Ever have that funny feeling you were raped as a child?

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No? Really, you don't? How odd of you. You must have been an ugly faggot as a kid then, because apparently, I was fucking irresistible. What do I mean? Well let’s put it this way, I still have vague memories from a very young age of absolute sexual discomfort, long before I should have had any feelings of sexuality whatsoever. What's that you say,"tell me more, MSG, I want to see and possibly sniff your dirty laundry." Well back off you fucking pervert, you sound just like my Nana. That's right, my Nana. She is actually where this story begins and ends. A darker soul than MSG's Nana you're unlikely to find. I honestly don't think she raped me but, then again, I've blacked out about 90 percent of my childhood from ages five through nine so I can't be sure. But I have been putting clues together in my head for years now that lead to some shady shit and it’s time I presented you with my fascinating evidence. The problem is, I'm not 100% sure of it's accuracy. All these memories seem very dreamlike to me. Although, why would anyone "dream" these things up? The memories also seem as though they may have been influenced by things I heard later on about Nana. It's all very confusing, but, honestly, I need to just get it out. Why not a burden a therapist with it? Well, I could, but then I wouldn't have the challenge of trying make child molestation humorous. Of course, my wife thought this was the least funny thing she's ever read in her life. But, then, she didn't think The Diary of Anne Frank was funny either. What a stiff! But if you really are sure you want to know why I think I may have been touched in the bad place as a child, then I shall reward your fortitude with yet another of my childhood Tales of Whoa!

(No, there aren't too many priests reading this right now, chalice in one hand, phallus in the other)

ARTSY PROLOGUE: For years now, I have been walking my dog in a public park. In this park, there is a small brook that bisects the trail we often take. Right where the trail is bisected, there is an exposed concrete tube that the water must go through, creating a “bridge” of sorts. The concrete tube has been clogged for years and for as long as I’ve been going there I’ve been trying to dislodge that clog. No joke. It drove me fucking crazy that I couldn't help this stream flow freely. Well, today I did it. I unclogged that fucker. And I don't think it's a coincidence that it happened today, because as I watched the rotting leaves and sticks come out of the tube like putrid black vomit, I realized that’s exactly what I was doing with this post. So sit back and enjoy my putrid black vomit.

CHAPTER 1:

Let me start by saying that as a very young boy, I loved my Nana. She was always so happy to see me and made me feel like the cutest little guy in the world. She never let an opportunity to hug and kiss me or have me sit on her lap go by (that already sounds filthy but to me it wasn't. Not then). She showered me with toys and candy. And occasionally, gold. At least that's what she said it was. She called them our golden showers and I loved to take them with her. She would sprinkle liquid gold all over my face.....oh I'm kidding! Did you think I was serious? My God you people are sick. Anyway, Nana didn’t just adore only me. She loved my brothers too. But I was the youngest and we all know how the young ‘uns are always the hottest, right? My taut little six year-old buns must’ve looked like an unblemished, barely ripe pear next to the decrepit asses of my twelve and fourteen year-old brothers. So I think that’s why I got the most “special” attention. But enough about young, beautiful, succulent me, let’s hear more about Nana.

Nana may have been considered a pretty woman when she was younger but it's not something I ever saw. She always had lipstick that was too red smeared on her lips, which then found its way into the wrinkly folds surrounding her mouth. Even as a young kid who shouldn't know any better, I found that nauseating. She also wore too much perfume. It would smell up the whole fucking house. And that's how she liked it. She wanted you to know SHE was there. Attention, was her drug. Well that and cheap champagne. In an effort to get the most attention, Nana made sure she could be heard from miles away. Especially when it came to her laugh. It was more of a cackle, actually, a sound that could pierce through military bombing. My brothers and I often recollect how we were startled awake at night by her cackle coming from the card game the adults were playing downstairs. Nana was also known for making a grand entrance (ie, a loud entrance) into any room. Do you know people like that? It's so fucking annoying. It's all about them. But, as I child I thought it was like an act on TV. I was entertained by it. Besides, it always seemed like she was so happy to see my brothers and I. She genuinely seemed to love us. Which makes all of this so much harder to comprehend. Because I had no reason to think my Nana was doing anything other than loving me, I would happily play along with her games. Like the game where she would make my brothers and I kiss on the lips. She would literally force our heads together- we fought it every step of the way- until we kissed. We actually have this on film! Then there was the tickle game. That was when she would get me to sit on her lap and then she'd tickle me all over (yes ALL over) and say "come here you little stinker" as I ran away. Thinking back, I was running away because I felt discomfort, but I didn't comprehend that then. I thought it was just part of the game. That tickling never seemed strange to me, just playful. Until a few years later when I realized grabbing your grandson's junk in a "playful" manner isn't cool. It’s not cool in any fucking manner for God’s sake. But I guess a playful manner is better than a seriously erotic one, right?

Well now, this has gotten rather unpleasant, hasn't it? Oooooh I'm so sorry for you. It's must be so agonizing to have to read about an experience like the one I fucking lived through!!!

I apologize for the above outburst. That tends to happen every now and then (little clogs being dislodged from the stream). Please allow me to continue exposing myself to you.

When I was approximately five to seven years-old, I had the most terrifying nightmare. In this dream I woke up to go to the bathroom, which was down a long, dark, thin hallway from my room. This wasn't a dreamy hallway, it was the actual one in my house. But before I got to the bathroom, half of the floor disappeared exposing a black abyss below. With most of the floor gone, I was left balancing precariously on a plank of hard wood flooring barely wide enough for my tiny feet. From within the abyss I hear a deep, sinister voice calling to me. I thought it was the devil. Satan. I was just five or six years-old, dreaming about Satan. Yeah, that’s normal. Anyway, in my dream, I wanted to run away but couldn't and then I felt clammy hands pull me down. I woke up, fucking terrified. "So what, you had a little nightmare," you say? Okay, well, consider that I knew nothing of hell or demons at that age so how did that imagery make it into my dream? Strange but not so freaky, you say? Well, how about this for an M. Knight Shamalamanmanaman twist: the only other room in that hallway between mine and the bathroom was, dun duh duh, Nana’s room (when she stayed with us). In fact, in my dream, I was directly in front of the door to her room when the floor disappeared and the demonic voice called to me. It’s really hard to convey how horrifying that voice was, but try to imagine hearing a demon’s voice calling to you through completely innocent five-year old ears. Deep, loud and full of menace, it’s unlike anything you ever heard before. Pure evil. As you might have guessed, I do think dreams are important stories we tell ourselves to help us navigate through life. This dream didn’t help me until three decades years later however. I mean think of that for a second, I remembered a dream from thirty-five years ago! Normally, I forget my dreams within hours of waking, but this one remained- vividly remained - in my head for thirty-five fucking years. Why? I feel it's because something traumatic, something evil, happened to me in that room. But I still don't know for sure what it was. I have theories. And I know of at least once when something very wrong went down in that room, but more on that later.

If you’ve made it this far, congratulations, you sick fuck. What is wrong with you? I’m going to end this “chapter” now, but I promise to be back to tell you more sordid stories of molestation and

unbelievably inappropriate behavior. And to keep you salivating for more. I want you to know that in a future post I promise to tell you exactly what happened in Nana’s room one night. Don’t worry, it’s not as bad as you think. It was more of a Norman Rockwell rapey kind of thing. I’m kidding again, but it was fucked up, just not as fucked up as you might think. And then I promise to tell you of the unbelievable revenge I exacted on Nana several years later. Surely that you will enjoy. Think of it as creamy, sugary icing on a pile of rotting feces. Thanks for listening and have fun with the rest of your perfect day, you un-molested asshole.

Are you ready for Chapter 2?

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Let's do this shit, yo!

CHAPTER 2: Eating out Nana.

So there I was, a naive seven year-old boy staring into his Nana's crotch. I didn't know why but she had put one of my mom's famous sour cream cupcakes right between her legs and told me to "take a bite, honey." I was repulsed. But I'm even more repulsed now that you think this part of the story is true! What's wrong with you? Don't look at me like that. You don't think this shit is funny? Well you can suck my dick, Nana! Okay, honestly, I don't even find any of this funny. I was just trying to make you comfortable before I do the exact opposite to you. Are you ready? Here's the real story.

CHAPTER 2: Perusing with Nana.

So I'll make this quick and painless for you. Why not? After all, it's only been an agonizingly slow, psychologically devastating 30 plus years for me. You deserve better than that. What happened in Nana's room still feels like a dream to me. Or should I say nightmare? No, I really do mean dream. Not that is was dreamy, but the memory is very dreamlike. It was such an unreal situation that I think my young brain cataloged it in a place that's not easily accessible and thus the "dream" like tone of it. I think it's a natural defense mechanism. If I'm not 100% sure it happened, then it can't really hurt me, right? ( No, I'm not sobbing uncontrollably right now.) Anyway, the reason I tell you about the haziness of the memory is to reveal the thought process of a victim. I can hear Spanish Johnny now, "Oooh, thanks for the psychology lesson, MSG, you raped pussy!" But I do think it's important to the story because for many years I doubted these memories. Until one day when it dawned on me that no kid is ever going to "dream" or create a false memory like this. Who the fuck would (or could) do that? I was way too young to even conjure up such things. So here's what happened. My father, for reasons I will never fully comprehend, used to place Penthouse and Playboy magazines (which he had subscriptions to) on the nightstand in Nana's room before her arrival. It's an act, I guess, that's akin to a hotel leaving a chocolate on your pillow at night. Hey there weary traveler, here's a little somethin' for ya to enjoy! I mean, it's so fucked up, right? Well, around Casa MSG, it wasn't ever questioned. It was just accepted. Hey who was I to judge? I was seven years old for fuck sake. Besides, maybe she liked to read the articles. God, how I wish that were the case. Then I may have never heard her voice call me into that room. And I wouldn't have had to stand by her bedside and look at pictures of giant breasts and fully open vaginas with her. Yes, that's right, instead of cute little nighttime stories like you'll find over on Spanish Johnny's blog, I had to look at Penthouse magazine with my Nana. It only happened once (I think) actually, but once was fucking enough! I remember only one bit of it very specifically. And that is when I very softly and shyly said "yeah" when she asked me if I thought the ladies were pretty (See, now that sounds a little too made up, right? It sounds like how Hollywood would portray it. But I swear that's what I remember. And because it sounds so "perfectly" fucked up, I tend to wonder if I have created this memory for some reason. But why would I do that? It makes no sense.) Anyway, after that, it's a bit hazy from being tucked away in my own personal vault of horror for so long. I've thought about it over the years and rationalize all of it (the tickling, the brother kissing, the Penthouse peeking) this way: Nana was just a terribly sick person (duh!) who didn't know the consequences of her actions. Somehow, that works for me. I doesn't make me less angry or sad. I actually feel sorry for her too (like most victims). But, of course, I feel more sorry for that little boy (I can't even say it's me, it makes me so upset) who's life was irrevocably altered by that crazy bitch. I blame her for so much of my anger. I blame her for a lot of happiness I can't feel. I blame her for my incredible uneasiness with being touched by people. I mean, people NEED to be touched. I can't stand it. I'm deprived of that basic human need thanks to her. To quote from a song by a band I never thought I'd publicly quote, Everclear - from the song "Father of Mine"- "I will never be safe. I will never be sane. I will always be weird inside. I will always be lame." Thanks a lot, you fucking nasty cunt. I hope it was worth it to you.

"CHAPTER 3: The Revengening" will be coming soon. Trust me, it's worth waiting for.

YOU'RE IN for a treat, Nana.

CHAPTER 3: The revengening


So, here we are. Kinda the end of the Nana saga. I guess there are more stories I could tell about her. Enough to fill a book probably. Wouldn't that be a wonderful read to take on vacation with you? "Honey, are we going to swim with the dolphins today or are you just gonna sit there and read about that kid's Nana's pussy hair all day?" Mmmmm, Nana pubes. In my house we actually referred to her as the "Tooth Hairy" because when she would stay over we'd always mysteriously wake up with curly, pubic hair on our lips the next morning. Gee, I wonder how that happened? Okay, okay, you're used to my formula by now so surely you know that was made up. But this next story is one hundred percent true and I remember it vividly. No "dreamlike" vague shit here.

Nana, for all her flaws, was at least always the life of the party. Yes as a grown man now I can see she was the kind of person you would hate to have at your party because she was so loud and just wanted so much attention, but as a child I kind of admired it. I liked to hear the grown ups having fun in the other room, and I could always tell she was at the center of it somehow. Of course, the grown ups always had alcohol at every gathering. My Dad drank vodka. My mom, compari and soda or a kir royale. Nana loved champagne. Cheap, shit champagne. It was brand called "Great Western" but she acted like it was fucking Kristal. Each popping of the cork was celebrated with a howl and she insisted that my mom pull out the super expensive imported crystal flutes for this nasty swill. Nana was indeed a walking contradiction herself so it makes sense. Often times, as the slaves, I mean children of the household, my brothers and I were called upon to fetch drinks for the in-laws. As a real young kid I didn't mind, but when I started getting old enough to not care about pleasing these assholes I resented it. One summer day, when I was about 11, the adult gathering took place in our covered porch. I remember very clearly watching TV with my brother when we got the call to fetch another round of drinks. We were so annoyed. Of course, we were just so angry in general all the time. How could we not be? But, by this time we were no longer easy, vulnerable prey for Nana so we were left alone physically. Mentally, however, we were still tortured. But we started to rise against it in our own subtle ways. Just by simply not fully accepting Nana's bullshit as we used to was a rebellion to us. We knew at this point that she was not normal. I put it mildly because we didn't really know just how fucked up she was. I mean, when you grow up with that as normal behavior in your house, you think it's normal. But then you venture out a little bit. You see how your friend's families interact and you think "hmmm, something's definitely up with Nana." We thought she was eccentric, but we also just resented and hated her without fully realizing quite why (hmm, repressed memories perhaps?). But back to the summer day. After we were called upon to bring a round of drinks from the kitchen, my brother and I dutifully collected the empty glasses and took orders. Nana, of course, wanted her delicious champagne. So off to the kitchen we went. I was pouring Nana's champagne when my brother suggested we do something to it. He was much older than me and thus could usually manipulate me into doing anything. On this particular afternoon, however, I needed no mind games to make me do what I was about to do. I asked my brother "what should we do?" His answer was so beautiful in its simplicity: "Piss in it." At that very moment my life changed. It's like I suddenly saw through different eyes. YES! Let's fucking piss in it. God my brother was so awesome. My hero. What a great idea. I would follow him into hell. Or, in this case, out of it. And so it was set in stone like one of the commandments. Thou shalt urinate in thy molesting grandmother's drink. But who would do it? Well, naturally since it was his idea, I would have to be the one to execute it. I was happy to do it. We snuck outside behind the kitchen with Nana's glass of champagne. It was early evening and it was still light out so our neighbor may have seen us, but I didn't care. My brother held the glass in his shaking (from hysterically laughing) hands and I, well, I pissed in it. Not too much so as to be obvious, but also not too little so as to be innocuous. It was a little less than half piss and half champagne. It was Champiss. And I fucking happily served it her. I handed it to her and walked away a new man. A man barely able to contain his laughter as she happily declared "ooooh a big one!" A big one indeed, you dumb bitch. Choke on it.

-Fin