It was a beautiful morning at the household where Clay Burke lived with his mum, Lenora “Punk Mother” Collins-Burke-Haskins (Just to remind you all that she does have what’s known as a “Christian name”) and his stepfather Milo Haskins. But try telling that to Punk Mother at this point.
“G’morning, Ma.”
“We’ll see about that.” Punk Mother replied all grumpy. She was so not a morning person, but being a business woman, that was just her tough shit. Her demeanor made it clear that she wasn’t about to pretend that she enjoyed getting up at the ungodly hour of 9 am to get ready to go to work as she set her glucose meter kit, her log book, and the empty vitamin pill bottle -- where she disposed of used lancets and strips -- in front of her on the kitchen table. These daily glucose tests were another irritant for her, as Dr. Stiles had been getting on her case about those consistently high glucose numbers she’s been getting…along with Milo and the rest of the glucose nazis she encounters each day.
As Clay nonchalantly chowed down on his Cheerios, Punk Mother proceeded to open her test kit and pull out her lancer, her meter, a fresh lancet, and a fresh test strip. She placed the lancet inside the tip of the lancer and twisted off the head to reveal a small sharp needle imbedded in the plastic, and replaced the lancer shield over the tip. Then she inserted the test strip into the bottom of the meter. As the meter was readying itself for her first glucose test of the day, she took the loaded lancer, held it to the side of her left index fingertip, and pressed the button on the lancer, releasing the needle into her fingertip. Then she placed the lancer back on the table and, with her right thumb and forefinger, she squeezed out a small but adequate drop of blood from the puncture wound.
She then dipped the waiting test strip into the drop of blood and as the test strip filled, the meter made a single high pitched beep to indicate that testing was in progress. Five seconds later the meter display gave her the number: 158; far higher than the range Dr. Stiles prescribed for her. Frustrated, she yanked the now spent test strip out of the meter and then threw the meter with such force that it flew out of the kitchen and down the hall. It hit Milo, fresh from a shower and dressed only in his white terrycloth bathrobe, right in the groin as he came out of the bathroom. Seeing this, Clay nearly choked on a mouthful of Cheerios in laughter. Milo doubled over with a “D’oh! Fookin’ ‘ell!!” and covered his crotch with both hands in agony. Punk Mother clapped her hands over her mouth, a bit embarrassed and quite amused by what she had done, and chortled out an apology.
Bear with me folks, I’m spelling out Milo’s dialog phonetically. He speaks perfect english alright, it’s just his regional dialect is extremely thick.
“Soorey moy arse, woomin! Ye ayme’s genn arbit tee gayd thay, innit!” Milo howled, and then to Clay, “Whorye larfine et?? Ayt cudda ben yee!!”
“So it was your turn today, Milo.”
“Daah, fookoff!”
At that the telephone rang and Clay left the table to answer it. It was for Milo. Clay belched as he beckoned Milo to take the call. He was still clutching his groin as he stumbled towards the phone…glaring at Punk Mother as she tried unsuccessfully to stifle a guffaw.
“Carh ye lot havnee clarse atoll!” He grabbed the phone and damn near bellowed, “’Allo!”
“Ollroit?” Milo recognized the voice; his old mate Teddyboy Churchill.
“Fookin’ loovlee. Oijez got nyled indeh groin boy me olde loidy!”
“Sheemeantay?”
“She threewer fookin’ meter atmay, izzall!”
“Looky thing she ainyusin de poomp!” Here Teddy’s referring to a fairly new invention called the insulin pump, which is attached to the body. It automatically dispenses insulin in response to high glucose levels…functioning as a sort of external artificial pancreas, if you will.
“Vey foony, ye barstard! Anywoy, wot’s all dis callern atdees oongudley ahr, eh?”
“Wull, yenoo may…thot oi’d interroopt ye badlernayded byoooteh kip…seens Oi’m in tiyn an’all!”
“Whor, ye coom t’ Magmeville jes t’boog urse, den?”
“Aye, joost guteen froom Bristol an’all! Thoroy’d geev th’stoits a troy azye lot ‘ave. Bit fedoopp n weerey of dreerey ole’ Blighty, Oyam!
And then Teddy queried, “Oi doan suppooz ye’ve got ennoof rym inyeh soofer faer th’e booth uffus, deyee?”
“Eerr, Oi thaynk mebbe Oi can orrange soompin’ ‘ere!” At this Milo cupped his hand over the lower half of the phone receiver and, turning to his family, barked, “Roight, nooden, which woon o’yee barsteds wontster git yearse keeked oot t’moyk ryme fe me ole matey!”
“I ain’t goin’ anywhere, asshole!” Punk Mother replied.
Clay on the other hand has his hand up as she spoke. “Sex with Cannes Day! I’m off!” It had been awhile since he got lucky with the youngest Yossarian daughter.
“Wull, gyddun ye, lad.” Milo replied with a slight sarcastic tone, then resumed his chat with Teddy. “Deffo gotter spoyce feyer.” He then cupped his hand over the mouthpiece again and said to Punk Mother, “Sonnay gym’s gotter cook lyke a divynnin roed.”
“Wulldoon, then. Oi’ll getter cabbey.”
“Sod dat, mate. Oi’ll coom getcher!” With that, Milo hung up the phone.
“Only if you guys don’t mind joining me on an inventory run!” Punk Mother shouted.
“Noot wolken tay woork, then.”
“I’m not a fuckin’ pack mule, Milo! We’ve run out of damn near everything at the café!”
“Want me to do the inventory run, Ma?”
“In whose Jeep, kid?”
“In Cannes’ Jeep…whodya think?”
“Naw, I’d rather show Teddy the side of Magmaville the tourists never see…wholesale warehouses full up of provisions. Besides, you’d be too busy wallowing in ecstasy to get around to it.”
While Punk Mother and number one son Clay were chatting, Milo picked up the glucose meter that was thrown his way earlier and, pressing the power and back buttons on its top, took a sneak peak at the morning’s glucose reading.
He then ambled to where Punk Mother was seated, saying, “Luk, moybe yer nae pokmyull aftroll. Stull, wodn’t kull ye t’put soom o’th’ excess bloood shuggah (at this he thrusts the meter directly into her line of vision.) t’gaed coonstroktaev yease…ter sye nootin’ o’all th’ excess bloober yeev packed on yeseff.
“Caem t’thynkov et, ye’d bear brullint soofbull plear. Oi dearsye yeev roolly muss’d yer colln!” Milo concluded, letting the meter fall out of his hand and onto the kitchen table.
By this time Clay’s moved on to his bedroom to give Cannes a ring through his cell phone. At that moment, Cannes Yossarian had already taken her own first glucose test of the morning and at 116 was just a tad higher than she usually gets, but not too bad. It was just high enough to give her time for a little wakenbake with her family. She was in the process of rolling a joint before breakfast when her phone rang.
“Hullo? Hey babe. Wanna come over and get high with us?”
“Um, would anyone over there mind if I shacked up with you for awhile?”
“Getting bored with all the bickering, eh?”
“Well, besides that one of Milo’s old bandmates is staying at the house for God knows how long.” Clay replied.
“I don’t think there’d be a problem. As it happens the parental units are about to leave to do another shoot for the Wild Riderz show after we have a one-for-the-road round.”
As she said this, her dad Richard Yossarian poked his head in her bedroom doorway. Richard, a tall, dark, rugged looking Armenian guy with dark, slightly curly brown hair. He was clad in black denim jeans, black biker boots, a Led Zepplin t-shirt, and an original 1950’s British biker’s jacket he’d inherited from one of his fellow biker friends who was killed in a knife fight a long time ago. He also had a pair of prescription shades that was resting on top of his head.
“So who the fuck’s calling here at this ungodly hour?”
“Only the son of Punk Mother himself, wanting to take a few liberties with me while you’re on the road.”
“He wastes no time at all, doesn’t he. He must really need to get his ass laid!”
“Whaddya expect?!? It’s spring, innit.”
“Well, as long as he leaves us the rest of our stash and doesn’t give you any diseases…”
“I thought you were taking your stash with you, so I got in touch with Gecko.”
“Well, in that case, knock yerselves out.”
“Hey, is Fergie gonna come and be our self-appointed chaperone while you guys are gone?”
Right after Cannes asked that question, a loud voice belonging to one Stella Yossarian interjected, “Geezizfuck, I hope not!!”
“I’d better ask the ole lady about that,” Richard replied, referring to his wife Janet. “Hey, Jan…any chance your mom will leave our kids alone for a change?”
“Only if nobody tells her we’re leaving town for awhile.” Jan replied. “Anyway, I think she’s still got the flu. That, and she’s having too much fun driving Morty up the wall with her incessant nagging!”
Cannes returned her attention to Clay’s phone call. “Well, you must’ve heard all that I’m sure. They’re not exactly treating it as top secret classified information…”
Janet just happened to be in Stella’s bedroom, having handed her other daughter a glass of orange juice and a South Beach protein snack bar. While Fergie fretted about what she perceived to be reckless and damn near suicidal behavior on her granddaughter’s part – as far as her eating habits go – Janet is often concerned about there being way too much insulin for her daughter’s good. Stella was in pretty good spirits considering her own fasting glucose levels were at 78.
“Y’know maybe I ought to go over there with a big ole piece of chocolate cake, and scare the shit out of her by refusing to share it with Morty!” Stella joked.
“Look, will you shut up and drink? I think Morty suffers quite enough already!” Janet retorted. “Besides, wouldn’t you rather eavesdrop on your sister’s private orgies?”
“Aw, ma, they all sound the same anymore, don’t they.” Stella replied, and then imitated Clay’s grunting noises and Cannes’ excited murmurs. “Uh, uh, uh, uh, uh, Oh God, Clay…do it harder…harder…yaddayadda. Anyway, I’d rather participate in a dangerous liason of my own than be a spectator…not that I don’t like to watch, mind you.”
“Speaking of dangerous, don’t even think of winding up in the hospital again, Estelle Yossarian! I’ll fucking kill you if you do!” Janet warned.
“Now what are you fretting about, Mother?” Richard interjected as he and Cannes approached Stella’s doorway. “That last episode was over a year and a half ago.” This was in reference to the infamous eating contest at the Wang Hung Low restaurant during the all you can eat buffet lunchtime.
“You…” Janet turned to Cannes as she fired up the joint she brought with her to Stella’s bedroom and handed it to her mom, “You…had better not let that surf punk fuck you damn near to death, either!”
“He’s lucky we let you guys get away with him shacking up here behind our backs,” Richard chimed in, “Especially since he put you in a coma that one time…even if it was a very short coma!”
“C’mon, Dad, you know you like Clay a lot” Cannes replied as Richard accepted the joint from Janet. “Both you guys do.”
“I just feel sorry for the bastard, if anything. I’d hate to be the one with that kind of shitload of guilt hanging over his fool head…I’ll tell you that!” was what Richard pointed out just before he took a draw.
“I’m sure we can manage our health quite well…” Stella said as she reached for the blunt that her father passed her way, “provided the guys can hang with us without getting their dicks in our way! So let’s just chill, finish this joint and call it good, can’t we?”
“Speaking of dicks, “ Janet queried. “What else is on your agenda besides fucking?”
“She’s a class act, isn’t she…your mother!” Richard said to Stella with a tone of such obvious irony that you’d have to be totally brain dead not to detect it.
“Still gotta look for a job, of course, and I may oggle the surfers while I’m out jogging,” Cannes answered.
“I’ve got a shift at The Bauhaus Café…” Stella stated while she held the ganja smoke in her lungs. “…which means I’ll probably be putting up with Neidermeyer’s megalomanic bullshit in the great name of earning wages…” at this she exhales the smoke and passes the joint to Cannes. “…unless Lenore finally gets to go on an inventory run…in which case I’ll have the pleasure of watching Milo ride his ass while the provisions are put in storage. Maybe if there’s time I’ll decide whether I feel like hanging with Jarvis or not.”
“He’s a cute guy; too bad he’s an asshole when he’s drunk!” Cannes opined, and then took a nice, long draw from the joint that was passed to her.
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