Suburgatory

by Linda Keenan

  And who is Gene Juluca? “Oh, that’s the Facebook page for my kid’s stuffed monkey.”

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  The Following Is a Paid Political Announcement

  Vote Billie Carson for Mayor

  As a longstanding exercise bulimic, I know your community better than most. Whether it’s the dangerous rocks that need rearranging on the Brook Path or dismantling that deadly Rotary on Atwood Road, I don’t need to get up to speed on the issues facing our town. Oh, I’m up to speed—on high speed, a speed like you wouldn’t believe possible by a menopausal woman.

  I am also one of the best-known, and surely one of the best-loved faces in this great little patch of America. In fact, one time, I even heard a boy shout out of his car, “Look, Mommy, there’s the flying skeleton with the big head!” Well, son, that comment meant the world to this flying skeleton. My name is Billie Carson, and I’m asking for your mom and dad’s vote for Mayor November 3rd. Come to the police station this Saturday, where we’ll have a wonderful lunch of bread-free lettuce and mustard sandwiches and pickles. I’ll even take a break to stationary jog, all to hear my constituents’ most pressing concerns!

  So Vote Billie Carson. I simply won’t stop pounding the pavement on your behalf.

  Dad and Hot Nanny

  Really Just Good Friends

  Suburgatory, USA—A local dad and a hot nanny are “really just good friends.”

  “Hi, Mr. H!” said vivacious and buxom Mandy Mistrall, eighteen, a nanny wearing daisy dukes and high-heeled sneakers and licking a large lollipop.

  “Mandy! I know you’re planning to wash the car, but it’s so hot out; why don’t we get you out of that shirt?” said Rock Hardt, a father of two who hired Mistrall days after she turned eighteen.

  “Mandy’s had a bit of a rocky road in her path to becoming a nanny. Her father walked out on her and now she has what I think they call ‘daddy issues.’ Good thing I found her. Now she has someone strong and nurturing attending to all her needs.”

  Was she experienced? “No, she was a completely fresh, unspoiled virgin to the job at hand. We decided to overlook some trouble she had fallen into at the Reform School for Wayward Girls. Let’s just say our Mandy is innocent, but a bit of a vixen. We know now after much more experience with the issue that Mandy was just getting in touch with her emerging bisexuality. The tickle fights in the girls’ shower area at the school got a little out of control. That’s how she ended up on the side of the road that fateful night.”

  Mistrall, sudsing up the car with long methodical strokes while sprawled out on the hood of the car, describes meeting Mr. H. “It’s a really funny story. It was a stormy night and I was stranded on the side of the road. I was soaking wet. Good thing Mr. H had an extra shirt with him. It was really big and that worked out well, of course, because he didn’t have extra pants. We were stuck in the car for many hours and really had some special intimate time getting to know each other better.”

  Now Mistrall is part of the family and, as Rock Hardt put it, “up for anything,” which is really important in the freewheeling Hardt household.

  “With my wife now confined to a wheelchair, Mandy is so nice to oil up my sore muscles when I need it, which is to say, often,” said Hardt.

  Mistrall finished the car and came in to change. She emerged an hour later in thigh-high boots and a micro-mini. “Don’t you look just good enough to eat, Mandy!” said Hardt.

  Two other similarly attired and similarly vivacious and buxom girls arrived. “Enjoy your three-way!” Hardt said.

  Three-way? “Three-way date. What did you think I meant?”

  This reporter wondered if having such an attractive nanny, along with an infirm wife, presented Hardt with perhaps too much temptation.

  Rock Hardt was aghast. “First of all this is a barely legal girl you are talking about. And second, that is such a silly cliché from, well, I think you must be watching pornography! It appears that someone here, not me, has a very dirty mind. What kind of journalism school did you go to, anyway?”

  Heartwarming Herpes Tale

  Brings a Family Together

  Suburgatory, USA—In a heartwarming tale of first-lust, untreatable sores, and eventual redemption, a four-year-old has discovered how the two people he calls “Mommy” and “Daddy” became a family. And in the telling, they all learned what really matters in life.

  It began when Devon Corrie spotted the so-called “tramp stamp” tattoo on “Mommy”—Eve Corrie—which became visible when Corrie was fumbling with the attachments on the vacuum.

  As she bent over, Devon saw a strange picture on Corrie’s lower back. “Mommy, what is that? There’s a picture of a naked lady on your back! She’s in a garden and there’s, there’s, there’s … a snake! Mommy, it has the letters E-V-E.” It was a tattoo of a sexed-up Eve with metalhead hair in the Garden of Eden.

  “Yeah, Mommy’s pretty hot, isn’t she?” said Rich Corrie.

  “Rich, stop! You want him running around saying “Mommy’s hot, Mommy’s hot?”

  “So Mommy, what does E-V-E spell?” asked Devon. Eve Corrie gave her son that look that says, “Isn’t my child the most adorable moron?”

  Corrie said, “Eve’s my name, sweetie! You have a name, Devon. And Mommy’s name is Eve.”

  Devon looked at her, utterly confused. “But you are Mommy. Mommy Corrie.”

  “Well of course I’m Mommy, but before you were born, Mommy wasn’t a mommy yet. Back then I was just Eve. I had a life before you were born.”

  “Oh did she ever!” Rich Corrie couldn’t resist interrupting.

  “Rich. Your son is confused and I’m trying to explain. Mommy existed. Mommy was a person. Mommy had, well, I had a lot of, what should we call it, um, bad fun before you came into my life and made me Mommy. But you can forget about Eve, that’s not me anymore. I’ll never set foot on that boardwalk again,” said Eve, actually starting to tear up.

  “Why are you crying, Mommy? Don’t cry!” Devon ran up to her and started to console her.

  “Eve, it’s OK, honey! Let me give it a try,” Rich said, turning to Devon. “Mommy is sad because when Mommy was Eve she, um, had some bad fun when she went out for a playdate one night on the boardwalk. She made a friend who liked bad fun, too, and who left Mommy with a nasty bug she can never, ever get rid of.”

  Eve Corrie, muttering, said, “Oh my God you just told our child that his mom is a dirty herpes whore.”

  “But you know what Daddy thinks?” said Rich Corrie. “Daddy thought Eve was the most fun, most funny, most beautiful, and most wonderful girl he’d ever met. And Mommy is exactly the same, except now we have you, and it’s more wonderful than ever, except for the times now and then when the itchy painful sores come out.” Eve began tearing up again.

  Devon still looked confused, and said, “How did Mommy get those nasty itchy sores?”

  Rich and Eve looked at each other. “Well this is probably not going to make much sense but the friend she met who loved the bad fun? Well, that was your Daddy. I was ‘Rich’ back then and I had just met Mommy that night on the boardwalk and I gave the nasty bug to her. I have it, too.”

  “You two didn’t wash your hands, did you!” Devon said, thrilled to have caught his parents having bad fun.

  “You’re right, we didn’t protect ourselves from that nasty bug. But at the same time Daddy gave me the nasty bug, he also gave me you. He became Daddy that night of bad fun,” Eve said.

  “So if that was a mistake, Devon, thank God, because it was the best mistake I ever made. What really matters in life is love. And family,” she said.

  “And Valtrex,” Rich said. “Herpes may be forever, but family is, too,” as they gathered in a warm three-way embrace.

  Boy Loves Steve Jobs

  More than Parents

  Suburgatory, USA—A twelve-year-old boy loves Steve Jobs “way more” than his parents, a development that’s been years in the making and showing no signs of ebbing aw
ay.

  “That smug, know-it-all motherfucker!” said Phil Macon of Apple founder Steve Jobs. “That guy has singlehandedly ruined my relationship with my son!”

  Just as Phil finished his rant, “Steve Jobs,” as his son Benno will now only answer to, walked into the room, holding his Steve Jobs plush toy.

  “Hello, Father,” he said coolly, with a somewhat dreamy countenance.

  “Hello, Steve,” Phil said, choking out the name with hate in his voice.

  Macon dates his son’s fandom back at least six years, when he realized that his son was calling himself “Steve Jobs,” choosing to wear a black turtleneck and jeans and even sleeping in the outfit.

  “All I did was want a stupid iPod. And yes, I took Benno to the Apple Store with me. It was like he walked in and thought ‘This is my real and true family.’ Like a very very clean religious cult where there are no moms and no dads, just a gang of self-satisfied little fucks. That Apple Store is now like, like his sacred temple and his God is a charisma-bot—named Steve Jobs.”

  Phil Macon said that the cost of acquiring the latest Apple gear is bankrupting the family, but it’s what has happened to Benno’s personality that’s the hardest pill to swallow. “He’s become … I can’t believe I’m saying this about my own kid, but he’s become a dick. He’d throw his own parents overboard in a heartbeat if it meant saving Steve Jobs from whatever disease it is he has.”

  Phil Macon says his own appearance doesn’t help matters either. “Yeah, look at me. Think about it. Who do I look like? A little schlubby, dirty-blond hair, wearing my ‘lame’ glasses and ‘lame’ pleated khakis? Yep—dead ringer for the PC Guy from those unbelievably obnoxious Mac-PC Guy ads. Benno even printed out a picture for me that said, ‘How to Dress Like a PC Guy,’ the dude was all decked out in clothes from Sears. Benno handed it to me, without a word, like he was quietly slipping me a giant shit sandwich. It’s not even that he thinks I’m the enemy, his ‘PC guy’ dad. He thinks I’m pathetic.”

  This reporter spoke with “Little Steve Jobs,” who was a bit worn out after watching the World Wide Developers’ Conference the night before—the must-see event for Jobs’ fanatics where they not only worship the new products and features discussed, but also obsessively scrutinize Jobs’s appearance for signs of health and vitality.

  As is his custom, the day after WWDC, Benno was ritually rewatching previous WWDC presentations. What does he love so much about Steve Jobs? He laughed smoothly. “You mean what do I love about myself? That’s immodest … don’t you think? Really my role in the world is quite simple, spare, and elegant. I want to put a ‘ding in the universe’ and I think I’m achieving that. Don’t you?” he said, gesturing to the array of devices on his desk.

  Does it bother him that his parents feel shoved aside by his Steve Jobs fandom? “I really do care for those people, but I simply won’t engage in petty jealousies when so many exciting discoveries are yet to be made. Really, if you look at, say, Father, he should perhaps start thinking about his own health and appearance. As you can see, he is looking a bit … dated.”

  When told of Benno’s statement, Phil Macon exploded. “You see?”

  “Little Steve Jobs” admitted that there have been longtime strains with his “parents,” using air quotes while saying “parents.”

  “Of course, I do appreciate them taking me in when I needed a family, but I suspect my birth parents might have been a bit more … visionary. More Silicon Valley campus than suburban office park.”

  Confused, this reporter consulted with the real Steve Jobs’s Wikipedia page and saw that he was born in 1955 and given up for adoption.

  Go the F*ck to Sleep?

  Meet Get a F*cking Life

  Suburgatory, USA—Annoyed by the barely sublimated parental rage found in the smash bestseller, Go the F*ck to Sleep by Adam Mansbach, a child sensation has penned an acidic rejoinder called, Get a F*cking Life.

  “We as kids just thought we needed our own potty-mouth satirical send-up that expresses our frustrations—and believe me, we have many,” said nine-year-old phenom author Patrick Bryson. “As Go the F*ck to Sleep so ably demonstrates, the child-parent relationship is fraught with complexities. We hope Get a F*cking Life honors those complexities while also giving everyone a five-or even seven-minute chuckle.”

  Bryson is considered an up-and-comer, named by the New Yorker as one of its “10 under 10” young writers to watch. “We expect Get a F*cking Life to be the gift for Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, any time you want to give Mom and Dad a little zing,” said Bryson.

  This reporter was fortunate enough to get a sneak preview of Get a F*cking Life, which is already zooming up the bestseller list months before publication. And Bryson allowed us to excerpt it here.

  When your day is bleak … and you need some peace … and you find it in a box of wine … I come to you, Mommy, lift you from the floor, and say: Get a F*cking Life.

  When I sit in your lap … at the day’s end … see the porno on the iPad screen … I cup your face, Daddy, with my little hands and say: Get a F*cking Life.

  Our weekends unspool … like a cat pulling yarn … you telling Dad, “You ruined my life.” And Dad saying, “You ruined mine, too, you f*cking shrew!” I curl at your feet and say: Get a F*cking Life.

  Come Sunday night … I don’t have the blues … I count the minutes till I can return to school … where I feel safe with Miss Kenney … far away from you. And I say, one last time, to Mommy and Dad: Get a F*cking Life.

  Where did Bryson come up with his material? “As with any writer, I have mined my personal experience. Oh, and the family court documents after my parents’ divorce, too. That thing was huge! Turns out, I had blocked out a lot. Authenticity is key.”

  Just as Go the F*ck to Sleep enlisted a celebrity, Samuel L. Jackson to voice some of the story, Bryson brought on Gilbert Gottfried, former voice of Aflac, who was let go from the insurance company after making inappropriate jokes after the Japanese earthquake. “We kids love him because he’s the voice of Digit on Cyberchase. And his voice will drive my parents, I mean, all parents, out of their f*cking minds. Get it? I said ‘fucking’! Adding “fuck” to anything is hilarious!”

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  BRIARCLIFF ACADEMY—

  Educating the Stupid Rich Since 1903

  A message from Briarcliff Academy

  Headmaster Mason Siegel

  For the high net-worth individual who has attended the very best schools, there can be nothing more challenging than discovering that your child is stupid. That’s why, for more than a century, Briarcliff Academy has catered exclusively to the needs of this overlooked and underserved population. At Briarcliff, our mission is clear: We endeavor to insulate your child from his or her own inadequacies, and insulate you from the harsh realities those inadequacies create.

  In a world that is growing more complex by the minute, your child simply won’t be able to keep up. We will arm you and your child with the skills needed to hide his or her stupidity with elegance and aplomb. Briarcliff’s commitment to no academic standards and no testing means neither you nor your child will face the tyranny of the bad report card. Our emphasis on nontraditional learning and out-of-the-box thinking ensures that your child can accomplish something that requires little actual ability, but has all the hallmarks of real creative achievement.

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her choice, where she will find a similarly select group of dim-witted, wealthy peers, without those taxing standards.

  “The rich are different.” The stupid rich don’t know where that phrase comes from. And that’s just fine with us. Briarcliff Academy.

  Playground Vagina, Loved

  and Loathed Town Landmark

  Suburgatory, USA—The fight over the so-called Playground Vagina has come to a head as both sides war over the fate of a landmark either loved or loathed among squabbling townspeople.

  It’s unclear when exactly Playground Vagina came to be. “I mean there was this enclosed slide that the dads always thought looked like, you know, a vagina. We would joke about it,” said Brad Silver.

  “Yeah, we would look at all the kids rolling around in it and say, ‘Hey that vag is seeing more action than Lindsay Lohan’s! Or Paris Hilton’s! Or Kim Kardashian’s! Or whoever the fun slut of the moment is, you know?” said Harry Manwald.

  “Then one day,” said Silver, “it was like the smut gods smiled on us bored-out-of-our mind dads or something, and we arrived at the playground to see that someone, probably some teenage squirt, had written Vagina right at the mouth of the slide. We laughed our asses off. That was a great day, wasn’t it?” Manwald agreed. “Totally.”

  Carey Manheim didn’t see it that way. She immediately assembled a group of moms to scrub the Vagina off. “We, as concerned moms, did not think that when we take our children to the playground anyone should be thinking about their genitals. That is the only purpose of Playground Vagina—to stimulate talk about the genitals and stimulate the genitals themselves.”

  The dads grumbled, and each side, the dads and the concerned moms, thought that was the end of that. But they were very wrong.

  Angered by the removal of the first Vagina, the playground prankster stepped it up a notch. The next phrase to appear was Pink Taco. “Oh God, we were high-fiving when we saw it, we loved it so much. And we could never have dreamed it would get even funnier,” said Silver. And yes, over a series of six months, the following names appeared on the top of Playground Vagina, unleashing a cycle of removals and reappearances: