Crouching Nephew, Hidden Uncle

Dear diary, 

Not sure if I fully understand the word ironic. But Herman is listening to Budd Smokas Only right now and he’s also being stingy with the budd. Pretty sure that’s ironic. I’m not blind, Herm. My two eyes can see that sad, sorry little weed plant: you put it right next to trampoline. I use that trampoline every night, shit bird. Pay attention at night and you might notice the pony-tail shadows I cast all over your bedroom. 

Wooooo, I am hot under the collar right now. When Herm and I get married, he’s gonna learn to be equitable with his herbal remedies, or I’ll hurt him. Uncle Butch doesn’t play no games.

Anyway, got some news to report. I started a new job yesterday, and got fired from it today.

I was working at a haunted house. I had to do one thing: pop out of a door and yell “booooo.” But, man, when I was waiting to pop out, I decided to get high. Got paranoid. I heard people getting scared—then I got scared, and I wouldn’t pop out of my door. My room was the only un-haunted room in the whole house. 

(Just gonna be honest with y’all: I overdosed on perks. Hector, the guy who sold me the perks, dumped a liter of DR. Pepper on my face when he found my body this morning. My Boss, bitch-ass Fred, calls me into his office and says, “Butch, you are fired. You almost died.” I said, “Fred, if I die in your haunted house—it’s a fucking haunted house.”  I would’ve made his business legit. But he’s a pecker. He tucks-in his T-Shirts and has a No Fear tattoo on his left pectoral. Fuck this guy. 

Hmmm, later tonight I plan on yanking the buds (there aren’t many) off Herm’s plant. My nightly routine—watching Herm sleep as I jump on the trampoline—will continue as usual, but shortly after my last bounce, Herm will be “smokeless in Seattle.” (Yeah, I did come up with that tasty zinger myself. 

Dear diary, 

It took Uncle Butch a while to figure it out, but I've got a weed plant growing in our backyard. The dumbass goes back there every morning and picks out a tomato for his afternoon salad, yet doesn't notice that right next to it is a big giant nice bud of leaf. It took him a while to notice it, but I think he knows now. I saw him staring pretty heavily at it when he was by himself in the yard yesterday. He stood there around it, unsure of what it really was, his head tilting from one way to another. It's a weed plant. Delicious indiga, the kind that makes you smooth and mellow. I bet he'll smoke it and feel like he's back in the 70s and in his prime again. I'm waiting for the right time to smoke it, like when I get a girl to come over after a date. We'll have a spaghetti dinner, and take it back to my place, and I'll crack open a bottle of wine and we'll turn on a hip flick, and I'll take her outside to show her something and then talk about it with her and how I got it and what I've done to nurture it to become what it is now. And then I'll say"Do you wanna smoke it?"

And we'll both nod our heads and break it up, roll it into a joint and get high while watching cartoons. Nah, fuck it. I'll probably smoke it with Uncle Butch tonight. The guy was the first one to get me high, so I can't go hiding it from him. I've noticed he's been a little annoyed about something lately, like he may be disturbed I'm holding out on him. It may have hurt his feelings. He's quite the guy, I tell you. I'm gonna get high with him again and see what kind of crazy nonsense he's going to talk about this time. Maybe he'll tell me he's gay or something. Or that he used to fuck horses. I could see that. He seems like a guy that fucked horses. And then one day Bessie got the best of him and he had to retire. He seems like he was devastated by a horse. He seems like the kind of guy who got arrested for being out too late at a farm, jerking off one of the chickens, and then the police rolled up on him and took him to prison. Then he did hard time and had to go through a lot of shit in prison being known as the guy who jerked off the chickens. That's Butch, alright. That's Butch.

Dear diary,

. . . With Herman’s right-hand, he squeezes from the roots of my ever thinning P. Tail; his wrist is throbbing, accumulating dirt and sweat, nose just inches from my muffler, body dragging along the 25 yard line.

By this point, most parents in attendance are standing; some of the very old men and women are shedding tears of pure fear; and there's even a fat  black woman, suffering from a case of cartoon-like obesity, vomiting in the shadows, underneath the bleachers. What can I say, I'm an observant uncle.  

The pigs, still trigger happy as fuck, send indiscriminate shots buzzing over my shoulders . . . Can the Back To The Future aspect of this Dolorean kick-in, please. God damn. In four seconds, my ass is headed straight for the goal post. And at 88 mph, the impact would kill me, and, possibly Herman, as well.

To my relief (and Herman’s) a light-purple myst materializes in the end-zone, inviting me, rewarding me; in fact, after all, how many nephews’ on this planet can say their uncle provided them the luxury of time travel. (You’re welcome, my dear nephew. You will thank me often in the near future, and you'll refer to me, in a subservient tone, as "Husband." I can no longer tolerate, Herman, the boy of my dreams, calling me by the name "Uncle." Don't get me wrong, I rep the "late-night-sneaky-uncle Credo like a boss. And, look, I'm honored to be given the opportunity to be an "Uncle" in the first place. 

Moments before I enter the time portal—loudly, as though there were a miniature man, living inside my ears—I hear the eccentric, somewhat feminine, high-pitched squeal of Roger, the actual owner of the Dolorean. “That a boy, Herman. Hold on tight, young boy. And Butch . . . Fuck the police.” Very cool dude, that Roger. But, as “Fat Earl” (a felon whom I worked with while living in Atlanta) once told me: “Butch, you’re morally bankrupt. And you don’t give a fuck about nuthin.” And he was right; I spent time in the break room, when no-one was around, shaking his bottles of seltzer water, furiously; and would occasionally hide his car keys deep in trenches of wildly active fire-ant hills. (I stopped doing this when, to his great success, would be given permission to leave the garage, early in his shift, crying-on about severe allergic reactions to the ant bites).

Overflowing with the spirit of “Fat Earl (Fat Earl died in 1995, after watching the movie "Water World"), I gazed into my rearview, catching an unfocused glimpse of whom appeared to be Roger, and threw up my middle-finger. 

After a few moments of loud, gong-like sounds, and blinding light (I could not discern the colors), Herman, still clenching the hair god gave me—and myself, were spit back out into the perceivable space known as “reality.” 

I couldn’t see a damn thing; tall blades of glass consumed every angle of the car. Our speed decreased rapidly, and we came to a stand-still. Shit. Turns out we’re still in Ledyard, on the very same high-school football field. I know this because I’m looking at the Colonel’s scoreboard, which seems to be, from my current vantage point, the only vestige of humanity.

Faintly, in a whiny, listless tone, I hear “Uncle Butch. Uncle Butch.” And after a few, might-filled yanks at the ponytail, Herman, bloody, with succulent scabs from head-to-toe, appears, hunched, struggling to maintain balance, reaching out to me like a cheesy, 80’s action villain begging for mercy while dangling off the ledge of a cliff.

Immediately (call it “Uncle Instincts”), before any motives could be processed, I remove my Bone Thugs And Harmony T-Shirt I'm wearing, and I wrap his face with it--absorbing the blood, puss, and other moist contents . . . The boy is leaking, for goodness sakes.

Herman falls over my shoulder and loses consciousness in my arms. His weight is too great for my old, dope-sick shoulders to bear, and Herm lands on a pile of glass in the backseat.

  “Ohhhhh, Uncle Butch, I’m hurting so bad. So bad, uncle butch. 

Dear Journal,

Tonight after graduation and after my dad went to sleep, my uncle came into my room and cracked open a PBR and handed to me. "Now that you've graduated, it's time to start drinking beer," I had already been drinking, but I played it off like it was my first and took a swig like I didn't know what to expect. "Tasty isn't it?" Yeah. I still don't like the taste, but I acted like it was all good. "Let's take this party elsewhere." I hopped in his delorean, which I have no idea how he got but somehow I didn't ask any questions. We took a cruise over to the high school football field. We were lucky enough that they left the lights on, so we sat at the 50 yard line and tossed the pig skin around and had words over beer. I had a few, he had a few. I started to loosen up around him and felt comfortable talking to him after awhile. After all, I need someone to talk to. I don't have a lot of friends and my dad has always been the type of guy to keep me focused on grades and hasn't really trained me to socialize well. My uncle is real cool, and one of those dudes that seems to get along with a lot of people. He has a quick temper, sure, but besides that he seems pretty savvy. We tossed the football around a bit, a lot of times he threw it too hard and it hit me in the face. He started yelling at me like he was my gym teacher and corrected me on my throwing form. Then he started ordering me to do pushups and situps, and since I wasn't going fast enough he decided to play a little "motivation" from the jukebox. It was some bullshit jock jams album. I got to hear music from the 90's blasted in my ear while I went up and down doing pushups and sweating doing jumping jacks. Fucking miserable, I tell you. The dude seems like a real psychopath, I just keep him around because I'm lonely. After all, he's kinda weird, and kinda funny. I can see why so many people like him, despite his rare appearance and pentiant for snapping on people who fuck with his lizard. I had a decent time, not gonna lie. It wasn't my cup of tea, but I made it work, and I tolerated it while I could. Dude didn't say anything creepy, that was probably the first time he hasn't said anything creepy in a while. I think I may be started to understand him better. Oh well, fuck that motherfucker, I got other shit to focus on. Like college. That dumb fuck has no idea what that's all about. I don't know what his deal is anyways, I think he failed out of community college after high school and became a car salesmen. Alright, another day spent, another milestone. I graduated, and learned how to throw a football. Later.

Dear Diary,

I often wish I owned a Dolorean. I’d a picked my nephew up from school when he was in Kindergarden; (Kindergarten, or Kindergarden?) we’d hit 88 MPH; I’d drive Herman to his 18th birthday (he’d be of-age).

Why was I so infatuated with Camaros? It was the Dolorean that could’ve given me what I desired. Today, here, right now, this is the culmination of 18 very long years. And to think, I could’ve bypassed all the waiting; the weekends at Chuck E. Cheese, where I would see how long I could hold my breathe at the bottom of the ball pit (27 hours straight); all the cold nights spent chugging Dubra at the hand-ball court, laughing, stumbling around with my pants around my ankles, a Bic lighter shaking in my hands, desperately trying to light my own farts—anything to stop the cruel, unrelenting bite of the southern wind; and, of course, perhaps the very worst of those 18 years waiting for Herm’s growth, the nights I spent—completely sober—in the middle of the street, screaming his name, “Herman. Herm, baby!!! (Falsetto) Herrrmaaaannn!!!”

Oh, shit. I been saying’ this aloud; binoculars really take your mind from reality. 

OLD MAN WITHOUT BINOCULARS: “I don’t know what sort of relationship you have with this Herman, nephew of yours, but it’s sweet . . . And, by-the-way: I own a Delorean. Right there!”

God, have mercy on my soul; he ain’t lying. 

ME: “How long till the ceremonies begin? . . . You can have the binoculars back.

OLD MAN WITH BINOCULARS: “Ohhhhhhh - we have six or seven minutes.

ME: “Perfect. I’ll see ya round . . . 

OLD MAN WITH BINOCULARS: “ . . . Roger”

ME: “Uncle Butch . . . Rog, hey, did you drop a cough drop over here in the grass?

Rog is bent over: Now!

I crouch, sneakily, like an uncle should, and reach into Roger’s back pocket. Hello, Dolorean Key.

OLD MAN WITHOUT DOLOREAN KEY: “Where at, now?”

And like a fart to a flame, I’m out with the quickness. 

Scanning the parking lot—Sunfire, Eagle Talon, Skylark . . . Marty!!!

With my pretty little beak behind the wheel, it’s time to be a real man, a real “uncle.” They say an uncle’s job is to give his nephew the attention his father fails to provide. 

I just stole a Dolorean at my nephew’s high school graduation—need I say more. 

Luckily, Roger has a CD player in this thing . . . Initiating my favorite song, and it’s fitting for the occasion: Age aint nothin but a number, by Aliyah. Volume up, all the way. 

I slam the gas and head toward the Ledyard High Football field, where the ceremonies are underway.

Now just feet from the field, I take a deep breathe. I picture myself in a wedding dress. I picture Herman in a wedding dress.

With the petal-to-the-metal, I slam in to the fence, flattening it like a waffle-house pancake, and cut through the grassy football field.

Everyone is panicking now—standing, covering their mouth, being all over dramatic: Ya’ll act like you never seen an Uncle before!

A half-dozen pig cars, sirens blazing, come plowing down the 50 yard line, towards me. I accelerate fast and cut the wheel, swerving around the pigs with relative ease.

Hitting the brakes hard, I skid to the bottom of the bleachers, where all of Ledyard High’s soon-to-be graduates are located. 

The Aliyah is bumping too hard; I need a respite from all this big, booming bass. 

After lowering the volume, I hand-crank the driver-side window and poke my head out (a la Ace Ventura). I see Herman, head in lap, eyes closed. Hanging out the window I yell:

ME: “Herman. I’m here, boy. Get in.”

Herman: “Uncle Butch? What are you doing?

ME: “I’m here to fu . . . Forget about why I’m here. 

Smash. Glass from the rear window cascades onto the backseat of the Dolorean, Bullets are flying; these pigs’ mean business.

ME: “Get in the car, Herman!!!!”

HERMAN: “Why?”

ME: “your graduation gift: a high-speed chase in your new Dolorean. 

A shot rips through the passenger seat. Two speeding pigs approach. Herman freezes with fear. I have to peel outta here. 

I step on the gas. The pigs are too close to my tail—pony tail, that is. Speaking of Pony-Tails.

Doing 88 Miles Per Hour, with the pigs gaining on me, I launch my Pony-Tail out of the passenger side window; it lands inches from Herm’s lap

ME: “Grab on, Herm.”

To my surprise, he grabs hold. 

He’s in store for one hell of a ride (if you know what I mean?). 

To be continued . . . 

Dear Diary

Dear Diary, 

Sometimes in moments of defeat, victory appears, nudging you closer and closer to the happiness you’ve always wished for.

My damn boss, Earnie Preston. Let me just say, Jose has been using copious amounts of methodone, and I don’t see no pink slip in his hand. Jose ain’t even American. These hands (my hands) have been responsible for getting more Camaro’s back on the road—than Nascar culture, or any fuckin’ one else for that matter. 

Catch me drinkin’ a six pack a Busch Light and wanna act like I killed Jon Benet Ramsey. 

It’s all good though. I’m a new man, an unemployed man, but a new one. I got the top down in my Camaro, hair dancing in the wind, my pet Iguana Walter on my shoulder, and a nephew (that just turned 18) graduating from High-School. 

I’m doin’ damn near a buck twenty, ziggin and zaggin down long, curvy New-England roads. 

I’ll be at Herman’s graduation . . . Now. Shit, parking is a bitch in this thing. High School graduation, god damn. 

A ha, there’s a parking spot for me. Wait. Should I take this parking spot, or do some burnouts in the parking lot and show these mother fuckers what kind of awesome uncle I really am. Papa Roach, Last resort—cranked as loud as I can. Woo hoo. Smoke is all over the place, brother. Oh, a pig. Slam the break.

Pig: “What ya think you’re doin’ there, guy?

Stereo: (Still crank): “Would it be wrong, would it be right . . .”

Pig: “Turn that . . .”

Me: Yeah, sorry . . . Nephew Herman is graduating tonight. Drove all the way here from Atlanta. Still a little pumped from the journey, I guess.

Pig: “Just relax.”

Me: “Yes, sir.”

Fuckin’ Pig. Let me cruise around to that empty spot. Noooooo!!!! Ain’t that a bitch—Geo Tracker in my spot.

Pig: (yelling) “Ya gotta park at the fire house down the street.”

Me: “Where’s that?” 

Pig: “Bout a half-mile away.”

(Time Cut: 15 minutes)

Slammed Walter in the trunk. Blue Jeans, check. No Fear T-Shirt, tucked into my Blue Jeans, check. Got my boom box . . . Uncle Butch has got a graduation present for ya Herman: ME!!!

After a little sprinting, and a lot of walking, I made it—Ledyard High Football Field. Proud Moms and dads, waving, smiling—some of these poor saps are even crying; they think they love their sons and daughters—not as much as I love Herman. 

Old man with binoculars.

Me: “mind if I take a little peek-a-roo?”

Old man with binoculars: “Huh?”

Me: “your binoculars . . .”

Old man with binoculars: “Oh. Absolutely.”

(Binocular vision)

Oh. Great. Now I can really scout the place out. Lemme . . . There’s my shit head brother, Paul. Wearing a sleeveless turtle neck, like always. Paul never could shake off his Devo phase.

Moving on.

Old Man who has no binoculars: “How long ya gonna be there, Chief”

Me: “Why don’t you go play some Jax or something old man?”

I tune the old man out by cranking my boom box. 

That’s when I see him . . . Oh, Herm. Butch is here, baby. 

Acne covered face, braces, long, thick black hair—ahhhh, to be young again. 

To Be Continued . . . 

Dear Diary,

My uncle and I have been having it out lately.

Little spots of tension here and there. Glances. Looks. He keeps giving me strange looks. Finally felt like it was time I break it to him, or break the ice, say something, at least, about what's going on between us. We haven't really talked much but I think it was time we got together and hashed out our feelings. I know he has some sort of feelings for me. And I'm not really sure how I feel about him but I want to at least get to the bottom of it. It was late at night, I was up listening to my favorite Bone Thugs n Harmony album, East 1999 and Eternal. He walked into my room unannounced, and cranked the music up and started dancing. It was then when he pulled out a plastic baggie full of what I assumed to be marijuana, which it was confirmed that it was. I couldn't believe it, it kind of turned me on and made me excited, that this grown man would bring marijuana into a house that was before not allowed to have any sort of paraphernalia, drug, or alcohol included. My dad would kill me. It made me realize that he's a real man and he's past those sort of limitations that have been placed on me. He's a weed smoker. And I kind of want to try it myself. I heard it's really fun, and despite how creepy and weird he is it makes me want to smoke with him and find out what he's all about.

I told him to put it away, that my father would kill me. As he was rolling a joint I grabbed it out of his hands and told him stop. And he did. But he made me promise that I would smoke with him one day. We arranged a trip to the forrest, where we would get high and talk about life. And so it is. This weird, mustached man and I are going on a trip. Just the two of us. And we're going to get high as shit.

We drove a good four hours before we got to a place that I hadn't recognized or seen before. Through turns and swerves, I noticed that if I ever had to call the police or 911 it would take them hours to get to where we were. I don't even know how to describe the location. Foresty. With woods, and animals. He drove his SUV and had a tent in the back of the trunk. The car ride was quiet and full of tension, not really sure what to say. I don't know what he wants from me. I don't know if I say something he'll take it as an innuendo. He's kind of a pervert. I'm not sure if I like that or not.

We set up camp and he made a fire. We made some frozen dinners over the fire. I had Stouffer's macaroni and cheese, took it out of the box and poked it with a stick, held it over the fire until the ice melted and the mac and cheese were ready to be eaten. I ate the overcooked noodles and the melted cheese and tried not to make a mess of myself. As I was taking a bite and the cheese was dripping down my chin I noticed my uncle gazing across the fire, he seemed turned on by what was happening. I quickly finished my meal and asked when we could get high. I was ready. I had never smoked weed before in my life. I didn't picture it to be this way, but I suppose you can't really plan things like this.

He already had a nice blunt rolled, a big fat blunt, the green leafs surrounded by the crisp chocolate paper. I watched hip as he rolled it tightly and licked to seal it. I tried not to make eye contact with him as he did it, for fear that he would think I was suggesting I was into that sort of thing.

He took a couple hits and blew the smoke out of his mouth in one of the coolest ways I've seen. He blew a smoke ring and let the smoke flow slowly out of his nose. It was the first time that I felt he actually looked cool and not stupid, like he usually does with this ugly face and mustache.

He passed it to me and asked me the question I feared most.

"You ever get high?"

"No,"

I responded.

"How come?"

My father would kill me.

He paused and stared off into the fire.

"You know what kid, when people tell you not to do something, that's a damn sure sign that you should fuckin do it."

You're right.

I accepted. And took my first hit. I didn't feel anything at first so I took another one right after. I kept taking hit after hit, really enjoying the taste. Minutes and hours must've passed before I passed it back to him, I found myself deep into a conversation about hash browns and cherry lollipops, and the meaning of the universe, and that's when I realized I was high as shit.

"You gonna pass that back?"

I laughed, and he laughed. We both laughed together and couldn't stop laughing. I kept hitting the blunt and finally passed it to him before it got to the half way point.

I couldn't control myself from talking after that. I felt so good I must've spilled all my business to him. All of how I felt about my father and how I felt cooped up in that house like a caged bird. That's when he opened up a letter out of his pocket and read to me the poem "Why the Caged Bird Sings" by Maya Angelou. Shit got real quiet and he started coming to tears almost, and that's when I told him to stop acting like a punk bitch and pass me the blunt. I was ready. I was a champion. I was a real weed smoker. I had gotten past the initial high and gotten over the feelings of euphoria that you first get when you smoke weed, and I moved on and started smoking that shit like no other. I felt great.

There came a point when I felt like I may have smoked too much and I lost the ability to talk. I felt my uncle gazing at me very hard and I took every comment he made as an innuendo, I wasn't sure he if he was trying to get me to lay with him or not. I mentioned something about taking a shower and he told me to feel free to take one with him so we save water. That disturbed me and I retreated to the tent and tucked myself into the covers and slept like an infant, my knees almost touching my chin and my arms holding myself around my body like I was being rescued from a drowning ship.

Dear Diary,

Herman caught me, pants down, with Budd Smokas only blasting, in his computer chair . . . Just kidding: I’m a stealth, silent stepping, uncle ninja.

Before Herm opened his bedroom door, I climbed inside his closet—Blue Velvet style. It was there I dug around, what appeared to be, a collection of black Stone Cold Steve Austin T-shirts’, all in desperate need of a wash. My heart rate was spiking; in a panicked frenzy, I crouched, gagged myself with one of the many available Stone Cold T-shirts, then slowly turned my neck, searching for a hole, slit—anything that could afford me a full-body view of my future husband, Herman. 

Oh, yes. I found my ideal vantage point. From there, I watched him jump on his computer. Seconds later, I heard the mambo number five—the bass from his shitty, Emerson speakers shook the closet door. 

Oh, shit, I thought—Herm is rippin’ on a joint. Finally. There was always doubts in my large uncle head, about things we shared in common, passions, fears—things we could really talk about, you know. I tried to learn fly-fishing, but I couldn’t get the damn Field and Stream PDF’s. Don’t know wrestling, although I do love the outfits. But here it was, right before me, that eureka moment, the epiphany, if you will. 

I’m gonna buy a shit load of weed, invite Herm on a friendly, non-creepy, uncle/nephew retreat. Get him stoned, confused, and vulnerable. That’s when I’ll make my first move, a move that shakes the structural integrity of his sexuality, a move that confirms my desires, shuts off innocence, sweeps us away from my awful brother Paul—Herm’s father—and most importantly, gives me the husband I’ve deserved for so long. 

This Butch Vogul, the late-night creepy uncle, signing off. 

Until next time. Happy Nephew hunting, ya’ll.

Dear diary,

My uncle has been staying with us the last few days. I'm getting a little tired of him staring at me. I think I'm up to his games because the other day I found that he was setting something up in the bedroom in attempt to video tape me. If he doesn't stop trying to creep around I'm going to tell my Dad and my dad's going to really kick his ass. He makes me so mad. On the other end, I'm really starting to understand why he's my dad's brother. He and I actually get along well and I can see how he could be upset at my dad for not being cool at all. It has been very distracting to take part in the nonsense that he's been making me take part in, do you understand?

    I don't really get it. But I'm sick and tired of it. I don't want him creeping around my room anymore. What kind of sick shit is this anyways? He's my uncle. I guess it's supposed to happen that way. Uncles always end up fooling around with their nephews, right? Wrong. I don't want any part of it. I don't want to be that type of uncle when I grow up. The only problem is, besides the fact that he's my uncle, if you throw all of it away, the reality is that if he wasn't my uncle at all I would consider courting him to be the man I take to the park and have late night eats at Waffle House. I don't know how we'll ever tell my father, but when we do, it will be the greatest announcement of all time. I will announce so much.

    My uncle is always hiding, snooping around, doing weird stuff. I've seen him pop up from behind the bushes, I've seen him lingering near my bedroom door at night. I've stayed awake in bed and gazed at the glow from the crack at the bottom of my bedroom door and seen his feet whisping back and forth. I don't trust him. I don't.

Dear Diary,

My nephew Herman is out of the house. I think he said he was backyard wrestling or something like that. Great thing he ain’t been around: he’s the only one with a computer in this damn house. I’m sittin’ at it now, as a matter of fact. Been looking at some pretty crazy, kinky websites. May or may not have violated property in the process; put it this way, if Herm’s computer chair could talk, pretty sure my mother would no longer return my phone calls—and I’d be booted from the house. 

Looking through his music collection—only one song on his itunes: Budd smokas only by Bone Thugs and Harmony. Been listening to this shit all morning. I love it. They sing about shit like not being stingy when you roll blunts: “no piners.” Had a buddy who would only roll little, no-weed-inside, piners. I would call ‘em “Houdini’s” cause not even Houdini could escape from this tightly rolled, barely any herb, sorry excuse for a joint; no matter how hard you’d rip that shit: nothing. No smoke. Just a headache. So I can relate to this song. 

My fat piggery has made me sick lately. If you kick in the door to Herm’s room right now, you’ll see two windows on the computer screen: E-Fukt, and my bank account. Which of the two is more shameful—your guess is as good as mine.

My confidence has been real low lately. I wish I had a talking parrot on my shoulder, periodically announcing compliments throughout the day: “Bahhhh you look better than Clooney.” “Bahhhhh your pony tail looks very nice.” “Bahhhh Bahhh you’re gonna marry Herman; your brother will never find out.”

“Thank you very much, I agree,” I’d say to my talking parrot. 

Oh, shit. Herman just came through the front door. 

Luckily, I’m a sneaky uncle.  

Dear Diary,

It’s almost midnight. Do I have my PDF’S on fly fishing? No. I do not. Called the people over at MagicJack. They confessed to me that the product is basically the “three-toed sloth” of internet services. That’s when I lost my cool —

Me: Well, what about my fucking fly-fishing PDF’S? Should I be expecting reparations in the form of a 1 year subscription to Field And Stream?

MagicJack: First of all, sir, please do not curse. And second of all, we’re not responsible, in any way, for providing you with information regarding angling, or any other outdoor sports for that matter.

Me: Look, hear me out. My neighbor lost his job. My access to the internet was also terminated when he lost his job.

MagicJack: Are you joking? Is this a joke, sir?

Me: A joke? Pshhh. I found the name of the place that neighbor of mine worked at. I stormed in there, asked for the manager, told him he made a huge mistake firing Roger, who, I felt, was the strongest bartender in Applebee’s history --

MagicJack: Hello, this is Gordon, customer services operator.

Me: Hello, Gordon. I’m almost finished . . . The manager looks at me, says, “who the fuck might you be?” That’s when I look him in the eyes and say, “I’m the fucking guy who relied on Roger AKA NETGEAR55-13 for internet access —fly-fishing resources, etc.

MagicJack: Goodbye. Me: Fuckin’ gaylords.

So, looks like I’ll be returning MagicJack to Wal-Greens, in the hopes Roger is welcomed back to Applebee’s. NETGEAR55-13 (the only router that didn’t require a password) is currently non-existent, according to the airport on my Macbook-Air.

Herman should be back home from his fly-fishing excursion tomorrow. Which is precisely why I must get my meat-hooks on those god damn PDF’S.

Kinda lied to Herm; told him he didn’t know shit about fly-fishing, and that, sometime really soon, Uncle Butch was gonna provide some insight, secrets, and tips on how to catch more fish. Clearly that was a lie. I know nothing about fishing, let alone fly-fishing, which appears to require some kind of yo-yo-master trickery—that loose line looks pretty damn tricky. Herm could return home at any moment, mention his trip, in which fly-fishing would be discussed in great detail. Not good.

Still waiting to hear back from unemployment; gonna get it, just not sure how much exactly. Anxiety has gotten the better part of me the last few days. Worried I won’t have the money and knowledge necessary to keep up with the demands of a growing 18 year old boy: that’s my greatest fear.

My mother always told me to stay positive, work-hard, and always pursue my wants, needs, urges, and desires: she’d want me to fuck Herman. And I will.

Simple and easy. I’m gonna make a comeback in the next few days, get the PDF’s, get my unemployment situation squared away—maybe fix the oscillation feature on the dehumidifier—and get my nephew alone for a weekend on a fly- fishing trip;

It’d be a victory for Butch Vogul, know that much.

Dear diary,

Dear diary,

Missed the last few days on here, sorry. Irresponsible neighbor lost his job and can’t pay for internet. I took matters into my own hands: purchased Magic Jack Plus. This thing is no damn good. Started downloading—at 2am—a compilation of Fly Fishing PDF’s put together by the fine folks at Field And Stream Magazine: it’s 4:44 in the afternoon and I only got 13 of the 44MB needed to complete my download. Will call those fuckers at Magic Jack tomorrow, trust me!

Pretty sure my nephew has no clue I installed cameras in his dehumidifier— that’s the good news, anyway. The bad news is he adjusted its location, and this has rendered all footage void of any dong sightings. The cameras only seem to capture the left side of his dresser drawer. Sometimes I can see him walking by, but always fully clothed, energetic— not drowsy or vulnerable. Also pretty sure that when I installed the cameras I accidentally pinched a loose wire, eliminating the dehumidifier’s oscillation feature. Tried to fix, unsuccessful though.

Sometimes in the afternoons I sneak into his bedroom, yank open his dresser drawers, and sniff the gray hue of his longjohns, and if I’m feeling good, I’ll leave rose petals in his church-socks. Lol. I may or may not have placed dirty limericks underneath Herman’s pillow last night.

Been pickin’ up trails of Busch cans all morning. Thought my Fly-Fishing PDF’s would be ready, and when MagicJack let me down, got a 30 of BUSCH. Got really rowdy. Started thinking about brushing Herman’s teeth with my beard stubble. Herm’s gonna get some jet-black hair up in his teeth. Real fuckin’ soon.

Oh, fuck me. I forgot to mention my failed solution for fixing the oscillation feature on Herm’s dehumidifier. After I steam up all of his belongings with the breathe of my nostrils, I reposition his dehumidifier, align the cameras with his bed—get a buttered popcorn, movie view (if you know what I mean?). But, always, this little meat-mountain is resolute, firm in his beliefs and habits. And first on Herm’s list of beliefs: dehumidifier must be placed in front of window,

creating awful angle for strategically placed , hidden cameras, courtesy of sneaky uncle.

Must do better job of clearing my tracks while going in and out of his bedroom. Can’t weird Herm out. Wear him out, yes, but create feelings of violation: absolutely not. My brother, I’m afraid, already knows, at least subconsciously, about my strange perversions, lust, and yearning for the incessant loin thrusts of his dear son.

When Herm was 10 months old, my brother, Bill, walked in on me hovering over Herm’s crib. My long, dark, mythical ponytail was dangling, casting mysterious looking shadows over his round, pudgy, baby face. Bill just looked at me and said, “My son look like a Camaro to you, Butch?” I just laughed and reminded Bill, Herm enjoyed being tickled with the split-ends of my big, beautiful pony tail.

Whoa, ha. Just had a fantasy in the midst of writing this entry. My fantasy: My ponytail was a bright, yellow, UFO tractor beam. I exited the back door

of my brother’s house. I started to levitate. My nephew was in the forrest, splitting wood with a tiny, tiny axe, made from, aerially speaking, what appeared to be clay. He looked hot and thirsty. Some guy was standing up on a tall tree stump, wearing yellow bowling shoes, black umbro shorts, and one of those spooky Nixon mask’s. I watched down on them from above the tree-tops,’ licking my lips, rubbing circular patterns on and around the lamp of a genie, which I suddenly realized was my penis. I’m thrown off when they both look to the sky, spotting me. “You’re never gonna marry your nephew,” the man in the Nixon mask shouts, “Your brother will never let you. After he cuts my wood, I’m gonna get ‘em.” Then, Herman bent over, spread his cheeks and said, “Drill me, drill me for oil you fucking pig.” Jealousy got the best of me. I wrapped my ponytail around Nixon’s neck and catapulted his head, high above the clouds. My voice echoed over the hillside, “Nobody drills me nephew except me— nobody drills my nephew except me . . .

Fantasy over.

Anyway. I gotta call MagicJack in the morning. Need those fly-fishing PDF’s, and pronto.

This is Butch Vogul, signing off.

I was finally able to sneak into Herman’s bedroom long enough to install secret cameras in his dehumidifier. He has a habit of leaving it set on Oscillation Mode. This gives me more coverage and, undoubtedly, improves my chances of seeing his thighs, buttocks or dong.

Oh, darn. This is my first entry; so I probably should explain myself: I don’t wanna seem like a creep.

Dear Diary,

Since the day of his birth, January 2nd, 1996, my nephew has been the apple of my eye. And despite years of torment, years in which I fantasized about him, always in extremely perverted ways, I never crossed the line, not once. But things have changed; Herbert is 18, legal, handsome, tender: on my to do list (if you know what I mean). Proximity is no longer an issue. Tony Hill Auto, based out of Atlanta, Georgia, laid me off; so, my days of repairing the Iroc-Z28 Camaro is over, at least for now. Don’t get all sad on me, I took the news like a dignified man, swung my long, stoic, jet black pony tail over my shoulder, jumped in my Eagle Talon and drove to Ledyard, Connecticut. I’m living with my brother for the time being. I hate my brother; but I have to love him, he’s Herbert’s father.

I figure I’ll have at least three to four months to win my nephew’s heart— express my longing, my passion, my insatiable need to be with him, as lovers, forever and ever.

My goal while I’m here in Connecticut living at my brother’s house is quite simple.

 My brother Paul is letting me stay with he and Herman. That means–according to what Paul told me–I got about 6 months, 6 months to convince my nephew that we were meant to be together—I wanna marry Herman.

The obstacles are stacked against me, though, but I didn’t expect this to be easy. If my brother Paul finds out I’m trying to steal away Herman, he’ll kill me.

My name is Butch Vogul, and I’m in love. This is my diary. I encourage you to read it; follow the hunt.