So my mom was up late last night doing google searches when she decided to look up my name. If you run my real name, google comes up with some cross country and science fair stuff, this one time I was quoted in the paper, and my fan page.

Now when I say "fan fiction," I don't mean stuff I myself have written about things I like. This was a site made by people I know where they write fiction about me. I think its hilarious, but my mother did not. Here is a poem she found particularly offensive (I've changed my name):

Body of bronze

and balls of brass,

his chest an oak barrel,

dimples in his ass

Sucking and fucking

and fighting and dancing,

shitting and pissing

and cumming and kissing.

Smooth as a pebble

rolling in a stream,

gentle as rainwater

in a mid-morning dream -

Penabler is kind,

Penabler is wise,

his voice

whispered comfort

of a lover’s white lies.

I fucked Penabler once and the fucking was good.

I asked him to hold me and he said he would.

I fought Penabler once and he tore me apart.

I asked him for mercy but he broke my heart.

He teaches boys

what it means to be a man.

He shows girls how to feel

only what women can.

His words walk slowly,

like a tortoise on the beach,

fuzzy and soft,

and sweet as a peach.

He taught me to love,

taught me to learn,

taught me things, only a Penabler can teach.

And someday I’ll let him

knock up my wife,

so that my child

can have a much better life.

Baby Penabler will grow

tall as a tree,

and lil’ Baby Penabler will look

nothing like me.

He’ll be born with a beard

and a gun in his hand,

he’ll be the toughest baby

in the whole goddamned land.

He’ll be born with a dick

that’s bigger than mine,

he’ll be born with a dick

that’s harder than pine.

He’ll be born with the first

baby six-pack,

He’ll be born with gun powder in

his baby ball sac.

And in that sanitized, white, hospital room, Penabler will put his arm around me. He’ll pull me close and his musk will overwhelm my nostrils. My wife’s eyes will be shimmering with tears of relief and joy, having just passed this 15-pound stone of a muscle-bound baby. We will all look admiringly upon Baby Penabler, and his real father will whisper in my ear, “don’t fuck this up,” turn around, and walk out the door.


I can't possibly see what my mom would find objectionable about this poem. Myself I found it quite moving. But my mom is being all, "this will cost you a job," and, "this will hurt future friendships." C'mon, mom, don't make me censor my friends' art. I'm not a fascist.