Tags

, , , , , , , , , , , ,

Now, don’t go getting all excited.

It’s just in my arms, not in my legs, or my vagina bones.

What the fuck are vagina bones? Guys always talk about them.

If there are bones in your vagina, I’m pretty sure you should get that shit checked out.

Unless maybe you had a labia piercing that had some bone ornamentation.

Go for a whole tribal thing. Braid your pubic hair.

What were we talking about?

Oh, yes. I am double jointed in my arms. But I didn’t find this out until middle school, while my brother was in high school.

I know. It’s really shocking that I have a brother. I figured everyone tried to comfort themselves by assuming that I congealed under a rock somewhere. To my knowledge, I did not. But if I did, my brother congealed first.

Now, my brother has been exceedingly kind and supportive in reading and responding to these postings. Since he has the link, I know better than to really say anything bad about him, so I will attempt to portray this story in a positive light.

My brother is 4 1/2 years older than I am. This means that he always has been, and likely always will be, bigger, stronger, and more clever than I am.

And of course, being siblings, we fought like Denmark and Sweden.

And because he was bigger, stronger, and more clever than I was, he always won.

Many of my fondest memories from childhood are him having summarily defeated me, celebrating by shoving my face into the carpet. Or grass. Or dirt. He was heavily-traveled, you see.

Although, this isn’t completely fair to him. I did have one ace that he could never defeat: I was the baby.

If my mom was home, all I had to do was yell something lame like, “You’re hurting me!” or “I can’t breathe!” or “There is no use in wonton destruction! Wait, it’s pronounced want-in? WTF does that mean? Why are you laughing? Stop laughing!”

My mom would rear up to her full, intimidating height, basilisk neck frills puffed out completely. She would charge over, steam pouring out her nostrils, and slap my brother to the side like a toddler slaps down that 7-layer cake you just worked so hard to complete.

Unless, of course, she was slapping me around alongside my brother. In those cases, I yelled for my dad, who would give a disapproving look over his 99 cent reading glasses before sighing and turning the page in his book. Again, my father really gave no fucks.

In cases where I didn’t have a large, reptilian parent to hide behind, I resorted to throwing things. Unfortunately for me, my brother ducks. It’s so unfair! So, whatever I throw smacks into the wall, either breaking the thing or leaving a dent in the wall.

One time, I threw the remote at him. Like a bastard, he ducked. The remote got chipped and left a chip in the wall. Of course, I got punished for destroying things, and my brother got off free. Remember how I said he was more clever? Damn him!

We actually still have the remote, somewhere. We tried to tape up the chipped part, but the plastic is so jagged it just cuts through the tape. Note to past me: just use the remote as a shiv, instead.

So, this went on unchanged for the vast majority of my life. Then, when he was in high school, my brother started taking martial arts classes.

Now, you might think this was bad for me, as he was now trained in the art of kicking peoples’ asses. But the thing about having your ass kicked is that kicked is kicked. There aren’t different levels. The martial arts did not allow him to kick my ass any more than he already did. It just allowed him to kick my ass in a larger variety of ways.

Eventually, he came home having learned some judo or grappling hold or something that was still way less homoerotic than wrestling.

So, he got me on the carpet and tried to twist me into this totally legit lock, which involved the arms. So he twisted my arm, knowing full well I would cry like a baby and ask for him to stop at any moment.

But, I didn’t.

He kept twisting my arm around and around, each time with a more dire look of horror on his face. Eventually, convinced he had dislocated or broken my arm, he let go.

My arm flopped around several times like the limpest of dick helicopters before finally returning to the correct position.

He looked at me. I looked at him. We both knew.

This was no longer a fight.

It was science.

He tried it on my other arm. We got the exact same results. He twisted my arm up like a phone cord while we both looked on in wonder. I didn’t feel a thing.

It became a parlor trick. He would invite his friends over, ostensibly to beat me to a pulp.

Of course, their disappointment was soon replaced with wonderment as they realized that my arm could be twisted indefinitely with no repercussions.

Yes, back when I was in middle school, I was pretty much a very strange kind of adult entertainer, and my brother was my pimp.