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Family Never Ends

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turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]

TG: yo
TT: Dave, it's nearly one in the morning here.
TT: I was just about to go to bed.

TG: who the fuck goes to bed before 5 am
TT: I do?
TG: too bad
TG: anyway im at the vanity fair party

TT: Oh, right.
TT: Tonight was the Oscars.

TG: what you didnt even watch
TT: No.
TT: Why even bother when I know you'll just call me up at 12:53 AM to bitch about it anyway?

TG: really feeling the love here sis
TG: kings speech won best picture
TG: and best screenplay
TG: and best director

TT: Ouch.
TG: yeah
TG: 8 nominations and fucking nothing

TT: An Academy Award nomination isn't nothing, Dave.
TG: rose as my sister you have a duty to listen to my entitled whining without complaint
TT: I never asked for this.
TG: life sucks deal with it
TT: Sigh.
TT: Ok, dearest brother, go ahead.
TT: Tell me all about your night.
TT: Spare not even the slightest detail.

TG: im in hell
TG: and by hell i mean
TG: mom is doing body shots off madonna

TT: ... At the Vanity Fair party?
TG: yes
TG: its fucking chaos
TG: im too sober for this

TT: Wow.
TT: I guess it's really changed since I last attended.

TG: maybe if you left your hermit cave once in a while youd know what all the cool kids were up to
TT: I leave my hermit cave all of the time.
TT: I just typically have better things to do than spend my evenings babysitting my mother.

TG: man if i dont take her to these retarded hollywood events at least a couple of times a year she wont get off my ass
TG: its suffer now or suffer later

TT: Oh, I am well aware.
TT: Whenever you're not paying her enough attention, the phonecalls begin.
TT: "Oh, Rosie, when are you going to move to Los Angeles."
TT: "Rosie, I'm so lonely, come move to Los Angeles."
TT: "Dave never calls me anymore, Rosie, I'm dying, you need to move to Los Angeles, are you going to let your mother perish all by her lonesome."
TT: Usually at that point I hear her vomiting into the toilet over the phone.

TG: im surprised she can even enunciate the name los angeles
TT: I'm paraphrasing, clearly.
TG: haha oh man
TT: It's all much less entertaining when all of these interactions occur between midnight and four in the morning.
TT: Kind of like you're doing right now, actually. Isn't that just the funniest thing?
TT: Like mother, like son.

TG: youre just jealous im her favorite
TT: Excuse me, I believe I'll need a moment to pry myself off the floor once I've finished laughing so hard I can't breathe.
TT: No, Dave, you can keep on being the golden child.
TT: Your burden is one I never wish to bear.

TG: yeah that one was a stretch
TG: im one great big fucking martyr and dont you fucks ever forget it

TT: We stand in reverent awe of your brave sacrifice. You're a hero to us both.
TG: all right off one cross and onto another madonnas daughter is crying
TG: i have to put a stop this

TT: Godspeed, Dave.
TG: god is one hell of an asshole

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist [TT]


Your name is Dave Lalonde, and hell is prying your fifty year old mother's face out of Madonna's tits.

"Mom," you grit out, your face the utmost picture of exasperation as she drunkenly clings to your shoulders and slobbers all over your perfectly good tuxedo. "I think it's time to go home."

You spare Madonna's daughter a sympathetic glance over you shoulder as you steer your mother away from the throng of onlooking party-goers (when you notice her uneven limping gait you look down to discover one of her shoes is conspicuously absent; you begin mentally preparing for the 3 hour phonecall you'll get the next morning where she cries because those were my favorite Luis Vuitton pumps, and you'll remind her that she has at least eighty-two pairs of Luis Vuitton pumps and each and every one of them is her favorite pair of Luis Vuitton pumps, and you'll offer to buy her eighty-two more if it'll get her to shut up, but oh, Dave, but it won't be the same, these were special, and then you'll check out the prices on handguns).

"David —" (Your full name isn't even David.) "I have to... I've got to use th-the laaaaahvatory," she slurs out. Her legs promptly give way and you have to scramble to catch her and support her weight.

You're close to the exit and less than enthusiastic about the prospect of having to double back and drag her dead weight all the way to the bathrooms. "Can't it wait until I take you home?" you grit out, adjusting the arm around your shoulders when it threatens to slip off.

"No, I've gotta go noowwww," she whines; you groan histrionically and turn around.

You dump her off at the women's bathroom and stand about anxiously outside as you wait for her to take her requisite eternity to piss or vomit or whatever the fuck she's doing in there. You want to go in and make sure she doesn't drown in the toilet, but you're not in the mood for the tabloid coverage you'll receive when you scare the shit out of a couple of the scandal-starved socialites that drunkenly loiter around the women's bathroom for fucking hours at a time.

You suddenly realize you also have to pee.

"Mom, I'm going to take a piss, stay here and don't wander off," you half-shout into the bathroom; upon hearing her unintelligible reply of 'ohhiiyehahkay', you hurry to do your business. You'd be more confident about leaving a 2 year old child to its own devices but you really have to go.

You bluster into the men's bathroom, and upon discovering some asshole decided to occupy the middle of the three urinals, you opt for a stall instead. Your bladder readily proves itself to be frustratingly capacitous; by the time you're done, you anxiously anticipate having to scour the party for your mother when you inevitably discover her to have wandered off to god knows where.

But even in your rush, what you see when you open the toilet stall stops you dead in your tracks: the asshole bogarting the urinals is still there, and he is the single most ridiculous looking man you have ever seen in your entire life.

He zips up and turns around right as you step back out from the stall and you are unable to believe your eyes. Here, in the bathroom of the Vanity Fairy Oscar Party, is a man with a popped collar. As if that alone weren't enough, he tops it off with fingerless gloves, a baseball cap, and an obnoxious pair of pointed shades that lead you to question how he even managed to leave his house.

But he wasn't in ignorance of the dress code, oh no. His idea of formal attire seems to have been incompetently tying a bowtie around his polo collar, and... are those fucking spats?

There's almost an artistic efficacy in which he hits every single cornerstone of douchebaggery — the gloves, the absurdly spiked hair, the pointy anime shades, the popped collar, and the spats, oh god he's wearing fucking spats with jeans and a polo, this is incredible — and you'd offer to shake his hand if that conspicuously front-facing cap didn't cast your appraisal of his sincerity into doubt; wouldn't turning it backwards have been that much more obnoxious? Why did he pass up that opportunity?

Which, you figure, may well be the crucial component of his calculations, the keystone capping this carefully composed facade — just one little detail that makes you think, oh my god, what if he actually takes himself seriously?

And then he opens his mouth.

"Hey. You're Dave Lalonde, aren't you?"

You should have figured it from the indoor shades — guy's a groupie aping your shtick. Judging by his direly inappropriate wardrobe, he clearly wasn't invited through any proper channel; you wonder how much money he paid for the chance to run into you in the bathroom. Kind of pathetic, given the fact he looks to be at least forty years old.

"Yeah," you reply succinctly. The guy just stands there and watches as you walk to the sinks, thrust your hands under a faucet and hastily wash them off. The way he looks at you makes you uncomfortable. "Dude, do you want something?" you eventually ask, hoping that the answer won't be a shank in your eyeball.

"You look at scripts?"

Oh great.

You snort out a laugh and raise an eyebrow derisively as you pull down a sheet of paper towel to dry your hands. "No."

The dude doesn't seem to be phased by your attempted brush-off; his face remains set in a stoically blank expression all the while. He apparently takes fidelity to copying your public persona exceptionally seriously. "If it doesn't grab you in the first three pages you can burn it."

"Look, I'm in a fucking hurry here so if you wouldn't mind —" You pause to pat down your pockets in search of wherever the fuck you left the damn things, growing visibly agitated. When you finally find a card you shove it rudely into his face, brandishing it impatiently until he takes it from your hand. "— talk to my manager about it, it's his job to handle this crap, I don't have the time or the energy to deal with every single —"

"Daaaaave, wheerre aaaaaaaare yooouu," you hear your mother wail from beyond the bathroom door, the irregular clack-stomp-clack of her distinctly motile sounding feet resounding through the outside hallway. You curse under your breath and hurry out to collect her, sparing not a second glance back at the man in your wake.




You regret buying your mother a house with such a huge fucking garden.

She's leaning practically all her weight onto you as the two of you make your way up the long path leading to your mother's extravagant estate. You're almost as tired as she is drunk, and every step you take feels like a mile traveled. "The fuck didn't I get something with a driveway up to the door," you mutter to yourself.


"Nothing, talking to myself."

"Daaavey, you craaz—"

Your mother suddenly stops short and begins to gag; startled, you skittishly reposition yourself to avoid any potential wayward chunks, still careful to not allow her to fall. Luckily, all she produces is a bunch of loud noises.

"Imakay, whew, f-false alarm," she wheezes, before immediately dry heaving again.

"C'mon, let's just get you inside," you urge. Leading her up the steps to the front door is an ordeal, and you remain in anxious anticipation of sudden projectile vomit all the way.

When you finally reach the top of the mountain (or, the series of four steps, as it were), your mother slowly takes a moment to look back and forth between her hands — one around your shoulder, the other occupied by her sole surviving shoe — before she finally figures out what she's missing. "Crap, I left my purse in the car," she groans. "Do you have a — a house key? ... Wait, did I give you a new one after we changed the locks? How long ago was that? Oh, maybe it was years ago. Or did we change it again recently? I th-think I, no, there was definitely a raccoon, I remember the raccoon, I think we might have changed it because of the raccoon hands and huh wait... hmm uhm raccoon keys..."

She trails off into a string of unintelligible mumbling that you don't even bother making an attempt to parse.

After fishing them from your pocket, you fumble with your keys; you can't remember what half these fucking things are for. You try a few with no luck. Between the unnerving weight of her stare and the even heavier weight of her body leaned fully against you, you eventually decide you don't have the patience. "Fuck it. All right, wait here, I'll go back and get —"

"Dave, don't be ridiculous, just ring the, the doooooorbell," she chides, flapping her shoe-hand spastically in your general direction. You think she was trying to smack you.

When you just glare at her uncomfortably, she gives a great dramatic sigh and pushes off from you to stagger up to the front door on her own.

"Mom, wait —"

She ignores you and repeatedly jabs her finger into the ringer. "Hooonneeyyy, come let me in, I locked myself out of the house aaggaaaaainnn," she shouts, wobbling unsteadily on her feet. You spend a few moments pouting petulantly before you groan with exasperation and move back to support her so she doesn't fall down the steps and break her neck.

Your dread steadily swells as the sound of approaching footsteps from within the house grow louder. You steel yourself with your most impassive expression as you hear the locks of the door click; when the door swings open to reveal the man inside, you're ready with your best thousand-yard stare.

He seems surprised to see you; usually you just let yourself in and leave before you have the misfortune of an encounter. "Good evening, Dave," your stepfather says after he rather hastily removes the pipe from his mouth, as if you didn't already fucking see it (you hate how he smokes in the house; you used to pick fights with him about it all the time, until your mother got him to agree to not do it in front of you and you to agree to pretend he doesn't do it at all. As if you can't smell the fucking shit all over the house every time you come over).

"Egbert," you tersely acknowledge; your stepfather bristles reflexively in turn. He appears as tense and uneasy as you are, like he's bracing himself for a confrontation — luckily for him you're fucking exhausted, so you settle for judging silence and and the slightest hint of a sneer instead.

Your mother is the one to break the uncomfortable silence that stretches between you. "Dears," she says, her voice laced with an artificial sweetness that readily betrays a well-practiced exasperation. "One of you is gonna have to help me inside because I am puuhhhhhh-lastered."

"Yes, I can see that," Egbert says evenly. His tone immediately becomes tense and guarded again as soon as his attention returns to you. "Here, let me take her." After setting his pipe aside on the small table next to the door as quickly and inconspicuously as he can manage, he opens his arms to receive her.

You carefully extricate yourself from your mother and pass her over to your stepfather, who grunts when she essentially topples onto him. He helps her regain her footing and looks back to you. "Would you like to come in, Dave?"

He knows full well what your answer will be, but he can never help but make a show of being polite and gracious and the better man. "No, it's late. I'm heading back home."

"Take care, then, Dave. Goodnight," he says, with a congenial smile and an amiable tip of his hat. When he turns his back to lead your mother into the house, you contemplate how it would feel to punch his stupid bald head.

"Oh, Davey baby, don't forget to bring up my purse," your mother calls back over her shoulder before she returns her attention to her new escort. "Raccoons have hands, honey. Did you know that?"

"Yes, dear."