my dad; I disappeared and was unreachable; and—the final straw—I had gone to Mexico. My parents had irrational fears of Mexico and assumed that once you crossed the border, drug runners made you swallow a heroin balloon and then within the hour you were in a bathtub full of ice and they were harvesting your kidneys.
As I pulled up to the house, I spotted my dad’s car in the driveway. I walked up to the front door and opened it. I saw my dad sitting in the living room, staring right at me as if he’d been in that position for the last two days.
“WHERE IN THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?!” he screamed, getting up from his chair and quickly moving toward me like an overweight panther.
“Listen, hold on,” I said.
And then I launched into an elaborate lie about a school project and a birthday that made no sense before he cut me off.
“Mexico!! You went to fucking Mexico? They’ll gut you like a pig, piss on your corpse, and then say ‘Welcome to Mexico!’” he screamed. “You say you’re going to fucking be somewhere, you fucking be there!” he added.
“I know, I know!” I hollered back in defense.
“No, you don’t know! You don’t know shit! Everyone is worried sick about you. I got your mother freaking out, then everybody else. I called the cops to look for you!”
“You called the cops?” I said.
“Yeah, I called the cops!”
“Well, shouldn’t you call them and tell them you found me?”
My dad paused for a split second.
“They’ll figure it out,” he said, the tone in his voice changing.
I looked at him. He very rarely lied to me, and when he did, it was obvious.
“You didn’t call the cops, did you?” I asked suspiciously.
“I called somebody,” he replied.
“Was that somebody the cops?”
Silence fell over the room.
“No,” he said, a little embarrassed. “But fuck you! I could have called the cops! I should have called them, but I figured you were just being dopey, and I’d have wasted their time!”
I realized I had somewhat disarmed him and should just cut my losses now and try to make things right. So I apologized profusely, explained that I had gotten caught up and completely forgotten about our date, and reaffirmed all the reasons why I was an idiot.
“Okay, okay, I get it, you don’t have to keep listing reasons why you’re a dumb shit,” he said, interrupting my laundry list of self-insults.
He motioned me over to him. I cautiously approached. Then he grabbed me and gave me a big hug.
“You little shit,” he said. “I can’t wait till you have some kid and you got to worry about what happens to him. You never stop worrying about your children. It sucks. You watch what you stick your dick into, because this is your life, this bullshit right here.”
He released me from the hug and grabbed a plastic grocery bag filled with chips.
“Grab that bottle of ketchup, we’re late for the barbecue your uncle is throwing.”
“I was going to meet Dan at the beach, actually,” I said tentatively, hoping he would respect my Fourth of July plans.
“Shut the fuck up and grab the bag. You got some balls.”
On Finding the Best Deal
“Man, you should have seen your mom tear that RadioShack manager a new asshole. I would venture to say she made a home inside his asshole. That will be the last time RadioShack tries to fuck with your mother.”
On Nontraditional Entertainment
“There’s something to be said for sitting around and drinking a beer while you watch your dog try to fuck a punching bag.”
On the Baseball Steroids Scandal
“People are surprised Mark McGwire did steroids? Look at him! He looks like they should have him in a stall on display at the fair with some poor son of a bitch cleaning up his shit.”
On My Decision to Try to Make It as a Hollywood Screenwriter
“It’s like being on a merry-go-round, except the horse you’re riding fucks you.”
On Driving Through West Hollywood, Where I Lived My First Year in L.A.
“There seem to be a lot of gay people there. . . . Oh please, as if that’s what I meant by that. Trust me, none of them would ever want to fuck you anyway. They’re gay, not blind.”
On Being Lonely and Having Trouble Making Friends
“Have you tried going out to places, talking to people, making an effort? . . . Bullshit. Talking to someone in a Jiffy Lube waiting room is not making an effort.”
On Internet Service
“I don’t want it. . . . I understand what it does. . . . Yes, I do. And I don’t give a shit if all of your friends have it. All of your friends have dopey fucking haircuts, too, but you don’t see me running to my barber.”
On Bragging
“I would simmer down a bit if I were you. . . . Well, for one, the only one who was impressed was the little girl sitting behind you, and for two, they don’t exactly hand out Medals of fucking Honor for eating two Denny’s breakfast plates in one sitting.”
On Dealing with Loud Neighbors
“Have you told them it bothers you? . . . Are they bigger than you? . . . Are you afraid of getting your ass kicked? . . . Ah, okay, I probably should have asked that question first, woulda saved time. Yeah, you’re just gonna have to deal with the noise, son.”
At the End of the Day, at Least You Have Family
“So there you go. Your mother thinks you’re handsome. This should be an exciting day for you.”
A couple months after I graduated from college, I finally left my hometown of San Diego and moved to Los Angeles. I had studied film and television in college, specifically focusing on writing, and decided that I wanted to try my hand at becoming a screenwriter.
