Some Freak Fambly History and the story of Freak3, the Marryin’ Kind

Our dads were brothers. There were 6 of them, all of whom should have been rendered sterile by a higher power. If there was ever a fambly that should not have been allowed to breed, it was our ancestral cesspool.

In doing the fambly research, I have found that from waaaaaayyy back, this gene pool needed some serious chlorine. Back in the late 1800’s there were already signs of major fuck-upped-ness with the Scottish and then Canadian side.

A great-grandfather of ours abandoned his pregnant wife with six other children, while he traipsed across the country doing God knows what (other than enlisting for WWI a few years later, stating that he was single and had no fambly responsibility.)

Our grandparents were totally devoted to each other, but they had NO business procreating. She bore 6 boys, loving none except the first and last. Their home was one with military rules and no love. There was physical abuse of the middle 4 sons, while the oldest and youngest were pampered (as best as robots could pamper, that is).

While our grandfather was an “ok” guy, wealthy but choosing to wear golf hats and mesh shoes everywhere, our grandmother was a flaming bitch in fur and pearls. A greater dichotomy didn’t exist. He was down to earth; she viewed everyone as inferior. In my entire life, I received only one birthday card from them. And I remember that it had $1 in it for my 8th birthday. That was probably more than my dad ever got from them, though, other than an ass-whipping for talking at the dinner table.

These non-parents then bred and raised other non-parents. These needy men married co-dependent women, who bred other needy men and co-dependent women. I can honestly say that out of 22 cousins, only I escaped relatively intact. No shit. It took me until my second marriage to banish the fambly demons, but I did it. I am proud of who I have become, the way I have been raising my children, and my ability to throw out all of the fambly bullshit. I thank God for my mother, as I am sure she is the ONLY reason I am who I am. She never took any shit from my father, and she taught ME to never take any shit either.

My cousins, Freak1 (F1) and Freak2 (F2) have a misguided sense of fambly. They both come from shit, and seek to find some connection to strangers through Scottish heritage festivals and genealogy, since there was no emotional connection within their own fambly.

F1 is the editor of a fambly newspaper for those with the same last name, or variations thereof. F2 fancies himself the fambly genealogist, failing to credit anyone else’s input. I have researched much of the history, and fleshed out confirmation of the data but choose not to share with him. I don’t think he is smart enough to not fuck it up. Plus, I am still holding out a sliver of hope that we are somehow NOT related.

Freak3 (F3) comes from yet another branch of the fambly tree. He has 5 freak-o-da-week siblings, and one who is relatively normal. He used to be really cute when he was young, then he let all of his teeth rot right out of his head. That was a goooooood look, lemme tell ya. Anyway…

Feeling like an outcast, he, too, longed to belong someplace. He became a member of the “clan” and active in Scottish Highland games. While F2 was bizzy bein’ a truck driver, F2’s wife (who shall be known as F2.5) became the keeper of the genes, so to speak. She and F3 began IM’ing regularly.

F3 was looking for a woman. Apparently F2.5 was looking for something other than F2. F3 began sharing poetry with F2.5. She swooned. Soon, they declared their love and rejoiced in finding their respective soul mates!

For some strange reason, F2.5 took a liking to me & felt the need to share her innermost thoughts on marriage. Basically, as soon as she could divorce F2, she and F3 were going to wed! She gushed at how she’d found the perfect man! He was so caring, thoughtful and romantic… He was a profoundly deep poet who knew what was inside her very soul!

Never being one to mince words, I reminded her that she’d never even SEEN him, let alone MET him. Not only that, but I gently reminded her that there had to be SOME reason that F3 had 2 ex-wives! She coquettishly told me that they’d “seen” each other on the internet, via some “interesting” photos (her words). Well, at least they knew that their genitals would fit like a puzzle, if one or the other wasn’t lying. Sheesh.

Somehow, he became a kilt salesman, of all things. Prior to this, I think he’d been incapable of holding a job due to previous “work injuries” (fambly speak for “I got tarred of werkin’ so I faked an injeery so’s yood havta pay me monees so’s ah’d go away n not soo ya’s”) This kilt sales job involved travel to various games throughout the U.S. As fate would have it, they finally met at one of the games. (cue angels singing; cue beams of light from Heaven above)

By now it was Christmas, a time for the barrage of fambly letters that this cesspool was adamant about sending year after year. Note to self: Move and leave no forwarding address to anyone.

F1 blathered on (again) about being President of the Clan and its newspaper editor (again), like he was William Randolph fucking Hearst or something. He sent yet another complimentary copy that he was certain would make me want to join the clan THIS time! Er, ummm save the clan’s postage, Sparky, I ain’t bitin’.

F2’s Christmas letter took the fucking cake. In it, instead of his usual run-on sentences talking about his dog and his truck and his dog riding in his truck, he chose to vomit all over anyone unlucky enough to have opened that fucking envelope. Dear God, WHY did I open it?? I should have known what was coming. I swear the stationery was tearstained.

F2 commenced to telling the whole sordid tale of how his cousin stole his wife. And how his wife left him for his cousin. And how his wife was no longer living in his house. And how his wife was gonna shack up with his cousin. And how his cousin was having an affair with his wife. His format? He used their full names throughout the whole letter, in case we’d had any doubt about who was doing who.

Christ on a bike, it was the saddest, tackiest, most miserable Christmas letter I had ever received. What else could I do? I laughed my fucking ass off, and then I wrote him a scathing letter telling him to grow up, that he was an asshole for having sent such a letter and to take me off of his Goddamn mailing list!

Unfortunately, F2 forgot and mailed me a terse Christmas card the following year. He simply signed it with his full name in case I didn’t recognize his name on the envelope. Loser. Leave me the fuck alone!