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June 29, 2009
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My brother Mark is the best big brother in the world. He’s eight years older than me so I always looked up to him growing up. He was a straight-A student in high school and had the hardest work ethic of anyone I know. When he was a teenager he had a job working at the pro shop of the local country club. And with that one job he was able to buy himself a car, a brand new computer (which in 1987 was a Commodore 64), and pay for his freshman year of college.



Even now he still busts his ass everyday to support his wife and three kids. Because of that he was and still is a positive role model in my life.  Even if I only have just a fraction of his work ethic.

He also picked up the slack where my parents needed help. When I was little he was always spoiling me with toys. I have countless memories of him surprising me with these giant Batman, Superman, and Spider-Man action figures – and for no other reason than he just wanted to buy them for me.

And because of him, I also got Optimus Prime for Christmas when I was in the first grade. My parents had me when they were in their 50’s so they were kinda out of the loop – but not Mark. All I wanted for Christmas was Optimus Prime and he knew it.




In addition to spoiling me, he was always there for me growing up. Like I said, my parents were older so it was hard for them to relate to me. They grew up during the Great Depression so they didn’t understand that Nike sneakers were a must have. In my dad’s opinion, we could buy three pairs of K-Mart sneakers for the price of one pair of Nikes. And although my dad was 100% absolutely right, Mark understood that it’s important to fit in at school, and something as simple as a pair of sneakers could help. Because of that he took me clothes shopping every summer before school started.

I think the greatest thing Mark ever did for me happened when I was in the 7th grade. I was a bit of a fat kid growing up, and by the time I reached junior high I weighed over 200 pounds. I was also pretty geeky back then and Mark knew that being overweight and geeky was a lethal combination. Because of that he made a deal with me that year: If I lost 30 pounds in three months he would give me $200. That deal motivated me to lose 40 pounds, and on the day I lost all the weight Mark forked over the 200 bucks.

He also got me laid for the first time. When I was 16 he flew me to Tijuana to buy me a hooker. He even paid extra so the hooker would tickle my balls. Okay, he didn’t do that but he probably would have taken me to a donkey show if I asked him to. Instead, Mark helped motivate me to go to college, and he drove me back and forth between Maine and Syracuse University almost every year. He also helped me pack up my u-haul when I moved to Los Angeles, and he even cried when I left. I’ll always love Mark and be grateful for everything he’s done for me. I hope I can make it up to him one day.

But this blog isn’t about my brother Mark. It’s about my other brother. My oldest brother. My brother Dave.

And the best way to describe Dave is with one word: douche bag. Okay, that’s two words. And now that I think about it, I could probably use a few other words to describe him but I’ll stick with douche bag. It’s got a nice ring to it.

Dave is kinda like Wayne Arnold, the bastard older brother on the Wonder Years who was played by child actor Jason Hervey. The only difference between Wayne and Dave is that Wayne was at least a little bit likable.



Where Mark would buy me transformers and superhero action figures for Christmas, Dave would instead buy me things like Ozzy Osbourne sweatshirts – which makes perfect sense because every 9 year-old kid wants an Ozzy Osbourne sweatshirt for Christmas.



Dave would also pick on me whenever the opportunity presented itself, whether it was punching me in the arm, stealing the tv remote from me when I was watching cartoons, or telling me that I was a mistake because our parents were old – which to his credit is probably true.

One of his bigger dick moves was when I worked at the same country club mentioned earlier. Dave was the assistant pro at the time and I was a driving range ball retriever – a horrible job, especially when arrogant golfers aim for you as you’re trying to scoop up rouge golf balls with a shag bag. One time this asshole hit me right in the hand as I was in the process of scooping up a golf ball.



The dick move came when Dave asked me to doodle some caricatures of the country club’s more prominent members during a Calcutta because I have a certain amount of artistic ability. The caricatures ended up being so good that Dave tried stealing credit. The only reason he didn’t get away with it is because one of the members who saw me draw the pictures said, “now, now, Dave, lets give credit where credit is due."

Another time he gave me these KISS comics he had which were supposedly inked with Gene Simmons, Peter Criss, Ace Frehley and Paul Stanley’s blood.



A surprisingly nice gesture, but as soon as Dave found out the comics were worth something he tried taking them back. Fortunately, I locked them away and he was never able to take them. I still have them with me in Los Angeles today.

For a long time I just accepted Dave for who he was, but then a couple years ago, something happened that changed my mind.

My comedy partners and I created and filmed a television show that we were hoping to sell to a cable network. The show was called Garry&Chee Chee and it’s basically a cross between Scarface and Perfect Strangers. It’s about a dorky white guy who lives with a Cuban drug lord.

We made the rounds with Garry & Chee Chee and had a very positive meeting with a big time cable network – so positive that our agent guaranteed that the network would at least offer us a pilot. Naturally, the network passed on us a few days later and I was disappointed to say the least.

On the very same day that I found out the network passed on us, Dave randomly called me. He asked me what was going on, and I explained that I was bummed out because they passed on Garry & Chee Chee. At that moment, the only thing Dave could say to me was, “why are you surprised? It’s not that funny.”

Here’s the episodes in question in case you wanna judge for yourselves:



Now here’s the deal. I can take criticism. I don’t mind that he didn’t like it and I don’t mind that he didn’t think it was funny. I can totally understand somebody not liking Garry & Chee Chee. It’s weird and violent and just plain ridiculous.

The thing is, I just didn’t need to hear those words from my brother right then and there. All he needed to say was, “I’m sorry” or “that sucks.” That’s it. That’s all he had to say. And I’m not expecting any miracles or anything, but what I wish he would have said was, “Don’t give up. Get back out there and take another swing.” But instead he had to tell me it wasn’t funny. Just a textbook dick move. I don’t need my brother kicking me when I’m down. I live in Hollywood and there are plenty of people willing to do that already. I don’t need any family members helping out.

Anyway, I thought Dave couldn’t get any lower than that, but he did. Yesterday I got a voicemail from him. As it turns out, he stumbled upon my blog on funny or die. I never told him about it so I assume he must have googled me or something and found it.

Now I don’t know if you’re a regular reader or not, but my blogs usually deal with marijuana or perverted stories of my life. Stories of me not being able to masturbate because the ghost of my mom is watching. Stories of me playing Mario Kart over the internet against the bastard Korean children my dad had when was raping women in the Korean War. And stories of me killing my grandfather in order to inherit his 1982 Chevy Citation. I’m not going to sit here and explain why these blogs are funny. Just as with Garry & Chee Chee, you either think they’re funny or you don’t.

But Dave’s voicemail informed me that he had just read all my blogs and he was offended by what I wrote.  He went on to tell me that, “since I think I’m a comedian” he was going to forward them to all of our 80 year-old relatives in an attempt to either shame, embarrass, or scare me. Keep in mind, this is a 42 year-old man threatening to tell on me. I’m not quite sure what his motive is but, Dave, if you do forward my blog to our relatives, can you also forward them to all the other people in your e-mail address book, too? I need to get the circulation up and I want as many people reading this blog as possible.


Thanks!
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