Why I am Still The Family Joke

I don't often post about my brother. Mostly, because he's almost 6 foot 5, has a goatee measuring more than a foot long, and biceps as big as my head. He takes turds that are bigger than me. Pissing him off would be very unhealthy. For me, that is. He had 18 years practicing folding me into a pretzel, and he's fairly smart. I'm sure he hasn't forgotten the trick.

I learned a few tricks too, growing up with a smarter, bigger brother, who was only a year older than me. One, I can run faster scared than he can run mad, and two, if I can get him to laugh so hard he can't breathe, I can take him.

Hence, I spent a lot of time growing up developing a sense of humor and looking for a good joke. Call it self preservation. I did have a big mouth, after all. And he tended to have a short fuse.

But now that there is 80 odd kilometers (50 miles for you Yanks) separating the two of us, I'm feeling brave once more. Even those freakishly long arms of his can't reach that far to throttle my lily white neck.

So allow me to introduce you to my brother, dear internet. Whom I shall refer to as Stretch, because I know how much that will annoy him. (Visualizing the eye-rolling, now.)

Stretch is attached to Stump. Stump is a charmingly little woman who stands at just barely 5 feet tall, which leads to many a family discussion about the difference in their heights. Stump is a brilliant special needs teacher, who has forever won a place in my heart with her kind ways to my children. Plus, she can crack the whip like no other. How she manages to control the beast that is my brother is truly a miracle. Stretch and Stump make a lovely couple.

Stretch is in a band. A lovely little death metal band. And if I had decided to out myself, I would link to it. But I am still sitting on that particular fence, vacillating like the indecisive blogger I am.

In a moment of brotherly support, I once attended a gig of his. Where scary women wearing dog collars and chains gyrated in a indecent manner, oblivious to the dudes wearing animal blood and tee shirts with anarchist slogans moshing around them.

In an effort not to appear so, well, normal, I punked up my hair, piled on the makeup and borrowed a tee shirt from my sister, who often attends such events. (That would be were I made my big mistake.)

Never trust your sister, and her Cheshire kitty grin.

I couldn't figure out why I was the life of this particular gig. After all, I was so whitebread in comparison to the other er, ladies, in attendance.

Finally, when my darling brother Stretch had enough giggles at my expense, he pulled me aside and asked how I was enjoying myself.

I gushed on and on about his band, the music and how proud I was of him.

And then I confessed I felt a little square in the wild crowd.

Nothing like leading a laughing man to a good joke.

He asked how I liked my shirt, and if I got any feedback on it.

I told him the shirt was fine, but now I was wary about his inquiry. After all, in all my years of being shoved into his smelly armpits or being held down while he farted in my face, he had never once bothered commenting on my appearance. Not even on my wedding day.

It was in this moment that every strange thing that had happened to me that evening made sense. I wasn't being acknowledged because I was the rock star's sister. Or because I was a hot metal momma. No, it was because I was walking around with the letters C.L.A.B.T. on my chest and on my back.

So you could see them coming and going. Along with the name of the band and the appropriate demon graphics on the shirt I sported.

I thought the letters were an acronym for some anti-establishment, anti-government theme, like all the other craziness around me. Damn my sister, and her bad sense of humor.

It was with great delight that my brother Stretch, informed me I was advertising for his rival band. (Oops. Who knew?)

And I was also loudly proclaiming to the world that I had a C@nt Like A Bear Trap.

Which would explain why I got so many dudes offering me their phone numbers that night.

Which would also explain why I left the gig, very hastily.

And would also explain why I have never borrowed another shirt from my evil sister.

So, if any one ever asks you if you have a C.L.A.B.T, dear internet, at least you will know what they mean.

Thanks for the education Stretch. I'm looking forward to the day I can return the favor.