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7:02 a.m. - 2004-07-12


I know there are certain women out there in the world who like to say things like "Oh children! They're a gift from God!" and "The beauty of children is found in their innocence" and "Shit! Do I love me some chilluns!"

But these women are dead wrong.


Because these women have never met Dylan.

Dylan is my nephew's three year-old son.

You might remember the story if you've read this diary for a while. My nephew got his girlfriend knocked up while they were young teens, the girlfriend didn't know she was knocked up because she's dumber than your average rock and thus didn't get any prenatal care for Dylan.

Which, I'm here to report, if you don't take care of that baby in the womb, you've got a world of trouble just a'waitin' on ya.

The in-laws roared into town Thursday night, got to our house around 10:30 p.m. and started cracking Coke cans like they had just crawled out of the Grand Canyon on a hot July day.

It's gotten to where all the boys are the same size ... roughly 6'4" and they all look so much alike that I can't tell them apart.

Except for Dylan.

Dylan's parents didn't make the trip because there's eight people living in that three bedroom house back in Texas and they wanted a little privacy so they could bring another dimwitted child into this world to join Dylan in his quest for totally fucking up my life.

Dylan's grandmother (Susie's sister) informed Susie on Friday that they "think something's wrong with Dylan".

It took me ten minutes of being around the insane little fuck to figure that shit out.

On Friday morning, Andrew was quietly playing with his trains while the rest of the house was trying to sleep because this family is "on vacation" and their idea of "vacation" is to stay up until 4 a.m. every night and sleep until 2 p.m. the next day.

This drives me absolutely fucking bananas. Because I'm forced to tiptoe around my house by my wife so as to "not wake the boys".

Fuck that.

You're in MY house. I don't give an ass that you're on vacation. This ain't Disney World you bunch of lazy fuckers. Now get your asses up and do something.

Apparently, I can walk around the house screaming and hollering to my heart's content. That won't wake these bastards up.

(Well ... technically Dylan's the only bastard here. Everyone else was conceived by an actual couple)

Anyway, Andrew's playing quietly with his trains on Friday morning.

Dylan, fully rested after his 20 minutes of sleep, decides that he wants to play trains too.

Except Dylan's idea of "playing trains" consists of lobbing them at Andrew's skull as fast as he can.

After the first one connected and Andrew let most of Canada know that he wasn't entirely thrilled with Dylan's play habits, Dylan was reprimanded by his grandmother with a stern "We don't throw trains at Andrew's head".

Dylan stared at her with his tongue pushing firmly on his lower lip like a dumb dog and grunts because he doesn't talk. I'm quite confident that if given the opportunity, the boy would probably wolf down his own shit as well.

So Dylan trots away, leaving Andrew bruised and bleeding.

Rather than trot away after Dylan, we all just let out a collective sigh because he's temporarily gone from our sight. In the meantime, Andrew's nursing his concussion quietly and trying to get his eyes back in focus.

Ten minutes pass and Grandma decides to go check on Dylan because he's gotten awfully quiet.


This is where it gets kind of cute, so strap yourselves in for a roller coaster ride of cuteness.

Grandma screams "DYLAN!!!"

Dylan shifts quickly into "Don't hit me, I'm a mongoloid" status.

Because here's what he was doing...


















Awwwww...he was just trying to paint Uncle Bob's office with a magic marker! That's all!

How sweeeeeeet!!

He hasn't even been in the house eight hours yet and he's already redecorating!

He figured my CD collection needed a little sprucing up as well.

Ain't he just the swellest?!?

Apparently, he had grabbed a Magic Marker off of Susie's desk and proceeded to scrawl on the walls.

Naturally, I wanted to stick a shish-kabob rod up his ass and grill him to well-doneness.

Susie was all "We've got paint. We'll paint the room. We've got paint. It's okay."

So technically ... yeah, we've got paint. We can paint the room.

Dylan gets a firm reprimand from Grandma ... the second one in 15 minutes and is brought back out into the den where he squalls and screams until he wakes the boys up at the ungodly hour of 7 a.m. while they're on vacation.

The boys grunt and trot off to the guest bedroom where they sleep for another eight hours, so please ... don't cry for them, Argentina.

Andrew's all jumpy around Dylan now. Andrew tends to get that way around people who have tried to decapitate him with heavy metal toys.

Dylan either senses this or doesn't give a shit so he goes to Andrew's playroom and decides to entertain himself.

Somehow, the fat little bastard managed to crawl up on top of Andrew's Little Tykes playhouse and fall off head first onto the floor in the playroom.

This causes Dylan to cry which I secretly relished. I hoped his head hurt as bad as Andrew's.

Dylan finally stopped crying and while Susie and her sister gabbed, I went outside to mow the yard.

An hour later I came back in and got a Dylan update.

Apparently, while they were chootin' the chit, they took their eyes off of Dylan for a few seconds.

Dylan seized the opportunity to find a candle and continue his masterpiece.

In case you can't see it, it looks like he drew an "XP" under the figure on the left and started scrawling under the right figure as well before he was caught.

I took Susie outside and clearly stated that after being in our house for 12 hours, I don't think I wanted this brain-damaged little fuck in our house any longer because it was only a matter of time before he blew it up.

Shockingly, Susie agreed. Andrew was miserable around the kid and she really didn't want him around either.

Susie asked her sister if she'd mind staying with their Mom instead of us and her sister was admittedly hurt by this. Especially since our house is clean and their Mom's house is still full of boxes that haven't been unpacked since she moved into her house three years ago.

So when the boys woke up at 2:30 p.m. and started chain drinking the Cokes (I swear to God on the Bible ... these kids will gulp down a can of Coke, throw the can away and then instantly crack open another can and do the same thing. A Coke doesn't last more than ten minutes in their hand and they're NEVER without a can in their hand. They blew through a case of Coke in 15 hours between the three of them ... having slept 12 of those hours), Mom tells them to pack their bags, they're going to Grandma's house.

They groan because Grandma doesn't have cool things like Play Station and DVDs and CDs and centralized air conditioning.

But they're gone.

Sure, they return each night to have Coke slurping contests and watch DVDs until 1 a.m. before heading back over to Grandmas.

But at least they're not crashing in my den each night.

And Dylan's window of opportunity to maim my child and destroy my home has been severely limited.

Two more nights of this shit.

Then I get to exhale.

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