Thanks for everything, guys.
By now most of you are aware of my two previous updates (1 and 2) in which I demonstrated the sheer wacko, freaked-out insanity of both my mother and my father. I was difficult to prove my case for their raving lunacy in only a few short paragraphs but I think that some of the anecdotes I had to share more than made up for the lack of space that I had in which to communicate their needing to be committed to a brain-shrinky institution as soon as is humanly possible. My parents didn't read those updates that I wrote (which is probably good considering the nature of my father's occupation) so will not receive the benefits of objective (yeah right) commentary on their brain situation. My parents don't read anything that I write for the site (haw haw that's all for the best because I'm not funny, etc.) and absolutely refuse to acknowledge what I spend most of my time doing, so I suppose that it serves them right that a few thousand people out there now know their secret shame of being utterly mental.
Before I stir that kettle of rotting codfish, however, I will back up and explain the various ways in which they have behaved like complete morons since my move to Seattle last April, including sending the police to the apartment. Keep in mind that I am 24 years of age and have graduated from college at this point of my life. I was 23 when I left Wisconsin and had been living two and a half hours away from them (by car) for roughly five years at that time. My parents' insanity is the chief reason for my leaving home in the first place and it was very good to move 1800 miles away across the waving fields of prairie junk and large mountains because I had delusional hopes that at this distance their battiness would be muted and dulled. I was very incorrect for one of the few times ever in my life to date.
My parents' conception of the internet.
When I told my parents about meeting Rich "Debutante" Kyanka they were less-than-thrilled, to put it mildly. They asked me all of the basic parental questions about him, such as how old he was, what he did for a living, and whether he had any kinky fetishes that I should tell them about in great detail. When I explained to them that he ran a website and that this website was called "Something Awful," they cautiously visited the front page and were immediately greeted by one of Frags' Flash videos in which a woman gets beaten to death for cheating on her husband or something along those lines. Good old Frags was very well-adjusted when it came to female issues in general.
Needless to say, the parents weren't thrilled with the website and from then on insisted that Rich ran a "porno site." I asked them whether they had seen any naked pictures when they had visited the site (not possible) and they said, "You don't need to have naked pictures in order for it to be a porno site." I was not aware of this, but luckily my parents brought it to my attention. Since their initial first-time reading of the site that day they have completely avoided anything and everything having to do with it. Even the times that I have told them to go and read something that I have written they have flatly refused. My father says that I should email him all of the text of the things that I have written if I really want him to read them but that he refuses to go to the site itself and see them. WHAT THE FUCKING HELL?
Another fun experience was telling my mother that we owned guns and that Rich (and eventually I) enjoyed shooting as a hobby. My mother was beside herself:
Mom: You have guns in the house?
Me: Yes, Rich has a couple that he uses to go shooting and such with.
Mom: He has GUNS!? Why would he have guns?
Me: It's a hobby, just like any other hobby.
Mom: That's a weird hobby. I don't like it.
Me: There's really nothing weird about it.
Mom: What if he gets mad at you and SHOOTS YOU?
Me: Why would he do that?
Mom: You've never seen him mad! He might shoot you with one of those GUNS!
I am so dead.
My mother maintains to this day that it is very dangerous living with Rich. Apparently, because he owns guns he is more liable to kill me than if he did not own any guns. And, the kicker is, he will shoot me with said guns to do it! Needless to say, I have secret plans to throw Rich's guns into the lake so that if he does get so mad at me that he wants to kill me he will be able to stab me or strangle me like any normal human being.
My parents, on top of everything else, are convinced that I am addicted to some sort of drug. Perhaps you will remember from my first update about my parents that my mother is neurotic and even more fucked in the head than usual when it comes to the nefarious world of "drugs." To her, this category includes over-the-counter stuff, so keep this in mind, but the last telephone conversation that I had with her (roughly a month ago) consisted of her explaining to me that I had a "drug problem" because when I visited home for the first time in six months I had taken something to help me relax on the plane because flying scares me shitless. It was either take something or be shaking with fear for the entire three and a half hour flight. My mother told me that it was "disgusting" and that I "needed to get help as soon as possible... unless YOU ARE HAPPY THIS WAY, EMMA!!" PS. I do not have a drug problem. I don't take any drugs recreationally. Hell, I don't even drink. This didn't stop my father from contacting as many people whom I was friends with as he could to ask them whether they knew anything about "what drugs I was mixed up in." But my parents thinking that I have drug issues gets even more fucked up than that.
From the time I told them about Rich and this nutty place, my parents refuse to believe that anyone could make a successful living running a website. Granted, it hasn't been all lobster and caviar for us, but we have managed to live. My parents don't think that we could possibly afford to do so by running Something Awful, so they have come to the conclusion that Rich deals and sells drugs. If I've heard the"How does he get his money?" question once I've heard it until my ears bled like a poorly-skilled heroin addict (I mean, uhhh...). And every time I talk to them about it, the conversation goes the same way because they refuse to believe that Richard "Dr. T and the Women" Kyanka could make money writing a "porno site."
HAHA That's pretty funny, man. See, it's like Bugs Bunny only he's stoned and it's Drugs Bunny instead.
No matter how many times I deny that either of us has any involvement with drugs, let alone that we make a career out of buying and selling them, they maintain that there is no other explanation for how we have any money whatsoever and the kicker is that they refuse to look at the site so they would have no idea how successful or otherwise it is. YAY PARENTS! SCORE ONE FOR COMMON SENSE! The worst part is that my father absolutely refuses to meet Rich. REFUSES. He has never met him. So any and all assumptions that he has made about Rich's character have been completely based of of the fallacies that he collected for himself when he visited Something Awful roughly ten months ago.
It is no wonder that with parents like this I have chosen to stay distanced from them for the past several months. At first I thought that they would come around and use their skills of logical reasoning to discern what the actual deal was. Barring that possibility, they might finally decide to leave Wisconsin and come out here to visit me (which they have not done once since I got here). Neither of these things have happened, and after the rather hostile conversation I had with my mother about my "drug problem," I decided that it might be best if I stopped talking to them for awhile. As it turns out, this is another rare instance in my life when I screwed up.
My parents began leaving messages on my voice mail that consisted of:
Dad: Emma, please call home. Mom is worried about you and I'd like to talk to you about when you're moving back.
Mom: Emma, why are you not answering your phone? If you weren't on drugs you would answer your phone, but you're probably hopped up right now, aren't you?! It's just absolutely disgusting, Emma, and you need HELP. Please call home.
Yeah, great, that's real incentive to call, guys. Thanks.
Well, little did I know that ignoring them would mean a very entertaining run-in with local law enforcement. At 8:30 AM on a drizzly Seattle morning, a knock sounded at the door. There's a difference, somehow, to the way the police knock on your door and they way anyone else in the world would knock. They don't care whether you are in there or not but they knock to wake the dead and they don't stop. I hadn't gotten to sleep until about six AM the night before because I had a cold and I was all sweaty and gross from tossing and turning for hours and not being able to breathe properly. Rich let them in the door and they asked to talk to me. It was dark inside and they came in with flashlights blazing. One of the guys had his hand on his gun.
The police, including F.A.T. Shaw here, were very concerned for my well-being.
Cop: (shining his flashlight into my eyes) Are you Emily Reigel?
Cop: I see. Do you know why we're here?
Me: Because my parents are insane?
Cop: (looking uncomfortable) Well, yes.
I don't know what my parents told them, but they asked me a lot of questions. I am sure that I looked pretty strung out on something at the time due to my cold and lack of sleep. They asked to see my ID and examined it very closely, looked at me, and examined it again. They then yelled at me when they saw that it was still a Wisconsin ID and that I hadn't gotten a Washington one yet. They asked me questions about my parents such as what their names were (to make sure that it was actually me or to see whether I was high, I assume). One guy spent the entire time they were here just sort of shining his flashlight around and looking at things. I imagine that it was drug activity that they were looking for, but unfortunately for everyone involved, all that they found were a lot of video game controllers and tangled wires coming out of the consoles we have by the TV.
The police officer who wasn't looking for drugs told me that my father had called them and told them to come and "make sure that I was ok." Keep in mind that in any point in time my Dad had only to look at the website that I write things for to confirm my well-being. I think that my parents' craziness worked against them in this case, because when I told the police dude that my parents were insane they seemed to understand. My answers to their questions seemed to satisfy them well enough and I guess they couldn't very well start looking around the place for drugs, so they left. Thank you mom and Dad! That was the best Christmas gift I have ever received.
Needless to say, I have not spoken to my parents since the police raid. They have stopped calling- I assume that they have gotten the hint and that the police informed them that I was fine. My mother sent an email to my old college account (because she refuses to send mail to my Something Awful address) about a week ago, the entire text of which was, "Are you ok?" Dear Mom, I have been shot and am now on drugs to ease the pain, so no, I am not ok. What is wrong with these people? How did I grow up with them and avoid permanent damage? Oh wait, I probably didn't.
I hope that these three updates have been at the very least informative to you. Maybe you can read them and use them as a guide to look for warning signs of insanity that your parents might exhibit that will tell you that you need to get out of there ASAP. I wish that I had divorced my parents when I was young like that one kid did that one time a few years ago; that was cool. Maybe I would have been able to avoid all of the fucked up shit that my parents have exposed me to over the years. I am sure that some people out there have it a lot worse than I do and I don't mean to be saying, "Boo hoo hoo, woe is me, my parents are crappy" because for every crappy thing my parents have done, someone else's parents gave them gasoline to drink and forced them to watch hours and hours of golf coverage on ESPN2. My folks were kind of not fun to deal with, however (maybe you've gathered that part), and by the way, they were just a little bit nuts. Good thing I have my huge supply of drugs to keep my mind off of the situation.
State Og's Got Yer Christmas RIGHT HERE!
The gentlemanly gentlemen at the gentle global corporation State Og have once again reported in with the various steals and deals awaiting you, the consumer, this festive holiday Christmas season! How could you even fathom holding a Christmas celebration this year without the The Tree Destroyo 3000 Yuletide Angel?
State Og realizes that a number of our non-Christian employees (technically this is everyone, due to our mass conversion to the Cult of Thuggee, all praise Kali!) might feel uncomfortable sending their children to a Christmas party, so we have an alternative for these party-poopers. Our master surgeon, Dr. Klaus Braun, recently harvested the body parts of a dozen dead people (and several species of crocodile) from around the world, which he expertly sewed together. Harnessing the power of lightning and that gel State Og brand Spam is packed in, Dr Braun animated this abomination. In doing so, he brought to life everyone’s new friend, "The Secular Multi-Ethnic Holiday Monster." The grotesqueness of his body is matched only by the perversity of his twisted brain and his appetite for human bone marrow. We call him "Chuckles" for short. You have the option of letting him play with your children all night long if you don’t find Hobo Claus to your liking.
If you don't read this right now, I have a terrible feeling that something tragic will happen to you. And your loved ones. And friends. And hell, most of the living things within a 16-mile radius of you.
The Amazonians value combat prowess and purity of spirit. By wrestling half naked, they pay homage to both virtues by displaying their battle-forged bodies while preserving as much modesty as their society deems necessary. The gelatin in which they wrestle is symbolic of the fluid nature of battle, a concept the Amazonians call ‘akgor-gra.’
Pros: Much more comfortable than my last toilet seat, which was a transparent resin with seashells embedded inside. The outer layer wore off from friction, exposing the sharp jagged edges of the seashells, which were constantly scrapping my backside and causing major cuts and open sores.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.