Carl didn’t see the piñata-bashing club as
I cracked him with it on the back of his dome piece, knocking him out for a
solid two minutes. And I didn’t see the two massive parental hands that grabbed
me from behind and spanked my learing, chubby rump until I apologized to Carl,
our non-offensively biracial god and the president. “Crappy birthday to you” is
an understatement. Honey-bearded Jesus and George Bush 41 just kept staring at
me from behind their picture frames on the plastic, Pine-Sol-colored mantel,
and I wouldn’t be getting my new Super Nintendo until the following year, when
the only thing anyone really wanted to play with were Stretch Saddam dolls and
Branch Davidian Big Wheels. But I would be seeing a lot more of Carl. Until the
next time he touched me where it smelled funny.
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