The FATMAN Speaketh and declareth iteth toeth beth Memoireth Mondayeth.
I was probably about 6.
I was over at the neighbor’s house, talking his ears off while he was unloading his truck.
In an attempt to be funny and show off my acting skills, I collapsed right as he let the truck tailgate down.
Have I ever mentioned what a good actor I am?
Well, I’m a good actor. There, I just did.
Seriously though, I am at least as good as Toby McGuire.
But then again, who isn’t.
Okay, so I’m not Morgan Freeman, partly because he’s black and has a dead hand and I’m pretty sure sounds something similar to God.
But I’m at least better than Nicolas Cage.
Honestly, after Raising Arizona, all his characters are the same and completely interchangeable.
What was I saying?
Oh yeah, giving the neighbor a heartattack.
He freaks out, just sure he’s killed me with his tailgate.
He drops down and starts shaking me and screaming, “EDWARD! EDWARD! EDWARD!”
My Oscar worthy performance continues until my mom runs over.
She’s seen my skills before.
Since there was no bleeding, bruising, or swelling (I couldn’t afford a makeup girl on my allowance), she knew it was a ruse.
“EDWARD, YOU QUIT PLAYING RIGHT NOW!”
I smiled and opened my eyes to see my panicked neighbor white as a ghost and visibly shaken.
He did not laugh.
In fact, his color quickly returned and went straight to an odd shade of red.
I half expected steam to shoot out from his ears like in cartoons.
He mumbled something to my mom about taking me home before he went all Vietnam on me.
I thought it was hilarious.
Almost as much as another time when I was about the same age.
(This is my mom’s favorite story to tell, so I’m sure she will be correcting me on something.)
I grew up in a Pentecostal church.
Making a child sit through a Pentecostal sermon is number 4 on CPS’ list of Defined Child Abuses.
Or it should be.
To make matters worse for my Hyperactive and bored self, there was the threat of severe punishment if I misbehaved.
My mom will dispute this fact, but she’s old and senile and this is my blog and my memory and she should get her own blog if she wants to tell these stories the right way, whatever that may be.
Anyway, it went like this.
Me: *quietly misbehaving*
MOM: *pinching my leg hard enough to cause me a limp even today*
Me: *misbehaving on one leg*
MOM: *whispers*..”If you don’t start behaving, I’m going to take you to the restroom and wear you out.”
Me: *thinking these are empty threats I continue misbehaving*
About this time, the sermon enters the eternally long prayer portion.
My mom snatches me up, and starts heading for the restroom.
Realizing my impending doom, I yell out into the completely quiet congregation, “PRAY FOR ME! PRAY FOR ME!”
When we reached the restroom, mom was laughing too hard to whip me.
Don’t tell ME prayer doesn’t work.