Oh, the drama! The catfights! Sweet lord!

Even though my child is currently grounded for three and a half weeks, there still manages to be drama of the utmost ridiculousness. In other words, there still manages to be drama worthy of Mary-Sue Vrees.

Mary-Sue Vrees, in case you didn't know, is the mother of all drama queens. To give you an example of this, she once took a fit after Jason was smacked in the head with a baseball bat in math class and proceeded to spread a city-wide rumor that the perpetrator of this frankly childlike assault was actually a child prostitute. Long story short, the whole thing got way out of hand. The poor girl never recovered from the accusations, started shooting crack and is now in juvey for fraud. Also, that math teacher got fired from his job for "pedophilic tendencies", the principal is in long-term therapy, and one of the secretaries only has three fingers on her left hand now. The other one is dead.

Please don't ask me to share the long story. Please. It will take me five hours and I am not in the mood for this nonsense at the present time.

Anyway, so yeah. There is a continuum of drama queen-ness, and it pretty much goes like this:

Teen idols -> Britney Spears -> the paparazzi -> Johnny -> Oprah -> Hannibal -> Jessica Simpson -> Michael -> Mary-Sue Vrees

Yeah. Pretty much.

About forty or so minutes ago, Michael burst out of his room and barged into the living room going, "WHAT THE MOTHER OF GOD."

I sighed and I'm all, "What now." He's been acting rather awkwardly (read: irritably, irrationally, inconceivably) for about a week now. I don't understand. Is this puberty??

Michael then proceeded to look kind of like a beached whale. "C'DWARD EULLEN IS A WENCH AND SO IS HIS MOM."

I'm all, "DO NOT talk like that about Matilda! Or her step son! For the love of God, Michael, what on Earth did that poor boy ever do to you?"

"HE IS TRYING TO TURN JASON INTO A BUTT PIRATE. JESUS LORD ALMIGHTY OF ALL HEAVENS. WENCH."

There is one sure-fire way to know when Michael has gone into what we like to call his "dark zone". He begins to punctuate his ravings with Biblical terms and names of the Holy family.

Dear sweet mother, what has become of my poor angry child? He was so sweet before he learned to talk. WHAT HAPPENED?

"Michael, stop quoting Father Whatshisface and talk to your MOMMY," I pleaded. And then I realized what he had just said. "Turn Jason into a what now?"

But Michael did not answer because he had picked up the phone and, before I could say a word about his being grounded, had dialed and was impatiently waiting. After a few seconds his mask becomes pure evil and he's all, "JASON! WHAT THE WENCH! ... You know exactly what I'm talking about. What did you do after you left my house on Christmas Eve? Huh? ... Oh yeah, I'm sure. I'm sure you watched A Nightmare on Elm Street. Bitch. You had phone sex with Cedward, didn't you? (At this point I very clearly heard Jason's strangled voice going "WHAT????!?!?!?!!" with multiple exclamation and question marks from the other end of the line) ... BITCH PLEASE. Do not lie to Michael. Michael knows when you are bullshitting him! Traitor! You defected to the side of the awkward gay losers who pick their noses. ... Don't act all confused. Matilda posted it on her blog! You were WOOED, Jason! ... Oh my God, why am I even friends with you? ... Fuck off. Your mom's a whore. ... Shut up. ... Jason, please. I'm not handicapped like you, so stop BULLSHITTING ME. ... I never thought you would stoop this low. ... You can act all grossed out all you want, you fugster. ... Yep, pretty much. You're ugly as fuck. No wonder the only person who's ever liked you ever is Cedward Effin Eullen. ... You play with CRAYOLAS. ... You're hideous. ... Fuck off. Freddy would not have had PHONE SEX WITH CEDWARD AS A PRANK CALL, BITCH. STOP BLAMING OTHER PEOPLE FOR YOUR LEWD ACTIONS. ... Yes, I've met Freddy. What the MARY MOTHER OF JESUS CHRIST are you insinuating? ... Mother of God. You whore. I no longer enjoy you as a person. Go wench yourself on streetcorners. ... You can't come over in a month and play Manhunt anymore. Hah. Haha. So there. ... It wasn't Freddy, bitch, it was you. IT WAS YOU. YOU WHORED YOURSELF TO CEDWARD, AND NOW YOU HAVE TO DEAL WITH THE CONSEQUENCES. GO GET RUN OVER BY A PLOUGH."

Michael hung up the phone and ran (and by ran I mean walked awkwardly slowly and stiffly) upstairs into his room, where he proceeded to blast the following playlist:

Korn
Korn
Korn
Korn
Korn
Korn
Mr. Sandman
Korn
Korn

I now have to go up there and make sure he doesn't Korn himself into oblivion. Please excuse me. I must go tend to my motherly duties.

Oh, the drama! 

If you give a Vrees a pancake...

Well, last night ended up being quite a story. Do you want the long version or the short version? Take your pick.

Short version: Jason Vrees is now staying in one of our guest rooms for a few days.

Long version: Mary-Sue and her husband, Alfred Benedict, are getting separated. Why? Well, according to Jason, it's because Alfred snores too much and apparently just got a DUI for driving his snow plough at ridiculous speeds down Main Street after consuming steroids, and apparently, Mary-Sue was all, "THAT IS THE LAST STRAW." and a huge fight broke out, ending in a ten P.M. call to the lawyer's home to receive divorce papers.

I'm not sure I entirely believe Jason, though - or Mary-Sue, for that matter. I do believe this whole situation is probably more Mary-Sue's fault than Alfred's, because everything always seems to lead back to Mary-Sue at some point, and of course, Jason is far too much of a momma's boy to not believe everything that comes out of her mouth. I always knew her overtly intense protection of this boy due to his "delibitating, life-threatening dyslexia" would someday harm him... Oh well. It is neither my business nor my place to make judgment, which is why I only do it here, on my blog.

So this is what's going on: last night, Jason fled from his painfully small home across the street because he just couldn't take the infernal spoon-throwing and "Wellwhat'sgoingtohappentoJASONNOW?"s in the kitchen. He's always been a fairly sensitive boy. So I took pity on him and told him he could stay with us until the whole thing is resolved. I'm not entirely sure Michael knew about all this until this morning. As typical, he'd been "doing his homework" (and listening to Korn on maximum volume) in his room when it all went down... and we put Jason straight to bed, afraid the poor dear would asphyxiate himself with all that hyperventilation. So, judging from Michael's excited display of "OHMYGODWHATTHEHELLJASONWHYAREYOUINMYKITCHEN!!" this morning, I think it's safe to say that that infernal Korn made him pretty oblivious to everything until just recently.

Come to think of it, I'm starting to regret letting Jason stay a little. It didn't seem like such a bad idea until I saw the kitchen and had to tell an irritable Hannibal to go clean the breakfast items scattered on the ceiling and walls. Oh well. As long as I don't have to clean it, I'm good. Still, Michael and Jason are the type of kids you tell teachers to separate in school if they want them to learn any semblant of a thing throughout the entire school year. And also if they themselves want to avoid their classroom becoming a smaller version of hell.

Meh. I'm sure it's nothing I can't handle for a few days. As long as they don't get into any little quarrels... that is not something I ever want to bear witness to again, thank you very much. Once was quite enough.

Things are going according to plan so far, though. Because we have company, I didn't want to make the regular, boring old grilled cheese I always serve up for breakfast, and so as soon as I woke up, I went outside to the barn where Hannibal sleeps and I delicately shoved him, trying to wake him up.

He's all, "Hmmmmmuuuhhhh?" and I said, "Hannibal! Wake up!"

He opened his eyes, and I said, "Hi, honey. Did you sleep well?"

He's all, "I WAS sleeping well, before you rudely interrupted..."

I decided to ignore this. "Can you please come to the kitchen and make pancakes?"

"WHYYYYYyyyyyYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYyyyyyYYYYYYYYYY?" Hannibal grunted whinily, variating the intensity and volume of his Ys like a woman PMSing, or like Michael this one time when some jerk from school shot him in the head.

I sighed and crossed my arms, annoyed at his immaturity. "BecausehoneywehaveGUESTS. And the only thing I can cook is grilled cheese!"

Hannibal threw his head back like someone was repeatedly electrocuting him. "Some housewife you are! ... Ask Johnny to do it?"

"You lazy ass..." I sighed again. "Johnny is at work, slaving over camera angles, and we need to be grateful because he is the primary breadwinner for this household."

"AskRobert," Hannibal hissed.

I looked at him like a deer might look at an oncoming scooter that it thought was an eighteen wheeler from far away and that scared the shit out of it - or like my dear son might look at some crazy girl at Wal-Mart hitting him across the head with a two-by-four, like, Is-that-really-all-you've-got? This actually happened. We had to get a restraining order. "Hannibal, have you SEEN Robert's cooking? Come on, for poor little Jason Vrees's sake, GET OFF YOUR ASS AND MAKE THE BOY SOME FREAKING GOSH DARN PANCAKES."

Hannibal got up. "You know his name's Voorhees, right?"

"I. Don't. Freaking. Care. Make. Pancakes. Now."