There's this little pasty-skinned, red-boned neighbor boy who lives next door. His name is Austin. He claims he was named after Stone Cold Steve Austin. You know, the wrestler. Bekki verified this with the boys mother and, sadly, it's true. Austin comes over fairly regularly to play with our dogs despite the fact that I think our rat terrier despises every bright red hair on the boys head. He even knocks on the front door and asks if he can come in. Now, I'm not going to be known as that pervert who lets little boys into his house so I politely tell Austin 'Hell no!'. Austin's a Viking, he's use to people being blunt with him.
Recently, Austin hasn't been coming around. He's been occupied by these two other neighbor boys (they're not red-bones, just retarded looking) who live across the street. Long story short: the two other neighbor boys are little bitches who would hang out with Austin at home but wouldn't even say hello to him at school because he wasn't hip enough. They're also little bitches because one of them fell on their bike the other day and cried for his mom. Austin just stood there and looked at the kid like he was the biggest pussy on Green Street. (What an eight year old little bitch)
Austin's coming over more often now. Apparently both sets of parents didn't think it was a good idea for the boys to hang out after Austin opened up a stone cold can of 'dude, you got blood all over my fist. not cool'. I wanted to high-five Austin when he told me this but I thought it might seem a little immature. Austin's a Viking, though. Immaturity is his families motto. He's got two older siblings who both have speech impediments and work menial jobs. I think they all have different daddies because none of them look alike. Austin calls the head Viking daddy, but Austin's real daddy died a couple years ago. That's about as specific as I could get. Bekki and I have an ongoing joke where we pretend to be Austin's momma in the middle of 'paying rent' (it gets pretty raunchy). All in all, they're a very colorful cast of characters. But it gets better. . .
The mighty Viking hoard had a family outing to the tattoo parlor the other day. The father and daughter both got tattoos. How sweet. Austin was going to get his ear pierced but pussed out (he is only eight years old!) In what issue of Southern Living does it recommend going to get inked as a wholesome family activity? Now, I went to public schools. I smoked the marijuana. I even slummed it on the weekends at my mom's double-wide, but I was never white trash enough where my mom would let me get my ear pierced at eight years old. There's a difference between working class and white trash and I think that line might be drawn in the cigarette ash in front of the tattoo parlor.
Oh, and Austin's daddy. He got a tattoo of a $100 bill. On his penis.
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