Listen up, you mental patients: I didn’t really shove my kids into
straight jackets straitjackets, duct-tape their mouths shut and slap chastity belts on my wife and myself. I would never, ever do such a thing … wear a chastity belt, I mean; I got a vasectomy years ago.
Of course, I wouldn’t do the other stuff, either … in front of a camera.
No, what you witnessed was the result of my mad Photoshop skillz … which I didn’t think would actually fool anybody; I thought you’d all just look at the picture and say, “Ha! That Jon and his mad Photoshop skillz!” But, apparently, some of you think I’d actually incriminate myself in front of the entire Internet … so I feel it’s important to show you the original image, which actually was taken in July of last year, while we were in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.
Which reminds me: it’s been at least 10 seconds since I complained about summer being over, and more than a full minute since I said “I wish it was time to go back to the beach house in Delaware.” There, I feel better now.
Speaking of trips to warmer climes: that California vacation I mentioned yesterday? Writing about it brought back one of the more priceless memories from my childhood, which came courtesy of my younger brother, who was a few months shy of his fifth birthday at the time.
Picture this: My 4-year-old brother, 6-year-old sister and I are seated in the rental car with our father. We are parked outside of NBC Studios in Burbank, where my mother is standing in a crowded line to snag a pair of tickets for that evening’s taping of “The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.”
We’re listening to the radio while waiting for her when, suddenly, a jaunty little number by AC/DC comes on. It’s a song we’ve never heard before. Something about a man who likes to organize large, formal functions. Balls, as it were.
The chorus kicks in, and we are serenaded by Bon Scott singing, “I’ve got big balls,” a phrase he repeats about a gazillion times. My father presumably is on a mental vacation of his own (a common occurrence), so the song continues to play uninterrupted.
And here’s where we enter full-on Griswold status:
My brother hangs his upper body out the back window of the car as the beautiful people of Hollywood are milling about and the gorgeous Southern California sun is shining down, and yells at the top of his little lungs, “HEY MOM! WE’VE GOT BIG BALLS!”
Twenty-nine years later, I still laugh mine off every time I remember it.