Middle Child Syndrome, or How my Neglected Son is so Funny

Marcus is definitely a victim of middle child syndrome.  He is the most ignored and neglected of all my brood.  Last year I completely forgot his birthday, no presents, no cake, not even a birthday wish from his very own mother.  He’s remarkably independent for a teenager because he has to be.  As part of his defense against such neglect, he’s developed a wicked sense of humor.  Life with Marcus is never boring. 

            Remember the movie Chicago with Queen Latifa as Mama Morton?  Marcus, too young to like girls, saw Mama Morton in her gold lame dress and muttered under his breath, “Looks like Victoria will tell her secret.”  When he was very little he did something cool and I said, “Good job!  You win!” He responded, “Where’s my toaster oven?” In response to the house rule that kids under 17 don’t need cell phones, he designed a web page explaining exactly why he should be the exception to the rule, being so humorously persuasive that he got the cell phone at not quite 16.

            A couple years ago I was out of town and saw a Facebook post from Marcus—something about shaving a girl’s face with a box cutter.  I figured there was an explanation.  Here, in his own words and displaying his twisted humor and talent for storytelling, is the rest of the story.     

So here's the story as I like it to be told, both as an entertainer, and as the one trying to save my own patookus from whatever nonsense it is that you might be thinking I'm doing, slicing my friend's face off. It was a beautiful summer day, (only really it was raining the whole darnded day) and I was sitting at Westland Elementary School. I was sitting in the office with my good friends, Clint, Mathew, and Shanna. Now, Shanna and I, being the troublesome little hoodlums we are, were searching through Mike's desk, looking for candy, granola bars, fruit snacks, and other such things of interest. We came across a bottle of White Out brand error correcting liquid goop stuff. Curious was I, at this point, to learn how good of a nail polish this would act as. However, not wanting to paint my own nails, for I hope obvious reasons, I decided the best course of action would be to convince Shanna to become the consensual guinea pig. And, as persuasive as I am, she agreed. One nail. A thumb, on her right hand. But who's paying attention to detail, right? Well it probably would have looked better were I not so bad at painting nails, but somehow I think I can get over that. At this point, she decided it would be rather entertaining if I had a curly handlebar mustache. I agreed, and on it goes. I tried to get her to allow the same, but she declined, and instead I suggested a goatee. She accepted this idea, and on the goatee was painted. We took pictures, had a laugh, and it was time for removal of said goop stuff. I go to the sink, and scrub, to very little, if any, effect. Scrubbing a little harder, I realize it's going to take scratching, and a whole lot of it. Not wanting to do it all by hand, I went to the back room, opened a brand new, never before unsealed razor, which I removed from a box cutter, and returned to the mirror. Careful to not slice my face to pieces, I very masterfully maneuvered the razor in such a way that it was like shaving, only removing White Out instead of hair. As I finished, I looked back at Shanna, who was scratching her chin away, yielding very little results. So, being the gentleman you raised me as, I offered her the razor.
"I don't trust myself with razors" she tells me.
"Would you like some help? It's nothing more than a little razor burn, and so long as you hold still, I can do it without cutting you."
To this, she agrees, and I sit down beside her, and begin to scrape the White Out from her face as well. About three seconds in, she busts up laughing, and sits back in the chair. Which is when we told her that out of all of the times she could bust out laughing, and wiggling, it probably wasn't quite so wise to do so unexpectedly while someone was holding a very sharp razor to her face. To such comments, we all somewhat chuckle, she calms back down, and we finished removing the goop. No cuts, no incidents, just as I promised her.
Now you know the story.