You must learn the ways of the force if you are to become a cunt like me.
The dictionary describes childish as:
adjective
of, like, or appropriate to a child : childish enthusiasm.
silly and immature : a childish outburst.

This is wrong of course. What it should read is:

Childish:
Cunt, the numerous acts of Mr Captaincuntybollocks senior.

If you are a regular reader of my stories, you will have undoubtedly come across the trials and tribulations of my father. He has the creative abilities of Jackson Pollock with a bucket of snot carefully wrapped around the mind of a pre-pubescent serial flatulence offender; unfortunately, he regularly mixes these two abilities together to form socially uncomfortable outcomes for unsuspecting bystanders/friends/family. Anyway, back to the story.

This story takes place circa 1994-1995; these were my high school days. My school awarded a five-year scholarship to the brightest scumbags from the shitty schools in the local area; I was one of those lucky scumbags (still am). If you have read ‘Tom Brown’s School Days’, you will not be a million miles away from my reality. Like all teenagers I dreaded the parent-teacher evenings, not that I was particularly naughty or thick, quite the contrary, but because my school was very posh and I was, as the ‘rugger buggers’ used say, from the gutter. I always felt very poor in comparison to these over privileged brass eye polishers. Many of them had butlers and would be regularly dropped off or picked up in helicopters, Ferrari’s and Limo’s. Nevertheless, they had to board there and commit sodomy to each other. My parent’s did not hate me that much, but my father did try to make my school life a little more difficult and weird for me, all for his own amusement of course.

You might be saying to yourself right now, “what is all the fuss about you little cock, it’s only a parent-teacher evening?” My parent’s are not the most articulate of individuals, especially my father. He is from the rough end of Northern Ireland and understanding his eloquent dialect would be akin to deciphering the woofs of an Alsatian with Laryngitis. Let us not be hasty to judge me though, I am proud of my background and I think it gave me a fantastic understanding of social structures while instilling excellent values upon me. However, when you are 14 years old and everyone around you has plumy voices and expensive lives, expectations are excruciatingly painful and high.

As mentioned above, parent-teacher evening was creeping up on me like a rapist in slippers. I had successfully dodged the previous years ‘coming together’ by the means of stealth tactics. These tactics essentially revolved around some rather cunning forgery and a tissue of lies to my parents, so not that clever. This year was different though, the bastard school preempted my second stealth strike by sending letters home to parents reminding them it was that joyful time of year again, fucksocks. So, I was not getting out of it this time unless I could come up with a plan so cunning it would make the weasel ambush on toad hall look amateur in comparison. This is the point in the story where a montage kicks in with some up tempo eighties rock music to accompany it.

I had a plan. A plan so cruel in design and from my careful calculations I hypothesized that failure was not possible. Go along with the school program, get the forms signed, arrange the time to meet the teachers. Make it look like everything was normal and set your trap, it was a classical military maneuver. The evening comes and my parents sit down for their evening meal while I am also at the dining table with one eye on the clock and trying not to panic. I wolfed my dinner down with the grace of a tramp that had not seen a hot meal in months and I made my excuses to leave the table. As a polite gesture, I offer a hot drink to my parents. Mother and father love their coffee after a meal and it was always my job to make it, they graciously accepted. I had 3 hours until the event. This is the clever bit my friends.

My parents loved their sugar in coffee, three each to be precise. Hence the diabetes they have today. On this fateful evening, they were not going to receive their usual granulated filth but a carefully selected sugar substitute. Not that calorie busting variety in diet coke, but the bowel busting variety called Lactulose. We had tones of the stuff in our house as my mother suffered from the sort of constipation that would need a confirmation call to the Guinness Book of Records every time she opened the ‘Bombay Doors’. I had done some ‘test runs’ on myself the previous week as to determine what clarifies as a potentially fateful overdose and I took notes on how much my mother takes. From my research, (near pant shitting moments) I determined that I did have problem. If I was to get them to forfeit the evening due to the ‘two bob bits’, I would have to use a lot of this stuff and it was seriously fucking sweet, noticeably sweet. So I had to increase the coffee dosage in the cup as to hide disguise the laxatives, this was potentially dangerous and amusing. If all went to plan, I would have two extremely hyperactive parents bouncing around the house like kids on e-numbers while trying not to wildly defecate everywhere.

Guess work aside, I went ahead a formulated the fateful brew. Ironically, when I handed over the drinks I needed a shit, so once again I made my excuses and left the room. All sorts of ponderous thought’s were crossing my mind while on the crapper, but most of all I was happy to wreck some revenge on the old man for all his ‘hilarious’ stunts he had fucked me over with. I was the padewan learner who was fast rising up through the Jedi ranks of vengeful prankery. Star Wars analogy and crap over, I make my way to the kitchen sink with a glaze of vengeful glee tattooed across my soul. I notice the cups I had used for the bowel-busting brew empty in the sink. BONZA! Sit back and wait for the fireworks to begin.

Two hours pass and close to sod all has happened apart from my mother asking me the names of my teachers and what they are like. So to pass the boredom away I made up all sorts of psychical aliments they had and mentioned a few of them were keen racists. My mother also started to put on her posh cockney accent and there is nothing in the world that makes me cringe as much as this. Just as I start to worry that my plan had failed I hear these beautiful words from my mum.

“Me gut’s feel a bit off”

After a few minutes of tummy rumbling, she cracks and leg’s it at top speed to the toilet. The howls and watery backfires from the toilet confirmed my plan has worked. She came out of their wondering if the meat she cooked was off and telling my old man that he would have to go without her. This I did not plan for as I expected both of them to be laid up (or sitting down more precisely). How did it not work on him? Are his guts made of lead? All these questions suddenly became very unimportant to me as he was heading out the door to meet the teachers and potentially ruin my newly carved reputation as the peasant boy whom done well. So off he went on his own, I expected the worst and I got a lot more than I bargained for.

A few hours pass by and several questions came to the forefront of my mind. How did he survive the shit’s? Maybe he crapped himself in the car or worse, maybe he crapped himself while meeting my teachers. The guilt started to build up and the sounds of my mum shitting loudly in the toilet downstairs only served to amplify my shame. My guilt was suddenly interrupted by sound of the old mans car pulling up in the drive. It was only polite that I stay around to hear the disaster story that would prevail. He opened the door, walked into the room, and took up his favorite chair. He retorted to my mum that I was doing very well but all my teacher’s and fellow parents were ‘posh cunts’, how beautiful. Oh good god, what had he done, I know from experience that this is not a man who minces his words lightly. Looking humiliation in the face, I somberly and slowly walk to my slumber hole with the faint sounds of a death march echoing around my shattered existence. However, just before I turn the corner my old man says these strange words to me

“Son, you maybe a smart arse at school, but you make the worst cup of coffee known to man. I took one sip of that cup of shite and pored it away.”

Mum followed with.

“Yeah, It was pretty disgusting. Don’t know why I drank it”

Connect four! He had that grin on his face; I had seen that grin before. When he donned the Freddy Krueger glove and scared the shit out of me, he had that grin. The cunt had rumbled me but I assumed he would keep quite as he could not prove a thing. Innocent until proven otherwise.

Next day at school some of the teachers were, shall we say, a bit bloody weird with me. This weirdness ranged from asking me to stay behind after class and then telling me that they we proud of me and congratulating me on such a brave decision all the way to very odd smiles from suspicious teachers I never trusted. This was becoming odd, classmates were asking questions and rumors were circulating, this had to end. At the end of the last lesson, the teacher once again grabs me just before we all tumble out and gives me the same old story about congratulating me on such a brave decision.

“About What? I have not done anything to be proud of”

The teacher continues with,

“That just the attitude you must fight, it’s must feel good to be out about it”

Me,

“Out about what?”

Teacher,

“Your Homosexuality of course, your father told us that you came out to your parents recently. He is very proud of you”

Me.

“Err thanks, but I’m not gay. It was my father having a laugh. I have to go now, bye”

HA HA, FUCKING HA

Once again, I had fallen foul to the old man and his childish ways. I told my mum and she was upset but obviously trying not to laugh. Then he arrived through the door in his usual lordly manner, he took one look at me and started laughing like a maniac. This symphony of shame accompanied the extra laughter emanating from my family. Clandestine accusations of bum love and propositions from light-footed individuals marred the proceeding school years. Did I mention it was an all boys’ school?

In all my stories, I try to find the moral but once again I have fail to find one.

Length, about 3 years of torment and abuse.
(CaptainCuntyBollocks the man who can with a frying pan full of lamb, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 13:35, 5 replies)

I know exactly how you feel
My mother still thinks it is hilarious to phone me and ask Is that Svetlana's message parlour or Have you stopped shitting your pants?
(Free pens 100, 101, 102 is still counting on, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 15:24, closed)

'parent-teacher evening was creeping up on me like a rapist in slippers'
a click just for this!


fucking lol.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 15:48, closed)

I have to agree
I havent laughed as much all week :)

Have a click
(Ghost101, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 20:34, closed)

just read the whole thing
absolutely brilliant! story of the week for me by far. your dad is a champion amongst men.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 15:54, closed)

Loved this
Legend story... This for the win.
(jaymierobber, Mon 21 Sep 2009, 19:13, closed)