That’s Not the Funny Part

My grandfather had recently passed away. That's not the funny part.

We all externalized our grief in different ways: My mother cried, my father cursed at televised sporting events, and I played video games three quarters of my conscious life. Unfortunately, my brother had yet to discover a healthy outlet for his sorrow. Or so I thought.

Bladder sloshing with Pacific Cooler Capri Sun, I awoke for a 3 a.m. lizard draining. Before I could return to my sexually confused teenage dreams, however, I was startled by a clacking noise downstairs. Classically educated in horror films, I was fairly certain a trip down the steps would result in a tabby cat jump scare followed by my elaborate death at the hands of some masked psychopath. I had a fair amount of teen angst going on, so death really wasn't the worst option. So I crept downstairs, fully committed to taking a screwdriver to the jugular.

As my descent deepened, the shrieks of some mid-slaughter victim amplified. I peeked around the corner and soaked in the scene: A glowing computer screen displayed the doomed, a naked sorority girl being pummeled by a throbbing black cock. At the desk was my brother, adrift in deep concentration, a sixteen-going-on-seventeen scamp seeking guidance not from some handsome Nazi but in the form of interracial sex. He didn't notice me for a couple seconds, but once he did, embarassment splashed his face like a bucket of water.

Now, in this situation, most people would X out of the XXX material and spew some bogus cover story. My brother was not most people. Figuring he was too deep in the Basement Porn Scandal of 2007, my brother dived right in. "Check this out," he said with equal parts confidence and shame.

"Oh," I said, hunkering beside him, envying Middle Eastern waterboarding victims.

And so my brother and I proceeded to watch internet porn together. That's also not the funny part.

The following day, my chambermaid mother was laboring through each room with a barrel of soiled clothing. Laundry day. The whites. Sidling out of my brother's room, she suddenly stopped and reached into the basket. Producing a rigor mortis sock stiffened by dried semen, she faced my brother. "Joe," she said, "you've got to keep your socks cleaner. What have you been doing? Walking on marshmallows?"

Okay, that's the funny part.