The word vomit just flies right out of my mouth, and still, Noel doesn’t say anything.
Thankfully, Bev really didn’t have to bail me out of jail. There were enough witnesses to give statements to the two police officers, confirming that the asshole I punched was indeed being an asshole and deserved what he got. Another thankful moment was when Aunt Bobbie realized one of the police officers was one of her fellow drag queens from bingo night. The asshole with the bloody nose wasn’t too happy when no one paid attention to his bitching and moaning because the officer was too busy talking about how excited he was to come to our wedding.
Sadly, even with a drag queen police officer on our side, it was still considered an unprovoked attack and it was still up to the asshole if he wanted to press charges. Luckily, in the middle of his tirade about suing all of us and making sure I rot in jail for all of eternity, his daughter came out of the bathroom.
Aunt Bobbie was one-hundred-percent correct. Twelve-year-old girls are the devil incarnate. When her father tried to explain what happened, she clenched her hands into fists and screamed at the top of her lungs. She stomped her foot, rolled her eyes and continued screaming for a full ten minutes about how he was “soooooo embarrassing” and how she’d “never set foot in public with him again,” finishing with an ear-piercing, “HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”
Then she dissolved into a fit of sobbing tears, telling him she was sorry and that she just wanted to go home. He promised to not press charges and to buy her an outfit, as long as she stopped crying. She bartered for a new iPhone instead, the asshole quickly agreed, and then she kissed him on the cheek and smiled at all of us before grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the exit.
I can now confirm that watching a preteen lose her shit all over Target was much more horrifying than disappearing elbow porn. If Noel and I have a daughter one day, I will be crushing up Midol and putting it in her bottle from day one, just to nip that shit in the bud.
“I can’t believe you did that,” Noel finally speaks, sniffling and wiping a stray tear from her cheek when she finally turns in her seat to face me.
“I’m sorry. I know I made things worse, but I couldn’t just stand there and-”
Noel cuts me off, pressing her hand against my mouth and shaking her head.
“You have absolutely nothing to apologize for. That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen, watching you stand up for Aunt Bobbie like that. I don’t think it’s possible for me to love you any more right now,” she tells me softly. “I just want you to be happy and calm, and fighting with some loser in Target is not helping with that. My family is seriously ruining your life. Maybe we should just go to Vegas and elope. Or maybe you should take my father’s advice and run. I don’t want you to die and all of this stress is going to kill you!”
She starts crying harder and I quickly lean over the center console, wrap my arms around her and pull her against me.
“What in the world are you talking about? We’re not eloping, I don’t want to run, and I’m not going to die from stress,” I reassure her, holding her head against my chest with one hand and rubbing soothing circles against her back with the other. “I think it’s time we go home and talk, okay?”
She nods against my chest before pulling her head back. Wiping the tears from her cheeks, I give her a smile. “Everything’s going to be fine. We’ll go home, I’ll pour you a glass of wine, and we can curl up on the couch and just talk. I think we’ve both been going a little crazy lately and a nice, quiet evening at home is just what we need. No fights, no arguments about guest lists, no weird comments about Mister Ed…just you and me.”
Shifting the truck into reverse, I press on the gas to back out of the driveway. I don’t make it more than a few feet before we hear a loud thump that makes me slam on the breaks.
“What the hell was that?” I mutter, turning off the engine.
Noel shrugs and we both get out to take a look. I squat down to look behind the front tire, muttering a curse just as Aunt Bobbie comes flying back out of the house, screaming her head off.
So much for a relaxing evening with Noel so we can talk.
7
Turd Ferguson
Noel
“I can’t believe he’s really gone. He was my best friend,” Aunt Bobbie cries, as we all stand around my parents’ backyard and quietly watch Sam dig a hole in the ground at the back of the property.
After what happened at Target and the moment in the car when Sam finally admitted that we needed to talk, I thought we were finished with our excitement for the day, but I should have known better. I knew it was time for me to come clean to Sam that I saw his prescription and knew about the high blood pressure that my family caused, and I was ready. Trying to keep his blood pressure down on my own so he could forego the pills was obviously the dumbest idea in the world, since this family seems to be a magnet for drama and stupid shit. I could tell he was getting suspicious every time I suggested keeping calm, and there’s no way I’d be able to make him believe for much longer that I am perfectly fine letting my mother Shabby Chic the shit out of our wedding. Of course, right when I convince myself it’s time to suck it up and be an adult, Sam has to go and kill something.
“I can’t believe you’ve been keeping a damn cat in our house for months,” my father complains, looking down at the unmoving ball of fur on the ground next to the hole Sam is still digging.
I’m assuming the cat used to be a very pretty one since Aunt Bobbie wouldn’t stop crying about his long, shiny white fur and beautiful green eyes. Sadly, after being run over by the giant wheel of a Ford truck, his coat is now matted and covered in dirt and with his eyes wide open in death, they’re more of a blood-shot color at this point, with one of the eyeballs enlarged and looking like it’s about ready to pop out of its socket.
“I wasn’t keeping him in your house,” Aunt Bobbie complains, pulling a handkerchief out of her cleavage and dabbing at her cheeks. “Turd Ferguson was strictly an outdoor cat. He had too much pride to cross the threshold of a home where he knew he wasn’t wanted.”
I know I shouldn’t laugh, but every time she says the damn cat’s name, a hysterical giggle bubbles up in my throat and I have to cover my mouth to keep it from escaping. As soon as Aunt Bobbie came running out into the driveway, dropped to the ground next to Sam’s truck, and saw the cat lying lifeless next to the tire, she wailed to the heavens, asking God why he would do this to her, and then demanded we have a proper burial for Turd Ferguson in the backyard. I couldn’t help it. I laughed…very loudly. I was then promptly scolded for making a mockery of Turd Ferguson’s life and as penance, Aunt Bobbie demanded I give the eulogy.
“I don’t understand why you couldn’t have taken that thing to your place and buried it,” my dad grumbles. “I finally got all the decorations where I wanted them and now I’ve got to figure out how to camouflage a freshly dug grave.”
My father, annoyed with all of the wedding talk and arguments, took it upon himself to spend the last few days decorating the front and back yards. Not only does my father overdo it with Christmas decorations, he also gets a little obsessed about the Fourth of July. It took a month for my mother and I to convince him that it would be okay to skip the decorations just this one year so we could have the wedding at their home. I love America and the Fourth of July as much as the next person, but my father takes this decorating business to an unhealthy level.
There are red, blue, and clear lights hung from every branch and trunk of every tree, for as far as the eye can see. More than twenty, by my last count, plastic, light-up American flags that are as big as a car scattered everywhere, so many life-sized, blow-up Uncle Sam’s that I’ve lost count, strands of flag lights lining the entire length of fence that wraps around the yard, a spotlight on the house that lights it up at night to look like fireworks are exploding against the front of it, American flag bunting hanging from the porch ceiling and railings, and over two-thousand tiny little American f
lags on wooden sticks, lining the sidewalk, either side of the driveway, the walkway around the house leading to the backyard, and randomly scattered all OVER the yard.
Suddenly, the notes of the song God Bless America blast through the yard, and my need to laugh quickly disappears. I forgot to mention that my father also hooks up a sound system, with speakers all around the house, giving the neighborhood a free concert every night with his Fourth of July playlist he has on a CD.
“You did a wonderful job with the decorations, Reggie,” my mother tells him with a smile. “The yard looks like Christmas in July!”
“Except it’s supposed to look like a wedding in July, not like America shit all over the lawn,” I mutter under my breath.
“This is my year, I can feel it,” my dad says excitedly, rubbing his hands together. “Max Monroe won’t know what hit him.”
Sam pauses his digging, pushing the shovel into the ground next to the hole and leaning his elbow on the handle. “Who’s Max Monroe?”
I sigh and shrug. “No one knows. I’m pretty sure he’s a figment of dad’s imagination.”
“HORSE SHIT!” my dad shouts. “Your mother has met him. She can back me up. He will not win the firework display contest this year. Wedding or no wedding, I’m taking that guy down.”
My dad continues talking to himself and Sam shoots a questioning look over to my mother.
“Reginald, there is no such thing as a firework display contest!” she argues. “It’s just you two idiots trying to outdo each other every year instead of enjoying time with your family.”
She glances at Sam, who still looks confused, and I don’t blame him. I’ve witnessed this war on fireworks every year since Mr. Monroe and his family moved in a few houses down, and I still don’t have a clue about any of it.
“You shut your mouth when you’re talking to me! He started this war, and now I’m going to finish it,” my father informs her.
“Just because he happened to light off one firework, immediately after you did, down the street at HIS OWN PARTY TEN YEARS AGO, does not mean he declared a war!” she fires back.
“Next you’ll be telling me it’s a coincidence that he lights off a firework after every one I do, and it’s always bigger and better!”
“No, it’s not a coincidence! It’s the FOURTH OF JULY and every yahoo in America is lighting off illegal fireworks until all hours of the morning!”
Sam holds up one hand to halt the argument.
“Wait, did you say illegal fireworks?” he asks. “You know I work for the government, right?”
My dad shakes his head at Sam, stomps over to him, and yanks the shovel out from under his arm, causing Sam to stumble a little bit before he gets his footing.
“And as a Marine, you have a duty to serve and protect,” my dad tells him, pointing the shovel at his crotch. “It is your duty to serve me beer while I light off illegal fireworks that I may or may not cross the border into Pennsylvania to buy and smuggle back in my trunk, and it is your duty to protect my reputation as the King of all Firework Displays by keeping your trap shut about it!”
Aunt Bobbie suddenly lets out a screeching wail, the sound a hundred times louder than the music blasting from the speakers.
“HAVE YOU NO RESPECT FOR TURD FERGUSON?!” she screams. “HE LOST HIS LIFE IN THIS GREAT NATION! YOU HAVE THE FREEDOM TO EAT YOUR WEIGHT IN HAMBURGERS AND HOT DOGS AND LIGHT UP THE NIGHT SKY BECAUSE HE DIED FOR YOU!”
“Uhhh, I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened,” Sam mutters.
“I can’t respect a cat named Turd Ferguson,” my dad chimes in.
“I will have you know, he loved his name,” Aunt Bobbie informs us. “It was a charming, unique name and he loved it!”
She starts crying all over again and my mother quickly rushes to her side and wraps her arm around Aunt Bobbie’s shoulder.
“How is being named after a lump of shit charming? Can we get this thing over with already?” my dad complains. “There’s a guy down at The Walmarts selling M-80’s out of the trunk of his car. I need to get there before there’s nothing but duds left. I can’t very well make Max shit his pants if I’ve got nothing but duds in my arsenal.”
Aunt Bobbie huffs, shooting my dad a dirty look before walking over next to the poor, dead, cat.
“Sam, will you please do the honors of putting Turd Ferguson into his final resting place?”
With a small nod, he bends down and scoops the cat’s dirty body into his arms as gently as possible. I wince when Turd Ferguson’s head flops back over his forearm and make a vow to God then and there that even if Sam’s penis never works again, even if he becomes severely depressed from years without ejaculating and gains a hundred pounds from stress-eating, I will love him until the day I die. Any man who can cradle a dead animal named Turd Ferguson in his arms so gently and lovingly without once cracking a smile whenever his name is mentioned, is the best man in the entire world.
Sam squats down next to the hole and Aunt Bobbie gives me a sad smile and a nod, indicating I should start my eulogy.
“We are all gathered here to celebrate the life of Turd Ferguson,” I start, hiding my giggle with a cough.
I quickly compose myself and continue. “Um, he was a good cat. Best friend to Aunt Bobbie and, uh, all-around good feline. Not very smart considering he decided to curl up in the wheel well of Sam’s truck for a late afternoon nap, but, I digress.”
Sam slowly leans over, lowering Turd Ferguson into the hole as I try to come up with something else to say about a dumb cat with a stupid name.
Suddenly, the music being piped through the neighborhood goes from the soothing tempo of America the Beautiful by Ray Charles, right into the loud, shouting, voice of Kid Rock as he belts out the start of American Badass.
If you ask me, everything that happened next moved in slow motion, but I’m pretty sure Sam wouldn’t agree.
8
Bring Out Your Dead
Sam
As soon as Kid Rock started shouting about tearing down a stage with his own two hands, it was like a bolt of lightning stuck Turd fucking Ferguson. Who knew Kid Rock’s voice acted like a defibrillator to a dead pussy? I’d like to take a moment and laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but it all happens so fast that I don’t have time, what with all the screaming and my life flashing before my eyes.
Right as I’m lowering the damn cat into the grave I just finished digging for him, he suddenly jerks in my arms, lifts his head with that one creepy, bulging eyeball, and glares at me. He opens his mouth and lets out a gurgled, half-assed hiss. It’s short and quiet, but it very clearly screams, “I WILL FUCKING CUT YOU FOR TRYING TO BURY ME ALIVE!”.
I barely have enough time to cringe in horror when I see that he only has three, random teeth left in his mouth, before I let out the most unmanly scream that has ever escaped me. Turd Ferguson lets out a loud, angry yowl that I’m assuming can be heard from miles away. Dogs start barking, car horns begin honking, and everyone in the yard starts yelling in fear, right along with me. Except for Aunt Bobbie.
“SWEET JESUS IT’S A MIRACLE! TURD FERGUSON IS ALIVE!” she shouts happily over the screaming, yowling, hissing and Kid Rock suddenly asking, “Are you scared?”.
“GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME! HOLY SHIT GET IT OFF ME!” I scream, as zombie Turd Ferguson digs his claws into the skin of my arms and drags his mangy body up them, still hissing and yowling and looking me straight in the eye the entire time.
Bev stares at me with wide eyes, Aunt Bobbie keeps clapping in glee, and Reggie starts quoting Monty Python in the worst British accent I’ve ever heard.
“Bring out your dead!” Reggie shouts. He changes the tone of his voice to one less booming and then squeaks out, “I’m not dead yet, I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Noel finally realizes that I’m fighting for my life with a previously dead, now very much NOT dead, pissed off cat and rushes over to my side while I frantically shake my arms to try and get Turd Ferguson
to let go.
“Oh, my God, what do I do?!” she shouts in a panic while I continue to flail all around and scream like a girl when Turd Ferguson digs his claws in deeper and hisses louder.
“Grab the shovel and knock him off me!” I yell back, in between screams of pain.
“DON’T YOU DARE HIT MY BABY WITH A SHOVEL!” Aunt Bobbie screeches. “Just hold still and calm down! He’s traumatized from that near-death experience. He needs a few minutes to compose himself!”
I try to do as she says. I hold my arm out in front of me with Turd Ferguson perched on top of it, but he won’t stop staring at me with his creepy, googly eye and now there’s foam and bloody spit dripping from his mouth.
I’ve watched The Walking Dead. I consider myself an expert on the zombie apocalypse because of that show, and Alex and I have talked a bunch of times about what we would do in that situation. I’m a Marine, dammit! I’ve gone to war and I’ve studied the art of combat and know how to use every weapon ever made to protect myself and those around me. Regardless, I’m pretty sure that show has taught everyone who watches it what to do in case of a zombie apocalypse, and we all feel a little safer going to sleep at night with this knowledge.
What that show failed to teach everyone, is what the fuck you’re supposed to do when animals attack! It’s all fun and zombie games until Goddamn Turd Ferguson rises from the dead and wants to eat off your face with his three remaining teeth.
“Holy shit, he’s really mad,” Noel mutters, as the cat’s tongue dangles out of the side of his mouth while he continues hissing and resumes crawling up my arm, leaving a bloody trail behind from his claws.
“OF COURSE HE’S MAD! YOU TRIED TO BURY HIM ALIVE!” Aunt Bobbie shouts when I go back to my original plan of shaking the hell out of my arm to get the cat loose.