I remember a time when I was seven or eight years old, one of my overindulged and brain damaged cousins told me that crabapples were perfectly safe to eat right off the tree. We went all around Shediac (a shit-hole town too small for autocorrect) picking green apples and eating them.
Who’s dumber? The documented retard with a low IQ certification from the government, or the one who follows him blindly. My mom said I’m special. How dare you expect something of me!
A few hours later
Sick I was, puking and moaning. Praying to every god I had read about for death. I finally understood the Eve parable. Green crabapples make you want to die. Like dropping an iPhone 16 down a well shaft without the extended warranty.
There is no antidote. My parents sent my older and wiser brother, he was thirteen at the time, to go to the drugstore to buy medicine for his dying younger brother. He valiantly took off on his green three speed Shimano bicycle. In the dark. At 8pm. In Shediac. No, autocorrect, not Shellac, Shediac, New Brunswick. Look it up; it’s a place.
If there is a bright spot in the center of the universe, New Brunswick is the furthest point from it.
He was given money, in cash, with the admonishment that his baby brother might die if he did not return successful with Gravol and some sort of antacid.
He departed without haste. Feet pedaling like the universe would collapse if he missed a beat.
An hour passed. Then two. Three. Finally, my brother returned home. He had narrowly escaped death at the hands of 14 year old hippies.
Wearing pointed leather boots (what were they called? Internet search is useless. Ass kickers? Toe rapers?) They forcefully took his money, although he pleaded with them that his younger sibling would die without the medicine. Alas, in fear and peril, he managed to escape, but returned empty handed.
Somehow, by miracle of Jesus and our Lord who is unequal among men, he made it home alive but empty handed. My parents thanked the Lord that he was safe, and asked for forgiveness for sending him on such a treacherous mission. We should not sacrifice one child so that another may live! Praise be to God! We have seen our folly!
To this day, I can’t help but wonder how much of the money he paid the local trollop for a blow job, and how much of it he pocketed for himself.
A miracle was proclaimed and celebrated when I recovered by the morning. Like my brother knew I would. I can’t help but respect the guy for seizing an opportunity to get his pole varnished.
But, why did it take three hours? It’s a ten minute thing at best, unless you lack imagination.
—DG
Inside Doug's Head 