We are enamored, and we'll listen to him like I'd imagine anyone listening to God.
He is allowed to pinch us, push us, bite us, etc.
Then the six hours are up...
He starts taking up residence in my room...
and he hijacks my television.
Alright motherfucker, this is my room... let me watch Tosh.0 or get the hell out.
Then he'll do his thing where he sneaks into the room, and starts pulling me by my ankles... or he'll scratch his balls and proceed to shove his hand in my face... or he'll start flicking my arms and ears... or he'll straight up bite my head (yo, your guess is as good as mine when it comes to that. Why the head? I don't know. Does he bite down hard? Yes... he genuinely bites the top of my head).
Why does he do this? His room only has basic cable... there's no SportsCenter anywhere there... so he's trying to smoke me out of my room.
That little bastard sound "Do-do-dooo, do-do-doooo" at the beginning of the show can wake me up from the deepest slumber.
I.Hate.That.Sound.
If I hibernated, my metabolism would speed up, I'd wake up enraged, kill whoever made the sound, then die from the cold... or whatever happens to animals who are awakened from their hibernation.
My reason for the hatred? Let me take you back to my years of the ghetto.
I slept in the living room, remember? Curled up next to my sister in the sofa. Ruffles slept in the bedroom with my parents.
What's in the living room? The television.
Sure, we had a television in the bedroom, but Ruffles knew better than to walk over to the TV and turn that shit on... Mom would choke-hold his ass until he passed out. NO ONE wakes up my mother and comes out a winner.
So, here we have Rafa turning on the living room television at six in the morning on a weekend.
Idiot... it's Saturday morning... what the fuck do you think happened in the sport's world in the last couple of hours that you may not have heard about?
Little Sister and I would be agitated 98% of the time Ruffles did this, because we most likely spent the previous night scared out of our minds listening to some prostitute scream at her pimp.
So we created a system.
It was based on tag, but turned into a two-hand-touch football type deal... that of course, usually ended badly with one of us crying or throwing punches.
The television would be shared between us... but only like this:
 |
| Diagram to help ease the mental image. |
However, this wouldn't be fair if the King of the TV would not be at risk of losing his/her power throughout the day.
How to lose the TV?
By walking out of the living room.
Sounds unfair, yes, I know, and that's why there were stipulations to this rule... because we all needed to go for a piss sometime during the day. Mom would be furious if we wet the living room carpet... that's why we never had dogs.
So, if the moment came where the King of the TV had to go pee, or eat, or take a nap, he/she would have to "prestarnola" (lend it). He/she would have to tag us while saying "te la presto!" (I'm lending it to you) before crossing the doorway AND cross the doorway without the tag-ee tagging him/her back and "giving it back" ("te la doy!" Failure to utter these words would result in the nullification of the tag) to him/her.
This seemed logical enough... I think... but there was a problem: there were two girls and one boy in the family.
Little sister and I were pretty much in sync when it came to television programing... so, if any one of us was King of the TV, poor Rafa would be shit out of luck.
If I was the King, I'd just tag my sister and calmly stroll my merry way to the bathroom as Little Sister would lounge on the sofa in a NickJr-induced coma.
I would do the same for Little Sister.
When it was Rafa who was King of the TV, Little Sister and I became tag-team pros. One would impede his crossing while the other tagged him back while pushing him out of the living room.
Poor guy... we'd fuck him up.
This would enrage my brother... so he changed the rules: "The person the television is lent to has to attempt to give it back!"
So Little Sister and I would "attempt" to tag each other... i.e. stand up from the sofa while going "Oh no... watch out... I'm gonna get you."
So Rafa would nearly cry from the frustration... and once again, he changed the rule:
"I can take the power from the person you tagged, so then I'm the one who the TV was lent to, and now I can tag you."
That's when shit got real... and each time we had to piss, we practically just let it all out right then and there.
Ruffles would tackle us, push us, trip us... there would be bruises, screams, blood, and an endless amount of tears.
So Little Sister and I quit.
Rafa's King of the Television? Fuck that... I'm not even gonna try... guess we'll have to put up with listening to some more shit on Jose Canseco... and Michael Jordan... and Phil Jackson...
The moment that "Do-do-doooo, do-do-dooo" came on, we'd wake up knowing we were losers.
I only remembered this "game" because Rafa tried reinstating that rule in my room yesterday.
Fuck you. This is MY room... you already took over MY car... you're not monopolizing my shit.
I don't give a fuck about the Raiders, or the Cowboys... I don't care about that motherfucking draft... I DON'T play fantasy football and I don't give two fucks about doing research for my "fake" team.
Go visit the family or something, they only see you around once a year.
Do-do-doooo, do-do-doooo!
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