Everyone always brags about how fucked up their family is. I have to be honest: I don’t think that my family is that fucked up. I have a close relationship with my parents and sister and I’m on good terms with every other family member. That’s not to say that my family isn’t strange. Every family is strange. If you’re part of a perfectly normal family, then I actually think you’re the weird one. The Fishman family is a very small clan. As a matter of fact, if I die without having a son, the line ends with me. I’m the last Fishman. That’s the truth. However, we are part of a bigger family…they’re just not part of the Fishman clan. I’ll cover some of them, too. Let’s begin with the stories.

Dad

My father has an anger problem. He has an incredibly short fuse and when it goes off, there’s hell to pay. When I get really angry I sound just like him, which scares me to no end. Thankfully, I was blessed with a much longer fuse, so it’s rare for me to get that pissed. When I was younger, I usually spent the weekends running errands with my dad because I couldn’t be left home alone at that age. As we all know, car + angry man = road rage. My dad is always pissed when driving. I know we all have fathers like that, but not like my dad. If there is no one on the road, he starts yelling at people who are walking or are on bicycles. One time I was in the car with him and some guy on a bicycle was in front of us. The bicycle guy was driving on the side but was sticking out an inch. My dad was fuming.

“Motherfucker,” he growled. “You piece of shit.”

“Dad,” I said. “Relax.”

“Matthew, don’t get on my case, Matthew. Matthew, don’t get on my case!” Notice how many times he said my name? Consider those intervals. At each “Matthew,” my dad’s voice gets louder. Within one sentence, he went from talking normally to shouting at me because I simply told him to calm down. If you’re thinking that you would be mad also, you have to understand the street that we were on. It was some calm road in the rich area of my town, where there are no traffic lights and there are no cars. There were literally no other vehicles except our car and the bicycle. All my dad had to do was turn to the steering wheel a millimeter to the left to cruise past the bicycle guy. Did he do that? No.

My dad honked the fucking horn a million times. The bicycle guy looked back at us, wondering why we were honking him. He sailed over to the other side of the street, giving enough room for an 18-wheeler to pass. That would be it, right? My dad proved his point, right? Of course not. My dad drove up next to the bicycle, lowered his window, and screamed, “ASSHOLE!”

“Dad,” I asked, while my father slammed the accelerator. “Why the hell did you scream at that guy?”

“I did him a favor, Matthew.”

“Favor? What favor?”

“Now every time he is on his bicycle, he’ll remember to stay on the side.”

Yeah, that’s some favor. The funny thing was that incident happened within 2 minutes of our trip. I knew that it was going to be a long day.

That happened when my dad was driving. If he’s your passenger, forget it. You’ll never want to drive with him again. No matter how good of a driver you are, he will do that thing where you clench your teeth and breathe in, creating a sort of hiss. You know what I mean? People usually do it when they think they’re about to witness an accident or some other tense situation. Anyway, my dad does it whenever you brake or make a turn. I’m saying “you” because he will do it if you’re in a car with him, I guarantee. It became so bad that whenever I have to pick him up from the train station, I move over and let him drive. I’d rather deal with his road rage then let him criticize my ass during the 5-minute ride home. Besides, he still gets road rage even if he’s not driving, so I might as well get rid of something.

During the winter break of some year of college, I often drove our family’s sturdy 1990 Geo Tracker. My dad takes that car to the train station, but since I didn’t have my own car yet, I was allowed to drive it on the condition that I pick up my dad when he got home from work. As I was waiting at the train station one night, I decided that I would drive back instead of my dad. After all, some things must have changed since I’ve been in college…or so I thought. The train pulled into the station, my dad got into the Tracker, and I began to drive home. On the way back, I stopped at a red light at a fairly busy intersection. I had to keep going straight when the light turned green, but I couldn’t – an idiot decided to park in the street just barely beyond the light. It was a narrow street (no shoulder), and many cars were coming in the opposite direction. This meant that if I went forward, I would be forced to brake in the middle of the intersection because the dumb fucker who parked was blocking the entire lane. Needless to say, my dad was mad.

“Fucking idiot,” he cursed. “What a dumb fucking thing to do. I swear, people just don’t fucking care in this town. They just don’t fucking care.” Luckily, the Tracker is a small vehicle and I was able to squeeze in between the parked car and oncoming traffic by inches. I thought my side mirror was going to be knocked off, but I’m all skill, folks.

“Slow down,” my dad told me, as he rolled down the window.

“Oh no,” I thought. The smart thing would be to keep going and ignore my dad, but to be honest, I was extremely curious to see what he was about to do. It looked like we were about to perform a drive-by shooting. “Stop,” he ordered. I stopped right next to the car, which was being driven by a girl who had to be 16-years old. My dad unbuckled his seat belt, stuck half of his body out of the window, put his face inches away from the girl, and screamed, “FUCK YOU!” I couldn’t believe it! My dad just cursed out a young teenage girl! I was staring, dumbfounded! My dad came back inside and told me to hit the gas. I sped away, leaving the girl in a state of frightened shock. Her mouth was hanging open and everything. My dad really let her have it.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” I shouted. “She was like 16!” I was all hunched over, driving like the getaway driver of a bank heist. Being the paranoid shit that I am, I kept checking my rear view mirror for the girl, and sure enough, the girl was following me. Someone was sitting shotgun now, meaning that she was parked in the street because her friend was coming out of a store. The chick was tailgating me hardcore – going through stop signs and going around people just to stay on my ass.

“Jesus Christ, dad,” I said. “Now she’s following us.”

“Good,” my dad smirked. He seemed content in this evil way, like a James Bond villain who just captured 007 himself. All he needed was a white cat to stroke and the illusion would be complete. Meanwhile, I was shitting myself because I was fleeing from some 16-year old that my 51-year old dad cursed out. She was trying to run us off the road! I don’t know if you’ve ever driven a 1990 Geo Tracker before, but even a Power Wheel can ram it into a ditch. Suddenly, my dad went, “Turn here.” I made an incredibly sharp and dangerous left turn onto some side street. It nearly toppled the Tracker over. The girl kept going straight, but not before rolling down her window and shouting something at us. I couldn’t make out what it was, but I’m sure that a profanity was involved. The moral of the story: do not get into a car with my father.

Mom

My mom has been coughing for the past 6 years. One day she got a cough and it never went away. She is constantly clearing her throat and it drives me insane. Whenever I bring it up, she goes, “What do you want me to do? I have a postnasal drip!” I don’t suffer from postnasal drip, but I feel bad for whoever does. I don’t think I would be able to deal with that much phlegm. Actually, I do deal with that much phlegm, but I simply hock several loogies and presto – no more phlegm to be dealt with. My mom lacks the ability to hock loogies. She says that she cannot do it, which I do not believe. I think that she is just grossed out by it, but you know what? If I were coughing for 6 years, spitting up a little bit of mucus is a small price to pay.

I’m also convinced that my mom has some sort of psychic power to ruin my life with her coughs and throat clears. Whenever - and I mean whenever – I’m watching a television show and a pivotal moment comes on, she will cough. For example, “With all this evidence and several key witnesses, we believe the murderer was…”

COUGH!

My mom will cough at that moment! I am not joking! Recently, I saw the episode of “The Simpsons” where Homer goes into space. I was thrilled because they never show the good episodes on syndication anymore, so this was a rarity. My favorite scene is when Smithers goes, “Everyone…an awed hush for Mr. Burns.” The crowd then bellows an awed hush as Mr. Burns comes out on the balcony. Sure enough, the moment that the awed hush was about to be uttered…“COUGH!” SHE COUGHED AT THAT PRECISE MOMENT! I DIDN’T HEAR IT! I TOTALLY MISSED IT! I HADN’T SEEN THAT EPISODE IN THREE YEARS! I COULDN’T FUCKING BELIEVE IT! It even happens when I’m watching some porn in my room. Let’s say the money shot is arriving and I’m like, “Oh baby, here it comes. It’s all been leading up to this.” Right when the guy is about to blow his load, “COUGH!” Instantly, my brain relates the cough to my mom and there I am watching porn! One can’t think of their mom while watching porn! Lord help me! Even as I’m typing this, I am listening to my mother cough and clear her throat.

Coughing is not the only thing crazy about my mother. She is obsessed with matching the setting in my room. I hate my room. My parents did not let me have any say in its design, so they gave it a southwestern motif. Why the fuck does my room have a southwestern motif? Does anything about me say salsa and coyotes? I used to have posters, but they tore them down and put up this dark pink adobe colored wallpaper that looks like crap. My sheets are this tan color with some southwestern Native American design. My only solace is my blue blanket that I’ve had since I was very young. Eventually, my parents moved past their southwestern phase and got into this whole Cuban phase. The spare room of our house looks like the place an American exile would live in, complete with a fake toucan, a ceiling fan with wicker blades, and a guitar nailed to the wall. I think that my parents’ new tastes keeps bringing them further and further down south. I’m worried that they will soon enter a Colombian phase and decorate our den with bags full of cocaine.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic. There are three random pictures of football, baseball, and golf in my room. Guess what? I’m not really into those sports. I love football, but not to the point of having a random picture of it in my room. Worst of all, and I mean worst of all, is that they hung some COMPLETELY random piece of art by some artist named Jan Williams over my bed. Did I say piece of art? I meant to say piece of shit. It is the worst picture I have ever seen and I protested against it being in my room, but my parents refused to listen to me. So they offered me a compromise. I can paste my own pictures over the art but I can’t take it down. WHAT KIND OF CRAZY SHIT IS THAT? I MIGHT AS WELL TAKE IT DOWN! Unbelievable. I didn’t have anything suitable to tape over it throughout middle school and high school, so I was forced to stare at that ugly, ugly crap for years. It’s so stupid that as of now I have this art in my room with pictures of my friends and random Far Side comics taped over it. My parents still refuse to let me get rid of it.

I regret to inform you that I cannot find that picture by Jan Williams on Google Image Search…so here’s a basketball player named Jan Williams that used to play for North Carolina at Wilmington. Injuries forced her to miss the ’99 – ’00 season. She is an outstanding perimeter shooter.

So why did my parents put all of those pictures into my room? Well, they did not care about what I thought about my bedroom. I was only going to be sleeping there and all. They only cared about what other people think of the room and the entire house in total. Basically, my home is a model home. A model home is something a real estate developer builds and they show it to customers. No one lives in the house – it’s purely just for showcasing. So, the typical bedroom for a boy in a model home would have pictures of baseball on the walls and comic books strategically placed around. Just like my room. I have pictures of sports and an EXTREMELY shitty piece of art in my room, although I don’t like any of that stuff. Can you imagine growing up in a room like that? Let me tell you: it fucking sucks. But when my parents had people over and they showed them my room, the friends went, “Oh, it’s so nice!” Gee, I’m glad you fucking like it, random friend of my parents. I have to live in that lame room.

What does this have to do with just my mother? Well, after I graduated, I moved my computer from college back home. I was given a nice little desk from Ikea so I could have it in my room. Now I needed a chair. I went to the boiler room in the basement and found my sister’s blue desk chair that she used while she was in college. My mom walked into my room, saw me on the chair, and went, “Oh…you’re using that?”

“Yeah,” I responded. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just that it doesn’t match the rest of the room.”

“What?”

“It’s blue and the rest of the room has an adobe clay color.”

“Who fucking cares? It’s just a chair.”

“Well, what if someone visiting sees your room and they see that the chair doesn’t match?” Again, we go back to the whole model home thing.

“So…let me get this straight. You’re concerned about the opinions of people who may look into my room and be disgusted by a blue chair.”

“I want them to think that you have a nice room.”

“First of all, you shouldn’t be associated with people who are that shallow. Second of all, tough shit on them if they don’t like it. Third of all…THIS IS MY ROOM! Ma, it’s just a fucking blue chair! Who gives a flying fuck?” My mom got mad at my language and walked away. Maybe I was a little harsh, but I’m done not yet. A couple of minutes later, my mom walks into my room with an extra pair of my bed sheets, which matches the décor of the room.

“Let me just wrap this over the chair.” I couldn’t believe it! She completely lost her marbles! My mom couldn’t bear that I had a blue chair in my room!

“Holy shit, Ma! You’ve lost your fucking mind!”

“Don’t use that language with me!”

“What do you expect? You’re freaking me out! I can’t believe you!”

“Let me just-“

“No, no, no! Get the hell out!” My mom was very upset and walked away. Some minutes later, my dad came into my room.

“You know,” my dad said. “Your mother is very upset with the way you talked to her.” I explained to him why I exploded, to which he responded, “You’re right. That is sick.” My dad then went to my mom about it and they had a huge fight. To this day, my mom keeps asking me to cover that chair.

Sister

My sister didn’t want me to write about her. Sorry.

Uncle Lamar

My Uncle Lamar is gay. I found this out at a very young age, like 10. One day, we were driving back from a family get-together at my grandparents’ house. Suddenly, my dad pulled into a parking lot and stopped the car. He turned around to my sister and I and went, “Uncle Lamar is gay.” That’s how he broke it to us. Do you know how traumatizing that is to a young child like myself? There was a long silence. My sister went, “I knew it!” I started crying. I didn’t how to react! For the love of God, I was a little kid who was just had his innocent little world shattered.

Once I found out that Lamar was gay, everything seemed to make a little more sense, like his love for fanny packs, his mustache, and his numerous tank tops. I also realized that his good friend Morris that Lamar always brought over to my grandparents’ house was not just his friend. That’s a lot for a 10-year old to take in, no matter how you slice it. An interesting note: if you watch the candle lighting part of my Bar Mitzvah video, Lamar is escorted to the cake by two attractive lady dancers. He leans over to me and whispers, “They got the wrong escorts for me.” The video camera’s microphone picked it up and it’s on the video. I wonder if the guy editing it was like, “Holy shit, that dude is gay.”

Accident-prone Aunt Natalie

No one ever believes this story, but it’s 100% true. Now then, Natalie isn’t my aunt, but her family and mine are very close. Natalie is a very kind old woman, but she has been sickly since the day she was born. Every time I saw her as a kid, she had a new broken bone as a result of falling down the steps, slipping in the bathroom, or just a random old person fall. Bad luck followed this poor woman around like stink on a dog. Her falling down isn’t a big deal, but that isn’t the story.

A carnival was in town many years ago and Natalie went on the swing ride. That’s the ride where you’re strapped into a swing and you’re raised off the ground and go around and around…forget it. If you don’t know what that is, you’re a retard. Anyway, why an old lady went on a high-speed swing ride is beyond me. Natalie was buckled in and away the ride went. When it began to pick up steam, Accident-prone Aunt Natalie’s buckle came undone! She plummeted from the ride and crashed onto the fucking ground! She broke half of her ribs! I know that I shouldn’t laugh…but how funny is that?

Again, if you ever see my Bar Mitzvah video and watch this scene where people are walking into the main room, you will see Accident-prone Aunt Natalie being helped in. She walks right into a door. The proof of her bad luck is in the tape, people.

The Texan Clan

There are so many more stories, but this article is getting long. I might as well get to my relatives who live in Texas. I don’t really know much about them. They’re the offspring of one of my grandmother’s brothers. The whole Texas clan is on the redneck side. I met all of them at my grandparents’ 50th anniversary when I was 15, including Debbie Sue. Debbie Sue was a personable girl who was a year younger than I was. It made me feel good that I had distant relatives who were cool. Well, that didn’t last. In college, I found out that Debbie Sue (now 18) was now covered in tattoos and was living in a trailer with some 40-year old guy. She birthed one of his kids and was expecting another. Way to go, Deb.

Stan, who is a principal of an elementary school, paddles children. He takes a wooden paddle and spanks students who cause trouble. He fucking spanks the children of his school! I’m sure some of the little bastards deserve it, but how do you paddle a child that’s not yours? If I was the kid’s parent, fine, but the principal spanking my kid? Wild and crazy, man. I remember my father arguing with him about it, but he was so adamant that paddling troublemakers was correct. Hey, if that’s how they do it in Texas, whatever. It’s not my place to tell people how to live.

It astounds me how many more stories there are, but I’m sick of typing this out. I’ll cut this bitch short and maybe do a second part sometime in the future.

Questions? Comments? Do you know that non-talent douche Jan Williams? E-mail Fishman347@yahoo.com