NEW RELEASES
“You Can’t Handle the Truth”
I really need to call my little brother and find out just what kind of a sister I was. My Honey seems to think I was mean and bossy and mildly abusive. This opinion has been formed because apparently that’s what all big sisters are like.
“I already asked him about it,” My Honey told me. “He showed me his membership card.”
“What membership card?” I asked.
“The Fraternal Order of Abused Younger Brothers membership card,” he informed me. “He’s been a member since 1973.”
My Honey speaks from experience since he is a younger brother as well. He says that’s why all little brothers are good in Cub Scouts. It’s due to the fact that they are good at following directions because they’ve been bossed around all their lives.
This subject came up at dinner today because I was chewing Sassy out for bossing her brother around all the time. I can’t believe I did that as spitefully as Sassy does, but then I remembered a few things.
I do recall that I handcuffed my brother to the mailbox while my parents were out. He cried out there for half an hour or so before I let him go.
I also have a feeling that I flushed his head in the toilet at least once.
I remember dressing him up like a girl and sending him to school like that.
I made him take the wrap for snooping for Christmas presents that I was guilty for.
I drove his hot rod once and broke something. I can’t remember what, but I did, and I’m sure I didn’t fess up to it.
I used to lick all the Oreos so he wouldn’t eat any. And then, when my mom bought him his very own cookies, I stole them.
Good Lord. I was a horrible sister. Maybe that’s why I feel such a need to protect The Bandit from his sister’s machinations.
This also explains why Cub Scouts are always studying knots. Perhaps they should have a badge for picking the locks on handcuffs.
Yeah. I’m not calling my brother. That’s a stone better left unturned.
Dear Lord! I had no idea you tortured your little brother like that. I don’t remember witnessing anything of the sort when I babysat you guys.
As for being a big sister myself, I don’t recall tormenting my little brothers much at all. No doubt their memories would call mine into question, though. Memory is a selective thing, after all, and I probably couldn’t handle the truth.
I came from an extremely disfunctional family. I would have been absolutely terrified to torture my siblings.
My younger sister, though, thought nothing of tying a rope around my younger brother’s neck and dragging him through the house. He survived, thanks to that loud screaming he was still able to do.
Later, in a fit of rage (she was very rage-prone), she hit him in the back of the head with a hatchet. She wasn’t very strong, and he was quick, so the wound was only about 4 inches long, and did not make it through to the skull.
Little brother was always getting into trouble, as well. He was fascinated with how things worked, and once took my mother’s sewing machine apart to such an extent that the Singer repair man couldn’t get all the pieces back where they belonged.
One day, he took a pack of matches into my mother’s closet, and set her clothes on fire. That was kind of exciting. I had never seen a fire truck up close. Fur coats sure stink when they are burning.
I was the quiet one, who stayed out of trouble, and watched the show from the wings. I can laugh about it now. In fact, I laughed about it then, too.