A Letter To My Mother – Free Spirit & Wieners

April 20, 2013
Saturday, 1:31 PM

771 Dimwits and counting…

Mother,

I didn’t know which of the 16 email accounts of yours to send this to, so I decided to post it here.   Hopefully it finds you, and hopefully it’s during a time when you just got back in from the warm sunshine and time spent admiring your flowers that you enjoy more than anything.

750 new followers in just over a week.  This is crazy, huh?  I’ve got wives reading my stories to husbands, and mothers reading my stories to daughters.  Stories about wieners and Sally Jessy Ralphael’s feathered hair.  Can you believe it?  It’s wild.  I don’t know what’s happening, but of course what’s new. I never know what’s happening, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.

You know how your free spirited, kind hearted, adventurous, and yes, your rather mischievous son of yours just seems to go along with life.  It’s gotten me this far, so there’s no use in changing it now.  Well, remember that time you and Dad sat me down right after I graduated college?  You might not remember it, but I do.  It was in the living room, and it was quiet.  If I didn’t know any better, it might’ve been my own funeral that I was attending.

You and Dad wore somber, stern faces.  You told me to sit down, so I did.  On the couch directly across the room, not far away from your somber, stern faces.  I had an idea of what was coming, some sort of boring lecture with me having to say a lot of uh-huhs in between.  I’ve gotten my fair share of lectures from you, and from others, so I kinda get a sense of when they’re coming.

It was a lecture all right.  I know you meant well, and I’m not here to put you down or anything like that.  Mothers do the best they can – well hopefully.  The good ones do anyways, and you’re a good one.   But here’s what you told me.  You and Dad told me to cage my free spirit.  You didn’t say those words exactly, but what you meant was to put my free spirit inside a box, and put him up in the attic with all the other dusty toys.  I was to be a man now.  Stop playing games and get some direction in life.   Some goals, a job, a career, maybe a wife, some kids, and all that other sorta stuff.

Well, I didn’t want to be a man.  From all I saw at the time, being a man meant cheating husbands, divorced dads, drunks, liars, punchers, spitters, and those that like to give lectures about how I’m to play life by the rules, and become a man.

I was 21.  I knew more about being a man than the asshole telling me I had better be a man, after I knew flat out that he had just beat his wife senseless a few nights ago.  My friend told me.  He was in tears.  And now that man had the gull to tell me I had better become a man.  Well, I had the gull to shut my mouth and say “uh-huh.”  I knew more about being a man than him, and sometimes as a man you gotta know when to shut your mouth and say uh-huh, because it’s not worth the fight at the time.  There are other ways to go about winning a fight without shouting, and cursing, and more fighting.  So I left it at that:  Uh-huh.

I guess this is my usual, long-winded, rambling just to tell you this, and then to follow it up with a little more rambling to wrap things up.  I never put that free spirit in a cage.  I never boxed him up.  I kept him free, and I guess that’s why people like my stories about wieners and Franzia boxed wine, and all that other stuff.

They’re free spirits too.  They’re dimwits.  There’s a whole mess of us out there, and they enjoy someone who can spin a good tale, tell a whopper of a story filled with craziness and madness, but also full of love and hope.  Those are the two most important ingredients to a story, because without love and hope, you might as well just read from the dictionary.  The thing with telling a good story is you gotta have a free spirit to be able to tell it, so that’s why I kept him free.  That and it just never made all that much sense to me why anyone should keep anything in a cage.

Thanks for being a good mom.  I usually never tell you that, maybe even never.  Probably because I’m too busy telling tall tales instead, but I was just thinking it’s probably nice and important for a mother to hear that from her son.  It’s a lot of hard work raising kids.  Not a lot of credit, late nights, no sleep, and lousy sons who make you cry when they send you letters.

I know you’re crying right now.  Just like when I can sense a lecture, I can usually sense when someone’s gonna cry, too.  I can sense a lot of things.  Some say it’s a gift, but sometimes it’s a curse too.  It can take a lot out of you with all the sensing going on all the time, and no way to turn it off.  Rather than whine about a gift that others would kill to have, it feels nice to make good use of it finally.  Wieners!  HA.

So stay tuned.  Your son is going places that only a free spirit can lead a person, and he’s taking a TON of dimwits along with him!  It’s going to be a fun ride.  It will be interesting at the very least.

Love,

Your son.  The dimmest of all the dimwits.  The dunce.  The doofus.

Chris

PS.  Sorry to include this photo of you with a scrunchy face, that looks like you just caught a whiff of a dog turd, but you didn’t really think the Dimwit was gonna end without a good laugh, did you?  Toodles.

The Dimwits Mom

A Letter From Ralph – Life On The Funny Farm

Ralph And Krueger Fire Breathing

So who’s the cross-eyed, snaggletoothed, speedo wearing hunka hunka burning flames?  That’s my good pal, Ralph.  Click the link here for a brief introduction if you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting the wacky feller yet.
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March 19, 2013

Dear Chris the Buttmuncher,

Whad’ya say buddy old pal?  How the heck you been?  I figured I mine as well fill you in on everything that’s been going on round here since it’s been a while.

For the most part, things is pretty much the same as they’ve always been.  Pap is still grumpier than ever, Gram is still loonier than a jaybird, and Uncle Rodger still smells like he rolled around in muenster cheese and vidalia onions.  I bet the last time he stepped foot in a shower was when color TV was first invented.  Don’t tell him I said that neither, cause he’s likely to go on one of his holy tirades and throw a major hissy fit.  I swear the only reason he was put on this earth is to drink Old Milwaukees and to make my life as miserable as possible.  He’s doing a pretty good job at both of them too, trust me.

I’m still living with Gram and Pap.  It’s a royal pain in the behind most days.  Me and Pap fight like cats and dogs.  We argue over just about everything.  He wants to listen to Sinatra, I want to listen to Slipknot.  He wants to watch It’s A Wonderful Life, I want to watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  It goes on like this all day long.  And then there’s Gram.  You up and ask her anything and she just starts clucking like a chicken or barking like a puppy dog.  Pap says that’s cause her mind has gone and checked itself into the funny farm.  It is pretty funny too, I half to admit, especially when she scarfs down an entire tub of Country Crock churn style butter before I half to tell her “Gram, that ain’t the vanilla ice cream you numbskull!” She’s something else, I swear.

All my friends keep telling me “Ralph, how’s come you still live with your grandparents?  By God you’re 28 years old.  Ain’t it high tied you moved out and got your own place?” But I don’t pay no attention to them losers, because even though Gram has gone psycho and calls me Kathy instead of Ralph, at least she’ll set there and listen to my stories about slaying dragons and killing flesh eating zombies.  That’s more than I can say for Pap.  He don’t like my stories and he makes no beans about it.  It just gets us to arguing all over again.  So what else is new right?  Same old same old.

Even though living with Gram and Pap is a pain in the royal behind and we fight a lot, I’d probably be completely lost if it wasn’t for them.   It’ll be a sad day when them two geezers finally bite the dust – which I remind them could be any day now, but of course Pap don’t wanna hear it and Gram just starts laughing her head off like a pack of wild hyenas.

I guess nothing too, too major happened over the past year that I can think of except Gram got the shingles, Pap had a stroke and swears he seen Jesus, Uncle Roger spent a few months in jail, I joined a heavy metal band, and my best friend Krueger burned half his face off one afternoon cause me and him was in the backyard practicing to become fire breathers.  He had to have several surgeries but he’s okay for the most part other than his face looks like somebody took a meat cleaver to the side of it kinda like Freddy Krueger in them Nightmare on Elm Street horror flicks.  That’s actually how’s come I call him Krueger, but he don’t mind the nickname all that much.  He says having a mangled up face is a good icebreaker when it comes to meeting chicks.  Of course me and him is still single, so I don’t know that it’s helping him out all that much.  You’ll half to meet him sometime.  He’s a real character.

I guess that just about covers everything for now.  I’ll try to write you sooner the next time.  Stay outta trouble and I promise not to do the same.

Your good buddy,

Ralph

A Letter To Cindy Crawford (From Ralph)

November 7, 1992

Dear Cindy,

Holy crap am I ever in love with you and then some. I always just dream that if we could get married one day and have our honeymoon somewhere like at my Pap’s hunting cabin or someplace exotic like Ocean City, Maryland.  We could head down to the beach, play catch with those velcro things, then later we could lay out in the sand and I could rub suntan lotion on your back.  You would probably say “Oh Ralph, that feels so good.  Don’t ever stop rubbing Banana Boat lotion on me, you manly stud muffin.”  You probably get it all the time so I won’t go on for too much, but I think you are probably THEE hottest babe next to Pamela Anderson, Paula Abdul, and Six from that show Blossom.

I really like your mole. I have moles on my back, arms, legs, chest, face, and pretty much everywhere, except for I don’t got no moles on my privates.   I think your mole looks sexy on you.  Not everyone looks as good with face moles.  Take for example this girl in my class, Tiffany Sanders, who has a mole kinda’ like yours, only her mole covers half her face and has these long, straggly hairs growing out of it.  I always tease her and tell her if I can pluck the hairs from her mole so I can make a toupee for my Pap.  Boy does that ever get her worked up, and she’ll go on and say “How about I knock your hillbilly teeth down your throat and make you shit chicklets out of your ass for the next couple weeks.”  She cracks me up.  Me and her is always goofing around like that.  Do you like to goof around Cindy?  What are your favorite hobbies?

I wanted to tell you this one last thing before I let you go.  I use to have this sexy poster of you hanging on my bedroom wall.  You shoulda’ seen it.  Part of your bathing suit was see through and if you looked close enough – which trust me, I did pretty much every single night – you could see your nipples as plain as day.  It was my favorite poster up until my nosy Gram barged in on me one night and caught me cutting a hole in the mouth of the poster so I could French kiss it.  My stupid Gram made me get rid of it.  She says that God don’t like when you lust after women and He especially don’t like you kissing no posters of half naked women with their bazoombas hanging out all over the place.   Now I just have posters of NBA basketball players on my wall.  It ain’t nearly the same when I stare at Clyde “The Glide” Drexler going for a dunk as it was staring at a beautiful fox like you.

Anyway, the whole reason I’m writing to you in the first place is to ask you if you want to go steady with me.  You don’t half to answer back right away cause I’m still waiting to hear back from Pamela, Paula Abdul, and Six, so take your time to think it over if you need to.  I included an eighth grade class photo of me so you at least know what I look like.  Gram says I look handsome but I don’t know.  She says that Pap looks handsome too and I think his face looks like he ran into a telephone pole and was run over by a Ford F-150 several times.  Hopefully you will think I’m handsome too.

Forever yours if you’ll have me,

Ralph