Double Trouble (A Short Story).

The breasts control my life. They control my father who in turn controls the household. They have come into my life and destroyed all sanity. I hate them. I detest them. I loathe every cup size. Every corner I turn they are there; she is there, arching her back as she struts around. The largest sweater couldn’t lessen the power they have, or even begin to cover the outstretched skin. Fake or real, nobody knows. Whatever they are I wish they would leave and take her with them. Her name is Sundee, pronounced just how it’s spelled, although I secretly refer to her as Peggy from Married with Children. The only difference being that Sundee is shorter, wider and lacks even a hint of sex appeal. She is my father’s new girlfriend and possibly wife number five. He met her on a trip to Reno and decided the trailer trash, breast obsessed ex-stripper, who couldn’t even get passed the eighth grade moron, deserved a place in our home. There she is again. An unemployed drain on the economy, sprawled out on the couch with a sleeping bag over her head.

I’m happy something is covering her drug-abused face, and the breasts. It’s Wednesday at about one o’clock in the afternoon and she’s sleeping. This is typical for her and the breasts; apparently they need a lot of rest. In front of the couch is an expensive wicker coffee table, but you wouldn’t know it by its layer of soiled dishes. Next to the soiled dishes are drinking glasses with a milk-stained residue that add delightfully to the atmosphere of melancholy.These are her soiled dishes. These are her drinking glasses with a milk-stained residue. They will sit there until somebody else picks them up. On the television is a depressing soap opera. I decide to turn it off.

I look for the remote and notice it is trapped between her and the couch. I dare not reach for it because if I wake her, I will have to deal with her, and the breasts. Again I think of how I wish they would leave. I walk up and turn off the T.V. to later wish I hadn’t. As I take notice of her movement, she suddenly rises from her lazy position in society. I don’t turn around because maybe, just maybe if I keep doing what I was doing and walk away she’ll let me be. Then in an irritated and hoarse voice she blows, “I was watching that!” At first I was confused. If she was sleeping how could she be watching the television? Then I realized it was the breasts. They were watching the television. I ignore her phlegm filled shouts of rage and leave the room.

Sundee has been a leech on our household for 6 months, 24 days, 16hours, 33 minutes, and 14 seconds… 15 seconds…16 seconds…17 seconds… I wish my father would wise up and recognize what she’s doing. Then again he may know, and just not care. I don’t know. But what I do know is that things can actually get worse. Not even Christmas can’t lesson my agony.

Christmas is this weekend and we’re having our family over for the holidays. And now lucky for me, Sundee’s family will join her in invading my life. For Sundee, her family is a fall back plan. When she can’t find a man to mooch off she depends on them for support. Her father hates me, her mother hates me and her forty-one year old sister has a crush on me. Sundee’s sister, Colleen, has two degenerate kids. The older of the two wants to be a professional WWE Wrestler and will always try to DDT me; we have a real winner here! For God’s sake, he’s twenty-two years old, tell him to stay the hell of me and get a job. Or do something, anything, just keep his paws off me. Now the situation with Colleen’s youngest is even worse. For some odd reason, probably of Colleens doing, the boy calls me “Daddy.” Everybody finds this so freaking funny, but I’m not even slightly amused. Now the most sacred day of the year is going to turn into a National Lampoons Christmas Special. The urge to climb to the top of the roof and jump gets tempting by the second. Even more when the my Sundee’s early Christmas present from my Dad – barks.

I hear and unfamiliar sound down stairs. It sounds like a puppy, so I head down to investigate. One of my father’s rules when we moved into our new house was that we couldn’t have any pets. So naturally I’m very surprised to be hearing such a sound. I turn the corner and there “It” is, a brown rat type thing that resembles a dog, running around on the hardwood floor. With the pride of a new parent Sundee chirps, “It’s my new dog. Do you like him? It’s my early Christmas present!” The answer to her question should be obvious from the disgusted look on my face. In a sarcastic mumble I reply, “Yeah, it’s neat.” This is the second expensive item my father has purchased for her. An eight hundred dollar leather jacket, and now an over-sized seven hundred and twenty-five dollar-rat-being, also known as a Ray Pincher. My father never spends this kind of money on such items, so I note this down as a win for the breasts. Sundee starts to talk to me but anything that comes out of her mouth is a fabricated lie. I ignore her and leave the room. But unfortunately, not the control of the breasts.