Siddity in the City

I just learned, via the Internet, that my assclown father has another child, which means I have another sibling. A 10-year-old sibling.

Now, this doesn’t surprise me, terribly. There’s a line in Fight Club, when Tyler Durden discusses the fact that every five or six years his father would divorce and start a new family. He quipped, “…fucker’s setting up franchises.” The first time I encountered that line, I chuckled heartily in recognition. Describes my father perfectly. It actually surprised me for years that he and wife eleventy-five hadn’t had any children.

Except, they have. Which means that the paternal relatives I’ve maintained contact with have just sort of been…hiding this other kid from me. LIES! Gawd on a wheel!* The deception!

Quite awfully, I care more about the fact that they’ve been hiding him/her (I can’t tell if the damn name is masculine or feminine) than I care about the kid. Given the timing, I’d say it could have been my father’s excuse for dodging all responsibility relating to my care, feeding and education, except he’d been dodging since way back, so what the hell did they hide this kid fuh?

I feel for the kid, really I do. It’s just now reaching the age at which dear ol’ dad usually pulls a disappearing act, which could be great or horrible depending on how one views it.

Eh, my rage has already petered out. Really, I’m just horribly sad. Sad that a man in his fifties still can’t escape the legacy of his own father (if you’ll recall, Grandpa Assclown, who I never met, died a year or two or three ago in Southeast Asia with his second or third family, hell if I can keep track), and that he didn’t try hard enough is his own relationships to do better.

Shit, I hope he does better with this one. According to his mother and sisters, my father’s current wife has been the longest lasting because she’s a…dingbat, I believe they called her, but maybe dingbat tenacity is what my father needs. Good luck, Frau Dingbat.

Dear Unknown Sibling,

You’ve got an alleged dingbat for a mother and a certified, licensed-and-bonded, chief executive assclown for a father. (It could be worse! Your name could rhyme with Haley Panthony!) Hang in there. You’ll get through it. Sorry I can’t be more specific, but seeing as you exist to me only online as a fucked up name that sounds unfortunately like something you’d find at the Macy’s faux jewelry counter, something gold-plated and bloody mock coral no less, change THAT nonsense ASAP, by the way, and…what was I saying? Anyway. Good luck. I haven’t met your mother, but I hope her nose is nicer than our father’s and you got hers. *shrugs*

*h/t Royce Reed of Royce and Marilyn YouTube cewebrity. Yeah, I said it. CeWEBrity.