honky cracker: Big Bears. Slot Machines. Happy Hump Day. Several years ago, my mother mentioned to my father that her friend had started collecting bears, and she thought a few of them were "kind of neat". Her birthday was coming up soon, so my dad thought he'd get her a few of these collectible bears that my she found "neat". This was 1995. It is now 2002. Their house is now completely overrun by bears. Bad news.
Please, let me explain. The first few years went by fairly harmlessly. A few bears for Christmas, a bear for her birthday, two or three for their anniversary, and maybe even a Bear in a Basket for Easter. Sure, the shelves were getting full. But at least the bears were small enough - each one about 12 inches high - that they didn't really get in the way.
Then something snapped. Eventually, these "normal-sized" bears weren't doing the trick. After years and years and holiday after holiday of giving my mother these perfectly adequate foot-tall bears, I guess "perfectly adequate" wasn't' good enough. Not for my dad. Oh no. He needed something bigger. Something badder. Something absolutely freaking huge. The Christmas of 1998 introduced the first of the monstrously humongous uber-bears from hell to the home. This bear stood about five-and-a-half feet tall. He was white bear - I would say Polar but he had a very distinguishing non-polar look about him -- with super-fluffy fur. His arms were thicker than my legs. We had to feed him 5 protein shakes a day along with daily supplements of creatine and androstendione. He was so large that he required his very own piece of furniture. The bear had his very own chair. Not some toy "bear-chair" or anything like that. No. The bear had taken up residency on my chair - the chair I always sat in when I came to visit. I had moved out, and the bear moved in. There are now seven - count 'em, SEVEN Uber-Bears from hell in the house. And my parents' house is a tiny little house. We've got a couple of bears stuffed behind the TV. One still has his very own chair. Another pair stands guarding the hope chest. And I think they've got one tied up in the basement dressed in bondage gear and a ball-gag.
The last time I came "home" to visit my parents... ugh. I came in, said my hellos and hugged the dog and beat up my brother - you know, all the usual "gee, it's nice to be home" type things. When I finished with that I went up to my old room... and what did I find? The biggest, honkin'est bear of them all. On my bed. This thing... seriously, I don't think bears get this large in the wild. It's bigger than a queen-sized bed. No. Scratch that. It's as big as my room. The ceiling in my old room is 8 ft. high. It's not tall enough for the bear. The bear has to either be scrunched or lying down on my bed to fit in the room.
"Um... mom?"
I tried to move the thing to my parents' room. Uh-uh. Wouldn't fit through the doorway. Had to kick it through. I get it into my parents' room, and the things falls on me, pinning me to their bed. It's bigger than their bed, too!
And then there's today's discovery.
I get here. I walk in the door. The dog jumps on me and licks me. But no one says hello. Even my brother doesn't try to wrestle me to the floor. Oh, no. They're all too busy playing with THE BRAND NEW SLOT MACHINE in the living room.
Oh, did I mention that my mother's birthday was last week? Apparently, after seven some-odd years of big-ass bear hunting, the family decided that they had enough bears. So what did my dad get my mom for her birthday? That's right. A slot machine.
Now, I'm not talkin' 'bout some table-top candy-ass kiddie playtime slot machine. Oh no. I'm talking about a real, live, casino-type slot machine SITTING IN THE LIVING ROOM! The thing takes quarters. It bleeps, blips, and screeches. Apparently, if you piss it off, some red angry genie pops up and steals all your credits.
Yes, at times, slot machines can be fun. (I've never been a big fan of 'em myself. If I'm out at a casino I'm shooting craps or playing blackjack. At least in those games I have some control over my fate.) But really, why on Earth would you put a slot machine in your own home? It's bad enough if you're standing there in a casino, losing more and more of your own money while trying to win the house's. But where is the fun in sitting in front of a slot machine, trying to win your own money back from the machine that took it from you?
Also, did I mention that the slot machine is in the living room? Oh yeah. There it is. Right up there in all-caps. Let me describe the living room of my parents' house. Actually, you can't even accurately call it "My Parents' Living Room", because, essentially, it belong to my brother. You see, I have a younger brother who has what doctors have describes as "autistic tendencies". These "autistic tendencies" are a result of his being born without a Corpus Collosum, but that's another story for another time. Regardless, my brother is oddly ingenious and wildly eccentric in his own ways - just like the rest of us. He must have three TVs on at all times. He usually plays a video game on one of the TVs while watching whatever program suits his fancy on the other two. He also listens to all-sports radio (WFAN out of New York) at the same time. He knows exactly what is going on in each, and can do a dead-on impersonation of any of them.
Now there's a fully functional slot machine thrown into this mix.
I love my family very, very much. They're wonderful people. As odd as they are, they are my peeps.
