Wednesday, November 14, 2007

You Thought Aunt Kiki Was Bad? Meet Aunt Kyle.

Aunt Kyle got beat up at the Anonymous Gay Sex Beach and then decided to come straight over here to tell us all about it.

Aunt Kyle, as my sister and I affectionately have called him since I was in high school and she was almost in middle school, is my mom’s white trash, gay best friend who she has known for so long that he’s like a part of our family. This is why we call him Aunt Kyle, because even though he isn’t our mother’s actual sister, like Aunt Kiki, he is her sister in spirit. Sometimes literally “in spirit” which had a lot to do with why he got his ass beat at the Anonymous Gay Sex Beach, but I’ll get to that part in a bit.

Back when we found Charlie, the cat who pooped in the toilet like a human being, you may recall that my mom was selling Chinese flower pots at auctions every weekend and that she was saving up a lot of money so that we could buy a house and so that she could buy herself a business of her very own. She really wanted to own a Checkers. You know Checkers, as in “Ya Gotta Eat” Checkers. I’ve never actually been to a Checkers myself, but back then, and this was like 18 years ago or so, my mom was all about getting herself a Checkers franchise and I think she actually envisioned herself back there squeezing ketchup on buns and dishing hot fries into small paper sleeves.

My mom looked very seriously into this whole Checkers thing and met a woman who was selling her own Checkers, and this woman ended up being Aunt Kyle’s sister Barbara, and you know, she really looked like a Barbara to me. Barbaras in my mind are all kind of short and plump and have blonde hair that they curl with hot rollers. Well, Barbara and my mom and Aunt Kyle were supposed to have a very professional businesslike meeting where they were going to talk very seriously about what it entails to purchase a Checkers franchise, but then, as they always do, things got out of hand and several hours later my mother had not purchased a Checkers franchise, all of them were drunk as skunks, and Barbara’s husband somehow ended up naked in the Intracoastal canal and the other three had to try and fish him out.

For my mother and Aunt Kyle this was a bonding experience and they became dear friends. Barbara sold her Checkers to someone else and moved away and Aunt Kyle was left without a job, so he started cleaning houses and in between jobs he would come to our house to float around in our pool wearing a Speedo. If it was rainy, he’d sit in our TV room and watch gay porn. Thanks to Aunt Kyle I learned that it is indeed possible for a man to put his entire fist up his own ass. Luckily I saw this on a grainy VHS tape being done by a stranger and not acted out by Aunt Kyle in person, which would have scarred me for life. I am fairly scarred as it is already and largely because the guy was using the same blue tub of Crisco that my grandmother uses to fry pancakes and make pie crust and now whenever I see her kneading dough all I can think about is, well…anal fisting.

My mom never got her Checkers franchise, but she did get a babysitter for us. By that time I didn’t need a babysitter, but my brother and sister did and Aunt Kyle made a very good surrogate mother for all of us. He was particularly good at doing our hair and makeup for school dances and the like because he had always harbored a fantasy about becoming a pageant coach, which had never been a reality. He liked my sister way more than me because she was blonde and younger and he could dress her up more. He thought I was a teenaged pain in his ass (not in a good way) and he never approved of my boyfriends.

Pretty soon Aunt Kyle got a job managing a Taco Bell and quit house cleaning. He got a really cute boyfriend and they moved in together in a trailer under a highway overpass near the airport and began to breed Schnauzers. Things didn’t work out and Aunt Kyle’s boyfriend left him for a car salesman who was HIV positive and took all the Schnauzers, leaving Aunt Kyle alone with nothing but a Lhasa Apsa.

One night Aunt Kyle was at our house and it was really late at night so he decided to go home. Now at this time we had these crazy neighbors who were swingers and who were always doing terribly inappropriate things like coming over, opening up our sliding glass doors and trying to get my parents to partner swap with them. The male in this lovely couple was a six foot five airline pilot and his wife Elaine was a petite, 40 something flight attendant. They were both raging alcoholics. The pilot’s name was Fred and he had a bad habit of getting so rip roaring drunk that he believed the best way for him to sober up was to take his Cadillac for a spin around the block a few times. No mailbox in our neighborhood was safe. Living right next door to Fred we had to replace our mailbox at least eighteen times. After a year of Fred, every home owner on our street had built a little brick wall around his or her mailbox to protect it from head on collisions with Fred’s car, and to make this situation even worse, Fred never remembered any of it because he blacked out, so he would go around telling people that his car had so many dings because it was in a hailstorm - an isolated hailstorm which only damaged his car and no one else’s apparently.

On the nights that Fred didn’t drive, he would just wander, zombie-like and large, around the neighborhood and since Fred was a mean drunk, if he encountered another human being he would try to get into a fight.

When Aunt Kyle started up his car and went to pull out of our driveway Fred was lumbering around in the street in front of our house and wouldn’t move.

“Get out of the road Fred!” Aunt Kyle yelled.

“You Fucking Faggot!!” Fred yelled back.

“Oh no he did not just call me that!” Aunt Kyle thought to himself.

Aunt Kyle decided to unleash his wrath on Fred because nobody, not no one, calls Aunt Kyle the F-word.

Aunt Kyle ran Fred completely over with his car and thank heavens it was only a very small Ford Escort and not a truck, or Fred would have been killed. Aunt Kyle got about halfway down the street before he felt guilty about running Fred over and turned around and came back to make sure he wasn’t dead in the street. Aunt Kyle ran back in the house and got my mother, who was positive that Fred was dead and this was somehow her fault and when she came outside she found Fred standing in the street in a daze moaning, so this was a huge relief because it meant he was alive and could stand up.

“Fred, we need to get you to the hospital,” my mother said.

Fred moaned again.

“Nawww, I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me,” Fred slurred.

My mother looked down and Fred’s feet, which had taken the full brunt of being run over by Aunt Kyle’s Escort, were swollen to the size and shade of medicine balls.

“Fred I think your feet might be broken,” she said.

“It ain’t anything you dumb bitch. It’s just an old football injury that acts up.”

My mother was not particularly ok with being called a dumb bitch, but she was very glad to see that Fred was so hammered that he didn’t even remember that he had just been run down by a small homosexual in a little red car. Fred staggered the rest of the way home and the next day he still didn’t remember a thing.

On the way home, however, Aunt Kyle, who had also been drinking, though not nearly as much as Fred, got a DUI, which landed him with a nice jail sentence, which interestingly, he only served on weekends. This caused Aunt Kyle to lose his job as manager of the Taco Bell.

When Aunt Kyle finished going to jail on the weekends, he found another job as the super of a condo at an old people’s community. Aunt Kyle is the kind of person who old ladies just adore and gush over and try to set up with women because they somehow just don’t get that he’s flaming, unabashedly, even stereotypically, gay. Oddly enough, Aunt Kyle ended up going out with one of the women that the old ladies in his condo set him up with and the next Thanksgiving Aunt Kyle arrived with a brand new Colombian wife.

Before pumpkin pie, I took Aunt Kyle aside and reminded him that he was gay.

“I ain’t gay no more, girl! I gots me a woman now!”

We hounded him endlessly after this but he swore he was in love with the Colombian woman and that he was no longer gay, which I assure you was not apparent. He seemed even gayer than ever. Aunt Kyle’s marriage was easily one of the strangest relationships I had ever seen.

And then by the next Thanksgiving he was divorced and back to being gay again although he swore that the relationship was 100% real and had nothing to do with any green card.

Last year Aunt Kyle got completely wasted and took my sister aside, because he still likes her better, and told her that he was going to die of Lou Gehrig’s disease and that by next Christmas he would either be dead or damn near close to it and that he wanted her to take his Lhasa Apsa when he was gone. They both cried and Aunt Kyle became incredibly dramatic sobbing about his last holiday season with full use of his limbs.

Naturally we were all really upset about this, but summer rolled around and Aunt Kyle was totally fine in every possible way and still had plenty of use of his hands, which several strangers at the Anonymous Gay Sex Beach can vouch for. His mouse hand was working particularly well because I get emails from him just about every day. Aunt Kyle is one of those people who forwards every scam, stupid email and every chain letter, cute animal picture with inspirational quote or graphic of God peering down at the American flag with urges to support our troops, that he receives. Aunt Kyle sends me letters warning me not to flash my headlights at cars driving at night with no lights on and long cautionary tales about organ harvesting in foreign countries and I think he, like my mother, believes every stinking word of it.

When Aunt Kyle arrived with a black eye at the front door of Casa dei Sogni, he did not look in the least bit like he had ALS. Other than looking like he had just had his ass beat, Aunt Kyle seemed fine. He had been robbed by a male prostitute who lured him in with promises of things I don’t want to even think about, and then instead of making good on those promises, the prostitute beat up Aunt Kyle and ran off down the dark beach with his wallet.

“God dammit, “said Aunt Kyle, “My Winn Dixie card was in there.”

I gave Aunt Kyle an ice pack and a long lecture about having a cup of coffee with people before having sex with them and then I asked him how his illness was.

“Oh, I ain’t got that,” he said dismissively, “I got fibromyalgia.”

Damn him. But at least he’s not dying on us.

I sent Aunt Kyle back to his trailer in a cab and he said he’d be fine. He had left his credit cards at home and only had about $50 in cash in the wallet. He was mad about having to go get a new license and about losing his Winn Dixie card though. As he left he promised to make broccoli casserole for Thanksgiving next week.

“I’m bringing a date,” he said before he closed the cab door.


Hilary said...

You're gonna make me do it. I'm gong to have to go back and read the FULL blog because your story-telling is just too wonderful to miss. What a great find! :)

A Margarita said...

Lol, you know the coolest people. Never a dull moment.

Subservient No More said...

Never ever a dull moment. That is for certain.

Leonesse said...

I love Aunt Kyle.

Sauntering Soul said...

I've had plenty of gay friends in my lifetime, but none of them hold a candle to Aunt Kyle. If you ever want to send him to Atlanta to adopt another "niece", let me know. He sounds like a ton of fun.

Laurie said...

tell us more about aunt Kyle!


Matt said...

Is this news story about Anonymous Gay Sex Beach?

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