Boy has it been crazy around here the past few weeks! I’ve hardly had time to play with my track ball, stalk bugs, or nap in the window, let alone blog.
With the help of our brother, The General (a born digger), Eggnog unearthed her wardrobe from her days as successful rap artist.
Since then she’s been schooling Steve on how to walk and talk like, well, an early-2000s rap artist. Let’s just say he’s not a natural.
As Steve’s initiation for the Springhill Ballers approached, Eggnog began the long, hard work of dressing him for the part. She said the right outfit wasn’t enough, that he should start assembling a portfolio [for what?!], and so I helped them find backgrounds that give him “street cred.” [Eggnog said his usual favorite place to pose — on our moms’ bed, where he spends 75% of his day lounging — makes him look too soft.]
After too many outfit changes to count,
Eggnog made her final selection for Steve:
When initiation day came, Steve paced the house like a caged lion [minus the ferociousness]. After being laughed out of his last initiation attempt for wearing this:
he had zero confidence that dressing like a female canine rap artist would produce a better result.
Eggnog told Steve to stop sounding like a pussy. Obviously she’s asking the impossible – that’s what he is! [Ethel overheard Eggnog say this and went on one of her tirades about Andrea Dworkat and wimmin power. She said that the word has more than one meaning, and both of the meanings Eggnog used were meant as insults. Ethel insults Steve ALL of the time – in fact, she lives to insult Steve – so why should she care?!]
Once again I helped Steve sneak out of the house and waited by the window on pins and needles for him to return. I knew the news was good when I saw him prancing across the lawn toward the house [not looking very thug-like].
Steve was beside himself with excitement. He said the fellas thought he looked a little like their great-great-great-grandpas, but the improvement over his first attempt was drastic enough to let him in.
The work Eggnog did with him on his attitude was also helpful, particularly calling himself “OG”, walking with a limp [which almost got him taken to the vet – until he learned not to do it in front of our moms], and referring to himself in third person [which he already did anyway: “Steve has awesome abs,” “Steve needs to get a drink of filtered water…”].
Apparently, however, having the right outfit isn’t all it takes to get into a gang. Who knew? Before Steve can officially call himself a Springhill Baller, they want him to complete one more task: He has to stay out all night, pee on Mrs. Davis’s new flowerbed, and sneak into the crawl space under Mr. Landon’s house and shred the ductwork.
I’m worried for Steve. Other than these past few times sneaking out to join this gang, he doesn’t go outside. And he’s NEVER been out after dark! What if our moms notice he’s gone? What if he runs into the St. Bernard that lives two doors down? Where will he get dinner? What if it’s raining or cold?!
I told Steve I don’t think he should do it, but he won’t listen. He said there’s no turning back now. I voiced my concerns, but he said those things don’t trouble him. His biggest worry is that shredding Mr. Landon’s ductwork will ruin his claws. That and he’ll have to miss one of his ab workouts just when he was getting back on a schedule.
Of course Eggnog was no help. She told me to chill out, that Steve’s just keepin’ it real. Besides, according to Eggnog, Steve staying out all night in our neighborhood is far safer than riding in a car with Tupac in Las Vegas. Eggnog said she’s lucky she made it out of that night in one piece.
I’d rather Steve not ride in a car with anyone, and I’d prefer he stay inside and drop this whole gang thing. But if he insists on going through with this, I’ll do whatever I can to help. He might get on my nerves, but he’s my brother and I love him.