Anarchy fucking rules. My leather jacket fucking rules. The anarchy symbol on the back of my leather jacket fucking rules. The red paint that I used to paint the anarchy symbol on the back of my jacket fucking rules. Saying that things “fucking rule” fucking rules. Riots in the streets fucking rule. Pee wee soccer games fucking rule.
I sit in a folding beach chair on the sidelines, watching my little sister play out on the field. The chair is uncomfortable. A strip of polyester fabric is poking me in the ass. I do not like to be poked in the ass. But it is worth being poked in the ass. It is a really great pee wee soccer game. It is total anarchy, super-retardo anarchy awesomeness. It is the most anarchist thing on Earth, I think.
Oh wait, I forgot about riots in the streets.
But riots in the streets don’t have little girls picking clumps of grass out of the ground instead of defending their goal, little girls chasing butterflies instead of the ball, little girls tripping over the ball, little girls kicking the ball into the wrong goal, little girls calling their opponents cuntbags, little girls screaming as they run away from the ball.
Riots in the streets don’t have soccer moms. Riots in the streets don’t have soccer dads. Riots in the streets don’t have riots between soccer moms and soccer dads over pee wee soccer games. Riots in the streets are over real world issues. Real world issues are fucking lame.
I say it out loud, “Real world issues are fucking lame.”
Sometimes when I think strongly about things I blurt my opinions out. I can not help it.
My mom says, “Watch your language, Artie.”
I sneer at her.
She removes a jar of extra hot mustard from her fanny pack.
Extra spicy hot mustard is not very anarchist. Extra hot mustard is the tool the overlords use to keep down the proletarians. It is what they threaten us with whenever we speak our mind. It is what my mom forces down my throat whenever I tell her to go fuck herself. Whenever I tell her that she is a filthy cuntbag. This is unfortunate because I really like the word cuntbag. It is very cute. It rolls off my tongue. The world would be a better place if I could use cuntbag as a term of endearment without feeling like a volcano has erupted in my mouth.
I hate my mom. I will kill her. I will kill her after everybody goes anarchy. I will declare war on her face. I will do this when it is legal to declare war on her face. I do not want to blow up her face before it is legal. I can barely handle a strip of polyester fabric poking me in the ass. I do not think I could handle prison.
I compliment my mom on her t-shirt. Compliments are the best way to prevent mustard volcanoes from erupting in my mouth. “Nice shirt, Mom. I like the soccer-playing bears. They are very cute. I also like that the shirt is ten sizes too small for you. I like how it accentuates your fatty-fattiness. I like how it shows off the blubber of your huge tits. I like how I can see every jiggle of ginormous stomach. I like how it makes you look like you’re having quadruplets.”
“Aww, thanks, honey,” she says, putting the jar of extra hot mustard back into her fanny pack.
She stands up to give my uncle a lap dance. I am horrified. My uncle is sexually excited. My uncle is a chubby chaser.
My uncle is my new dad.
I will launch a Scud missile at my uncle’s head after everybody goes anarchy. I plan to aim my Scud missile at his forehead. I will do this because he has a Fu Manchu mustache and Fu Manchu mustaches fucking rule. I am hoping his mustache will be able to survive the attack.
My little sister scores a goal. Mom and New Dad cheer.
Mom and New Dad realize their daughter had scored in her own team’s goal. They stop cheering. My uncle starts laughing. His laughter sounds fake and melodramatic like he’s a bad guy in a pro wrestling league. This does not surprise me. He is a bad guy in a pro wrestling league. His stage name is Kin Corn Karn. He stole the name from an old Nintendo wrestling game because he couldn’t think of anything good. Kin Corn Karn is an awesome name, but my uncle sucks.
My uncle stops laughing. He and Mom call my little sister a loser. They tell her they still love her. They say she will do better next time. They blow her kisses.
I yell, “Anarchy rules!” I feel a little sad about not yelling “fucking rules.”
The goalie for my little sister’s team is very mad. She pulls my little sister’s shorts down.
My little sister is not pleasant to look at. She resembles a muppet/tank hybrid. She is even more unpleasant to look at when her shorts are wrapped around her ankles.
My little sister shoves the bottom of her soccer cleats up the goalie’s anus.
The goalie cries. She does not like to have the bottom of my little sister’s soccer cleats up her anus.
My little sister is the epitome of evil.
But I still love her. I have a genetic disposition toward loving my little sister even though she is the epitome of evil. I also have a genetic disposition toward obesity. My genetic disposition toward obesity is responsible for my daily beatings at school. My genetic disposition toward obesity is responsible for my nickname, Chubby-Chub-Chub-Chub. If it were not for my genetic disposition toward obesity, I would not have to blow up my high school.
The goalie’s father glares at my little sister. He says, “You are a terrible human being.”
My uncle says, “Listen, brother. Don’t call my daughter a terrible human being!”
My uncle calls everyone “brother.” I think he stole it from Hulk Hogan. Maybe he likes to confuse people? People are very confused whenever he calls me “brother” in public. They probably think, I am very confused. I did not know he was Artie’s brother. I thought he was Artie’s new stepfather. Is he Artie’s new stepfather AND his brother? Is that even possible? Something seems morally unsound about it. Doesn’t anarchy fucking rule?
The goalie’s mother calls my uncle a shitty father.
My mom takes the bottle of extra hot mustard out of her fanny pack, goes over to the goalie’s mother, and squirts two servings down her throat.
The goalie’s mother screams.
Her husband pulls down my mom’s pants.
My uncle goes over and gives him a piledriver.
The goalie’s father is now unconscious.
The goalie’s mother is very angry. She pulls on my uncle’s Fu Manchu mustache.
My uncle’s fatal flaw in the wrestling ring causes him to howl.
The parents of the competing soccer team watch the confrontation. They look confused. They look left out. They pump their fists in the air and run across the field. They crush a few of their children. Either they do not notice or do not care.
My little sister’s team’s parents look a little scared. They pick up their folding beach chairs and attack.
The pee wee soccer girls pick clumps of grass out of the ground, chase butterflies, trip over the ball, call their opponents cuntbags, scream as they run away from the ball, and kick it in the wrong goal.
I march through the chaos. I smile. I take pictures. I stomp on the ground. I hoot. I duck to avoid flying beach chairs.
I feel a tear splatter down my cheek.
The glorious anarchy has made me think of my real dad. He died last year.
My real dad died during a riot at a pee wee soccer game. It was one just like this, except the opposing team’s parents were wielding broken beer bottles. The mother of a girl who my little sister anally penetrated was one of those parents.
The mother of a girl who my little sister anally penetrated put a broken beer bottle through my real dad’s brain.
I feel a bad about saying that pee wee soccer games fucking rule. Pee wee soccer games do not fucking rule.
They fucking suck.
And crying is not very anarchist. I wish I could get myself to stop. I really miss my dad’s ZZ Top beard.
About the Author