My Brothers

My brothers are an important part of my life these days.

When I was two, my parents wanted to manufacture a baby sister for me (as if a female version of ME would have been a gift to the world). Instead, God blessed them (and damned ME) with three baby boys.

Triplets. Twelve days before my third birthday. Conceived, my father used to tell me proudly, on the same bed as I was (and the same bed I invited the Crazy Ex onto last summer. Irony unsettles my stomach).

Two of my three brothers are identical (this, for the curious among you, is the usual way of producing a triple-litter. Two eggs come out. One splits). They both live near my cottage and have flaming, yet receding (I must mention. If only because it indicates that I have SOME measure of genetic superiority over them) red hair. The third brother is a brick wall of a defensive lineman who picked up on the sarcasm lessons I taught him in the crib and has made it into an art form.

Last weekend I was my non-redheaded brother's Best Man. Unfortunately, his lovely bride failed to plan for the usual gift to the groom's helper: first crack at a quickie in the vestibule with the cutest single girl at the wedding. The only available female present was my Acadian cousin (who, it is to be admitted, has grown into a delicious young woman, but still. God would frown upon my impure thoughts), so I was stuck with a $200 tuxedo and no one to zip me out of it. At least partially.

(...is there another reason for wearing a bronze-vested, boutonnière-adorned penguin suit other than to attract vestibule fellatio ? What a gyp).

As for the other two brothers, they come to the island often to renovate the cottage and chill. This means that they met Gargy for the first time.

Now, the first encounter was nothing particularly newsworthy as both of my bros have gone through football hazing rituals and have therefore experienced being dry-humped by overeager, stinky males (our college team's initiation traditions involve bringing engineering students along. Long story). The fun began when we were demolishing our cottage (we have two. I live in the second one. The skanky one that hasn't had a resident since before my birth. Bugs are now my live-in, bloodsucking friends due to the multiple holes in the walls).

Brother #1, whom shall remain nameless because I KNOW he would sue me for libel and take my share of the inheritance should I even attempt to mention him, once had an ant problem in his house and has been scarred by the experience. As we were busting through the beams, he found an ant colony. He ran up to get my blowtorch (which I used to set up the plumbing in cottage #2) and started burning the insects with sadistic zeal (they pop like corn when burned :D). Brother #2, noticing that the little arthropods were jumping down in droves to avoid the flame, started showering paint thinner on the ground. Where flaming ants were falling*.

Gargy, who was on a leash on the worksite with me at the time, saw the idiocy coming before it happened and tore himself from my grasp before I saw what was going on. SO, basically, the moral of the story is that, as a general rule, my gargoyle is smarter, and has a more finely-honed sense of self-preservation, than my balding brothers. This is just infinitely depressing for me and my faith in my genes.

*True story. Not kidding. No one was burnt, but blows were close to being exchanged.