(Do I need to tell you about Devotchka being a joke? Just checkin'. You all know I stay away from real names, right? Kay. That bit about us being Welchkin is true, however. Not Italian, not Arabian, not Mexican, and certainly not Bulgarian. Welchkin. Like Catherine Zeta Jones is Welchkin and that's why I look just like her.)
So Devo, being several years my senior, was often left to babysit. And while he babysat, he'd do many cruel things: like administer toilet bowl swirlies, sit on my face to fart, and throw my precious kitties down the stairs. He was such an Older Bother. His cruelty was saved only by the fact that he'd frequent rock concerts and bring me t-shirts. Oh how I wish I still had those t-shirts. You never know what you should keep, do you?
Anyway, one particular babysitting event has left a lasting impression. In the rear. I was five years old and in the Kindergarten. Devo, hiding a loaded B.B. gun behind his back, told me to see how fast I could run down the hall. Devo was the cool and hip older bro, so naturally I did what he said. I ran. And while I was running down the hall, I heard a "pop" that was followed immediately by a sharp burning sensation on the right cheek of my precious little ass.
That turd had just totally shot me. Gave me a B.B. Gun in the Bum.
Why do I tell you this? Well, mostly because nary a family gathering goes by where I fail to give the dramatic re-enactment of this B.B. Gun in the Bum incident. I also tell you this because today is Devo's birthday. He's something ancient, like 55. Or close to it.
Happy Birthday Devo. (And may that pitbull called Karma bite you in the ass.)