Mad Brad: Apparent parents.

When thinking about getting married and having children, it’s impossible for me to not to consider my parents. Somewhere in the stream of destiny Kurt Basker and Donna Bernard met and got married.

My father is a dark skinned Virginian native, with a big head, and nostrils, an avid writer and can sell spots to a leopard.

My mom is a freckled Texan, who we recently found out is really Latina, cooks the best sweet potato pies and can make a prom dress out of aluminum foil.

I know they had to have had sex at least 3 times, because they have 3 children. Byron(25), Brie(20) and Mad Brad(23).

Now that I’m a lot older things seem to have come into a greater perspective for me. I used to be so linear.

Mad Brad is a sole entity, a tour of power, a mighty force. Which may all be true, but as I’ve gotten older I’ve had to think outside of myself, and notice how everything works together.

I denied that I was like my parents, and made fun of their quirks my whole life only to find out I was just like them.

My father is the weirdest person I know. I’ve lived with him since May, and he never ceases to amaze me. I remember years ago when he would tell stories to my friends about what Vietnamese hookers would do to kill American soldiers.

I can’t remember why he brought it up, but I’m certain it was for no reason other than that it was what popped into his head at the moment.

I used to think my dad was unsavory, until I realized I was at least on par with his personality. In the privacy of our home he will pass gas, and then say, “Did you say something?”

I used to think that was so nasty, until I noticed that I have mentioned feces or toilet humor in at least 10% of my columns. (This one now included).

At least my father was humble enough to share his humor in his own home. I had to let the entire Sam Houston community know that bodily functions tickle my Elmo.

I used to make fun of my mother all of the time for crying in movies. She used to always watch Beaches and the Five Heartbeats, which wasn’t the problem. What made me laugh was that she always cried at the same parts in the movies.

I would sit with my siblings and point laugh as she cried when Barbara Hershey dies. She’d look at us and say “Shut up dammit”. Her tears never failed to bring me joy.

A couple of years ago I started to notice that I cry in movies, and that it’s worst than my mom. I cry when bad things happen, when people fall in love, and sometimes I just cry.

I was watching Cameron Diaz and Jude Law in The Holiday, and started crying at 2 in the morning. “Shut up dammit,” I told myself.

I have a big head, freckles, love for Latin culture, tendency to unsavoriness, long womanly eyelashes perfect for my sensitive tears and I write everyday of my life.

Face it. No matter how hard we try we are just our parents multiplied.

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