>Homemade French Remedies and Gradeschool AA Meetings

Posted: March 7, 2011 in kids, parenting, stories of me

>If you were a small child of the 70’s like I was, you grew up in a time of great freedom and by ‘great freedom’ I mean ‘extreme danger’ because back then:

Cigarettes didn’t cause cancer:

And, sure, lots and lots of kids disappeared on their walks to and from school, but I never did during any of my 4-block walks alone so…

Child predators mustn’t have existed:

And seatbelts were simply those annoying strappy things that you sat on in the car and they gave you wedgies so you just, you know, cut them off with the scissors that you were running around with while holding them with the points up.

But every so often I would catch a pretty good cold so my parents would immediately call the doctor.

HAHAHAHAHA.

No. No they didn’t call my doctor.

In hindsight it’s probably a pretty good thing they didn’t call the doctor because of that one time he mistook a cyst in my throat for my Adams Apple (I had no idea the University of Phoenix had a medical program in the 70’s) and I almost died.

So, no. No doctor for me.

Instead of calling someone who was supposedly trained in the field of health care, my parents would simply decide that they would take matters into their own skilled hands as a hairdresser and carpenter and, you know..

MAKE THEIR OWN MEDICINE.

When I was really sick and had a fever and dying my father would look at me and then over at the Grim Reaper hanging out just waiting for me to die! die already! and decide it was time for me to have a drink called “Poonce” or “Pownce” but he would say it in a French accent which was appropriate because it made it sound like it was authorized as part of the Geneva Convention.

“Poonce”
was made of the following ingredients:

1) HOT Water
2) Orange juice
3) FUCKING MOLASSES WTF
4) Booze. Lots and lots of booze.
5) Probably more booze.*

*optional

As you can see from the ingredient label, the primary goal of “Poonce” was to NOT actually heal me but to instead make me pass out and remain in a coma for five days.

This is why I think it was actually called “Pounce” as in “As soon as I drink this and pass out my dad is totally going to pounce on my mom.”

Oh. Look.

I just threw up a little.

The problem with getting your small child completely shitfaced – outside of the obvious legal and moral obligations you have as their parent and caretaker and supposedly someone who loves them and would like to keep their liver as a functioning part of their anatomy – is that you never know what happens to their forming and impressionable little minds once they, you know, black out from all the GODDAMN ALCOHOL POISONING.

Me?

I WOULD HAVE FUCKED. UP. DREAMS.

Like this one.

Oh! A peaceful desert landscape and…

..um..


ah crap.

I remember seeing the flash and the mushroom cloud in the dream but that’s pretty much all I remember so the remainder of what happened will now be brought to you from my parents’ perspective.

My parents awoke to my blood-curdling scream but I’m sure my dad was probably still in a 12-pack daze so I know for sure it was my mother who bolted into my room first.

Yep.

Not in my bed.

Luckily for them, I was still screaming at the top of my lungs so it was pretty easy to figure out where I was.

To be honest here, I was a fat shit of a kid so there’s no way I would actually fit under my bed so, instead, my mother found me crouched under a table in my room but it was easier to draw it this way.

But my mother found me screaming and shook me to snap me out of it at which point this happened:


As a parent, I need to tell you that if I ever run into my kids’ room and he’s staring wide-eyed AT NOTHING and whispering over and over ‘Did you see it? Did you see it?’ that I would be right the fuck out of there immediately because I’ve seen ‘The Ring’ and ‘The Grudge’ and ‘Home Alone’ and if there’s one thing I know it’s DON’T FUCK WITH THE CREEPY KID.

Mom: “Rodney? What? Did I see what, honey?”

Me: “The bomb. Mom. They dropped the bomb.”

Mom: *flees

I don’t remember any of this but when I talked to my mom the next day she told me all about it like she was telling a ghost story.

Not surprisingly, I’m pretty positive that’s the last time I had that homemade Pounce or Poonce or whatever the fuck it was.

On a related note, though, I felt much better.

Nuclear explosions clear your sinuses right the fuck out, apparently.

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