My neighbor’s kids are cool as shit. Sharon and I can’t have children on account of my pearly white spunk being absolute dogshit. We went to the cum doctor and SHE (that’s right asswipe women can be doctors too) said that my roly polies were basically poison and that she wouldn’t even recommend me blasting my gummy wad inside my wife at all, unless cervical cancer sounded like something we’d like to tackle together down the road. Harsh for sure, but it’s not her fault my nuts are a mass grave filled with the spirits of dead demon children haunting my sack while they swim around dying for the chance to fertilize my wife’s smokin’ hot eggs and dreaming of the day they can grow old and eventually do their part to combat climate change. No, I give all credit for my bunk-ass ball broth to the big man himself. Tyler Pittman. In 6th grade, he was already 6’2’’ and 250lbs, so when he pinned me to the ground and repeatedly dropped his knee into my groin that fateful Thursday morning, I should have known the score right then and there. I guess that’s what I get for saying yes to Shelley Smoovers when she asked if we could study Civics that Wednesday afternoon. See, Tyler had a thing for Shelley and didn’t like the idea of us alone together, even if we were only in the library learning how a bill becomes a law. Pretty interesting and important stuff, actually. Yessir, if I had to pinpoint a day where something could have gone astray with my Elmer’s pecker paste, that’d be the one. I don’t hold a grudge or nothing like that, but it is hard to see the kids in my neighborhood living it up and not picture The Pittbull’s braces reflecting the light of the sun as he laughed like a banshee while mashing my pants potatoes into oblivion, spoiling that country gravy for good.
That’s not to say I don’t love yucking it up with the youngsters in my cul-de-sac. We got some great families here and it’s no surprise that their offspring turned out just as swell as the parents themselves. Hell, this whole street is stuffed to the gills with grade A whippersnappers. So without further adieu, here are my favorite ten kids in the neighborhood:
10. Paulie Primrose - Known in every driveway from Myrtlewood Lane to South Poppy Street, dude’s only six and has the sickest crossover. Watched him lay little Bobby Dreisdale on his ass the other day during an after-school game of 21. My mans hit him with that PP Shuffle and it was game over. I know Coach Campbell can’t wait for him to hit high school and help the Cougars get back to State. I know I’ll be in the crowd cheering him on!
9. Jesse “Specs” Rodriquez - I don’t think I’ve ever seen this boy without a book in his hand. He first caught my eye when I saw him struggling to push a Radio Flyer down the street because it was filled to the brim with reading material he’d got from the Little Free Library box in our neighborhood. We’ve gotten to the point now where if I read something good, I’ll leave it in there for him and vice versa. Recently, we’ve both been pretty radicalised by the state of our nation and, since finishing Das Kapital and other major socialist works, we’ve been trading titles from The Black Panther’s Reading List pretty much exclusively.
8. Lean Mean Kelly Lavine - Nobody can SMASH IT like the Kellster. I’m talkin Smash Bros! Her parents bought her a Switch two Christmases ago and she has logged some serious hours mastering that Side B Special. I always tell her that she should set up a Twitch account to share her talent with the world! Unfortunately her parents,Tony and Blair, just don’t understand. Looks like Will Smith was right about one thing. They’re always asking her to do her homework and go outside and help out around the house. Do they not understand they are in the midst of greatness?! I told Kelly that if her parents are ever acting like dillweeds that my TV has an open HDMI port with her name on it. Bring it sister!
7. Little Mikey DeMuoy- He might be the youngest of the bunch but Mikey ain’t afraid of nothing! Last week he built a ramp for his huffy out of some old plywood I had behind my shed and we duct taped some Roman Candles to his pedals. I got Lean Mean Kelly Lavine and Specs to lay down in the road and Mikey launched over them like child’s play. Felt like I was in a Mountain Dew Commercial or something. I couldn’t be more proud of the whole gang. Next time we do that, I’ll have to record it for TikTok or something.
6. Big Barbara - A gentle giant, this enormous pre-teen cleaned up at the State Fair last year. Barb brought home three separate competitive eating trophies and sunk yer boy twice in the dunk tank. I can still see her smile, smeared with chili dog grease, as yours truly went splish-splish-splash in that cool, cool agua. Me and double-B shared a funnel cake afterwards and she confided in me about her struggles with weight loss and how the doctor told her that just because she has gigantism doesn’t mean she can eat three breakfasts. I told her, listen, I get it. Sometimes those biscuits be calling your name. We had a pretty good laugh and then she helped me reach my satchel that a few neighborhood toughs (who DIDN’T make this list) had hung from the top of the Cotton Candy kiosk.
5. Slade Crossfire - Born Theodosia Felchmopolis, but last summer he told us all he wanted to go by a new moniker and I gotta say, it’s pretty fucking tits. He showed up to Field Day with a new ‘doo and a flame shirt, like we were going to film a frickin’ episode of DDAD, and announced that his old name was dead and that his new pronouns were he/him/his. Shit was so tight. See, we respect a person’s right to be whoever they feel they are on the inside and we applaud the self-awareness and bravery it takes to inform the world of such a decision. This, along with my dude’s uncanny ability to balance all types of shit on his head, puts him in the top 5 without a doubt.
4. Tori Jasmine Jacobs-Whitfield - The Jacobs-Whitfield clan just got a little bigger and we are thrilled to welcome little TJ to the neighborhood. This baby has already brightened up the culdy and she just came into this world a month and a half ago. Sure, she can’t hold her milk down for shit and every time I pass Diane and Peter strolling her on a walk she’s screaming like a hen in heat, but this little cunt is our communities newest member and I’ll be damned if she ain’t the cutest baby I’ve seen since Spence (he’ll come up later) was born. Sharon and I weren’t officially invited to the baby shower, but I saw all the cars and it looked like a hoot. We were obviously a little bitter and our feelings were hurt for a while, until we found out that Bert Huggins died during the gender reveal. It’s just as well. Bert sucked. He taught History at the high school, had a lisp and was a known freak on Bumble. Jackie Epstein told me he wanted her to cut off pieces of his face and feed it to his cat while he pranced around in lady’s underwear singing Steal My Sunshine by seminal 90’s band Len. Guess the contraption they built to blow pink shit all over the neighborhood backfired and caught Bert right in the temple. Knowing his affinity for face mutilation, he probably would have loved it, had he lived. Serves ‘em right. I offered to help when I saw Pete putting the thing together, but he told me to “take my creepy ass back to Blue Sage Drive before he called the cops.” Pretty rude and unnecessary, but I still hope the manslaughter charge doesn’t stick. Would hate for little Tori Jas to grow up with a convicted criminal as a dad. Piece of shit.
3. Eric Stevenson - You know we had to have a bad boy on the list. This misunderstood teen rocker may be a brooding butthole in the classroom, but he’s an absolute behemoth when he’s on bass. When the garage is rocking, don’t come-a knockin’ cuz Eric and his band, Something Smells, are ripping shit to shreds. Sometimes I’ll buy a glass of fresh-squeezed Lemonade from Spence (promise there’ll be more about him soon) and just sit out on my lawn and listen to the emo pop-punk masterpieces that the boys have been working on. E sings lead and never hesitates to make me weep like I’m freaking Tori Jasmine Jacobs-Whitfield thirsty for her ba-ba. The ballad he wrote after Angela asked JP to the Sadie Hawkins is some of the rawest shit you’ll ever hear. When the Stevenson’s decided to convert their garage into a practice space, I was more than happy to help. Called my guy Skunk over at Guitar Center to come over and make sure the acoustics were just right for rocking. Being supportive of your son’s dreams is extremely important and I’m glad Janice and Wesley sacrificed their covered parking so that Eric could express his feelings in the only way he knows how. Excited for the big gig at Mariano’s Pizzeria in a couple weeks. A slice and the soothing sounds of Something Smells spells a pretty sweet Saturday night, if ya ask me.
2. Spencer Rachmaninoff - 7 years old. Hot as shit. Lemonade entrepreneur. Watch out, Sharks, cuz when Spence hits the Tank, you’ll be falling all over your old dicks to make a deal. I’m telling you. Barb is going to absolutely creampie her pantsuit when the kid comes to town. This boy is just a marketing genius. He’s out here making flyers, business cards, and he even got the local Gazette to do a write-up. The lemonade tastes like bull piss, but the business savvy is so on point.
1. Jazzley and Paisley Von Welldersnout - Well, looks like we’ve got our first tie! And of course we do because I couldn’t possibly choose between my favorite twin girls. I don’t think anyone will be the least bit surprised to see my two nieces take the number one spot. I love these girls to the moon. They make their Uncle Rod so goddamned proud, even if me and their father don’t always see eye to eye. Having them live so close and getting to see them grow is such a blessing, even if Roger is a ball-busting prick who can’t cut me a little slack. Yeah I know, he co-signed the deed to my house and we had an agreement, but times are tough for a lot of us out here. I mean, I’m no Spencer R. My brain doesn’t work that way. Plus, capitalism was designed to keep folks like me at the bottom and prop up people like Rog and his big-tittied wife, Aisha. Fuckin’ Aisha. This bitch has had it out for me from the beginning and I’ve been nothing but nice to her. Jazz told me that she bad mouths me in front of them any chance she gets. Says that my balls are rotten because I’m not a real man and that it’s for the best because I wouldn’t even be able to provide for a family. The nerve. I oughta march down there and remind her that Rog was the one standing idly by with his arms crossed as TP turned my silky coin purse into a bankrupt bag of obsolete currency. She’s lucky her two beautiful babies hold her in such high regard or I’d bury her and Roger both six feet under and move into their house and raise those two as my very own. I’d make sure they kept up with their studies and I’d make damn sure Paisley practiced enough to win First Chair back from Soo-Kim Lee. Yessir, I’d raise them up right and they’d be forced to take care of me when I’m old and helpless and covered head to toe in shit and spit. Because that’s the end game. I guess Sharon and I could adopt, but that opens you up to a whole other world of issues. I mean, we don’t want to find ourselves apologizing to Peter and Diane Jacobs-Whitfield when the dud we chose turns out to have unresolved trauma and splatters little Tori Jasmine’s brains all over her locker. Nah, we’ll just have to figure something else out. Until then, we’ll just have to keep lending our love and support to the precious families that make this community so dadgum special.
