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The Horse Shit Bar MitzvahTo Christian Hughes's previous piece

The Importance of Seeing “Alf”

I shuddered as I heard 
the too-quick footwork 
and then thumps on the stairs.
I knew that my peaceful living room

sanctuary, devoted to examining 
the exploits of an alien from Melmac 
living in L.A., could not last for long.
That my little brother would never allow

anyone to sit quietly watching their
plush midget heroes while he 
was in the slightest discomfort.
The girlish pre-pubescent shrieks

began almost instantly, overpowering 
and diluting the brilliant dialogue,
along with the fragile shred of patience 
and sympathy I had for my only sibling.   

“Shut the hell up!” I screamed 
towards the stairs, unaware that a pint
of my brother’s blood was
puddled on the wooden steps.

The hospital trip consisted of 
my parents and my brother, 
crimson washcloth to forehead 
and wailing. I wasn’t invited.  

“No problem, Willy!” I yelled 
after my father Jeff, “I’ll just stay here 
alone and eat the cat.”  I turned back 
to my cathode ray tube babysitter. 

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