowered expectations and mild depression. Haaaates them (Gollum style).”