You Mess with My Brotha, You Mess with Me

So, recently I wrote all about growing up with two older brothers and hanging out with them and getting squirted in my crazy crack eye with chlorinated water. Well apparently it's National Brother's Week. I had never heard of this, but I'd also never heard of Boss's Day. So I guess I'll write about them again. But my excuse is this weird Facebook Holiday. I don't want y'all to start thinking I have some crazy obsession with my brothers and that I keep a shrine for them in my closet with old baby teeth and stuffed animals. (Confession: I am a little obsessed with my brothers, but Mom made me give their baby teeth back years ago.)

The other night, Chris sent me this ecard:

And it's exactly right and got me to thinking about how I have this huge double standard over who can talk sh*t about my brothers. I know that they are the older siblings, and they get all the fun of picking on me, but I am completely and utterly protective over them.

These are my peeps. Don't #*@$ with them.

So, I'm naturally pretty protective of the people I love. If I hear someone has said something mean to one of my close friends, in an effort to make that friend feel better, I will chronicle everything that is and ever has been wrong with that person (bad fashion and/or poor life choices will usually top the list). I once almost beat up some hick at Windy Hollow Raceway for getting snippy with my mom. If I hear about someone taking advantage of Joel in some way, I get ten times more pissed off about it than he would ever get. I love my peeps, and if you cross them, you cross me. Period.

But with my brothers, this gets taken to a whole new level. No one better ever talk sh*t about my brothers. Ever. The few times in my life when I have feared that I may actually punch someone have been when someone has crossed one of the boys. I know that they can take care of themselves, but I much rather "take care" of someone who messes with them.

How I feel when you cross my bros.

Here's the one exception: me. I get to say whatever I want whenever I want about my brothers. It is my job to tell them when they're being assfaces, and no one else's. AND, many an unsuspecting friend has run into what happens when you even agree with my sh*t-talking.

(Sitting at dinner with random friend.)


Me: So (brother) is being a real assface lately.

Friend: Right...

Me: (looks up slowly from huge plate of cheese fries) Did you just agree that my brother is an assface?? I. Will. CUT. You.



(On the phone with random friend.)


Me: I just don't understand how (brother) can do a douchebag thing like that.

Friend: Yeah, well, I remember that one time he did that other douchebag-y thing.

Me: Yeah. Well, no one asked you.

(hangs up phone in a rage)


You see, it's a complete double standard, but it's not something I'm ever going to change or lighten up on. I get to say what I think about my brothers, and no one is allowed to say a single negative word or even agree with me. If you find yourself getting caught in one of these situations, it's best to just avert your eyes and wait for me to finish, then quickly change the subject. I cannot be held accountable for my actions when protecting my bros.

They are mean to me. I will punch you if you're mean to them.

It's not like I sit around all the time talking trash about my bubbies anyway, but on the rare chance that I need to, I'm going to. And the thing is: I've earned the right to talk a little sh*t about them. I have been there when one was lying in a hospital bed letting the worst farts I've ever smelled in my life and told him it wasn't that bad. I have been there when one of them was in his twenties and on the verge of crying when he had to get blood drawn because he'd never had it done before. I used to loan my hard-earned babysitting cash to one of them to be used for what I can only assume were bake sale brownies. (One can never know for sure.) I have driven six hours to buy groceries for one of them. I have stood next to one of them when he committed his life to his soulmate. I have rushed one of them to the ER when I found him wandering pale-faced and zombie-like through the Healthpark parking lot. I have held one of their hands while he was looking at his brand new baby boy in an incubator. And I have held a knowing hand on one of their backs when he has felt his whole world fall apart. And I've been happy to do it.

So, these boys are my boys, and they always will be. If I have to throw a punch, defend their actions, or tell you how wrong you are when you agree that they're assfaces, I will. Forever. So don't cross them, mother effers, or you will have ME to deal with. Happy National Freaking Brothers' Week.