But Fucking Ryan is kind of the one member of the family that everyone dreads to some degree or another.
Notice I called him Fucking Ryan. This is what he is called by everyone that curses. Which, since the last person that didn’t call him that died years ago, that’s essentially nobody.
And both of his parents are alive. They don’t call him that all the time, but they slip up sometimes.
So, we’re not talking about him being totally cut off from everyone. He lives with his parents, and some of the family as a whole will put up with him. However, he is fully, strictly banned from my home on pain of having his ass beat again. That’s again because when I told him that if he ever darkened my door again, I would beat his ass down the road, he didn’t believe it and got his ass beat down the road.
So, going backwards from there.
He shows up after being warned never to come back or I would beat his ass down the road. He pulls into the driveway, gets out, and is coming up the steps when I make it out the door and start beating his ass. Now, I’m not speaking figuratively. I took my damn cane and was beating his actual ass with it, down the steps, down the walkway, and then down the road. Once he was down there and fell into the ditch, I told him to gtfo. He said he’d go back to his car in a minute, and I said “the fuck you will. Step in my yard and see if I don’t beat your ass right back here.”
He believed me. Asked me to call his mom to come get him. She drove his car, he drove hers. When I called her, she said something to the effect of “jesus, he didn’t show up did he? How bad is he?” Not shocked I beat his ass, not upset I beat his ass, just disappointed she was going to have to pick him up, and wondering if he would need a doctor.
So, backtrack to why he was banned from my house. The straw that broke the camel’s ass was him standing in my living room, doing a southern goodbye that was one sided. He picks up DVD I had sitting on the entertainment center and slides it into his pants. Right in front of me. I told him to put it back and gtfo. He asked what I was talking about. I pointed and said that fucking dvd you just put in your pants. He said he did no such thing.
I grabbed him by the arm and pulled the DVD that was still visibly poking out of his pants out and told him I was done with his bullshit, to leave and never come back.
He starts trying to talk his way out of it and picks the DVD up again. I tell him to put it down, or I was going to beat his ass.
He says “what DVD”.
So I beat his ass. Popped him in the nose and then literally kicked his ass out the front door and down the steps. I told him if he ever came back, I would beat his ass down the road. I meant it more figurative, in that I would just whup him again until he left, but once he came back, I kinda wanted to make a point.
So, why did that merit assault and battery?
Wellllll, pull back to a long history of shit disappearing into his pants, pockets, or coat. Never anything huge or super valuable. Like, a fork. Or a post-it note pad. That kind of shit.
One time, we’re having dinner. Hamburgers. My wife had never seen him go full fucktard before, she thought I was exaggerating.
He gets up, says he needs to use the bathroom. He picks up his burger and takes it with him.
He comes back out, and there’s fucking ketchup and mustard on his left pocket. He starts making another burger. Now, I know Fucking Ryan. I know damn good and well he didn’t eat the burger in the bathroom. He put it in his pocket. But I tell him, “dude, if you wanted a burger to take home, you didn’t have to pocket it.” Dude straight faced asks me what I’m talking about. I point at the juicy bulge in his jeans, and I’m not talking about his cock. I’m talking about the hamburger that’s now dripping juice through the denim.
He then spends fifteen minutes playing dumb until I tell him to go the fuck home.
That’s Fucking Ryan in a nutshell.
Like, years and years of that kind of thing.
Back in the late nineties, I go over to his place. Well, his parent’s place. His bed is gone. There’s just a mattress on the floor. I ask him what happened. He just says he ordered a new one. Knowing Fucking Ryan, on my way out after we fuck around gaming for a while, I ask his parents what the deal is. His dad starts saying they took the damn thing before Ryan’s mom shushes him and says the posts were in the way and refusing to elaborate.
Just one of those Fucking Ryan things, right?
Well, a few weeks later, I’m at the hospital pulling a shift as a fill-in down in the er. Talking to some of the folks there, swapping war stories, I hear that some guy came in with anal injuries from having gotten stuck on the post of a bed.
Again, I know Fucking Ryan, so I know damn good and well it was him. Years later, his dad tells me the story of Fucking Ryan yelling for help and him having to figure out how to pull his adult kid off of a bedpost
So, you may be thinking that Fucking Ryan at that time must have been some teenage idiot. No. He’s only a year younger than me, and I was creeping up on thirty. The hamburger thing? We were in our forties.
You may also be thinking, “Gee, this sounds like someone with some kind of serious neurological issue, maybe something like autism combined with other things.” Nope. His parents spent a good bit of his teenage years and early twenties schlepping him for various tests and exams because he’s always been a fucking twat. His IQ is well above normal, no autism, no obscure disorders, no brain abnormalities.
Nor is there any hint of abuse from his parents or anything like that.
Dude pulls down mid to high six figures, does freelance computer shit, like security, cryptography, that kind of thing, not just tech support.
He’s just Fucking Ryan.
Oh! Back in the eighties! So, his mom is my grandmother’s niece. My grandparents did really well for themselves overall. Had a decent sized house, a few acres of land, that kind of thing. One section, where my grandfather built us kids a treehouse, is basically a half acre of trees we called “the jungle”. So, this was when I was maybe 14 or 15, during the summer.
All us kids were out running around and playing and such one Sunday. Ryan has disappeared. I go looking for him because I was the oldest kid, so it was in my head that I had to take care of everyone. I head towards the back of the jungle and there’s Fucking Ryan fucking a tree. Not humping, not grinding. He’s got his pants around his ankles, and his dick shoved into a hole in the tree, fucking it.
He later on, maybe a year or two after that, dug a hole in the ground and fucked that. How do I know? Because I’m the one he asked to put bandaids on his dick. I told him if he didn’t tell me how it happened, I was telling his mom because I was worried someone had done it to him. I didn’t believe him, because even though I had seen him fucking a tree, I didn’t think anyone would fuck a hole in the ground.
Nope. He took me to the hole and there was jizz in it.
So, allll of that is what justified beating his ass twice.
Oh! And I fucking forgot!
After beating his ass the second time, dude calls me maybe six months later, asks if maybe we can go shooting over at our uncle’s farm. I’m kinda dubious, but a bunch of us had been talking about a family get together and shooting session. So I call around see if he’s welcome. Strangely, nobody objects.
So, we’re all out there and he comes walking around the old barn. No gun, no ammo. Of course he wants to borrow something, and be provided ammo. But, hey, it’s whatever, wouldn’t be the first time his dad wouldn’t let him borrow one of his guns for a family shoot.
I loan him my 22 rifle (ruger 10-22 for anyone that cares), load him up a few magazines, and fun is going to be had.
And it was, for a while. He’s actually got a great sense of humor usually, and he’s a good listener. However, he’s also Fucking Ryan.
He pops off a few rounds at a target, misses, then swings around to crack a joke, while the rifle ends up pointing at multiple people, including me. And, as luck would have it, guess when his finger hit the trigger. If you guessed it was right as it was pointing at my leg, you win the prize.
Luckily, it just barely creased my leg. No damage to muscle at all. Hurt like a motherfucker, and I thought for a few minutes I was going to put a bullet in him, but my family includes a few smart folks, and they secured all the firearms well away from the angry, cursing dude with a bleeding leg and a ruined pair of pants. They were also smart enough to bustle him away and into his car and send him the fuck home, because shot leg or not I would have beat the fuck out of him if I’d seen him again.
Disowned may not be the right word.
But Fucking Ryan is kind of the one member of the family that everyone dreads to some degree or another.
Notice I called him Fucking Ryan. This is what he is called by everyone that curses. Which, since the last person that didn’t call him that died years ago, that’s essentially nobody.
And both of his parents are alive. They don’t call him that all the time, but they slip up sometimes.
So, we’re not talking about him being totally cut off from everyone. He lives with his parents, and some of the family as a whole will put up with him. However, he is fully, strictly banned from my home on pain of having his ass beat again. That’s again because when I told him that if he ever darkened my door again, I would beat his ass down the road, he didn’t believe it and got his ass beat down the road.
So, going backwards from there.
He shows up after being warned never to come back or I would beat his ass down the road. He pulls into the driveway, gets out, and is coming up the steps when I make it out the door and start beating his ass. Now, I’m not speaking figuratively. I took my damn cane and was beating his actual ass with it, down the steps, down the walkway, and then down the road. Once he was down there and fell into the ditch, I told him to gtfo. He said he’d go back to his car in a minute, and I said “the fuck you will. Step in my yard and see if I don’t beat your ass right back here.”
He believed me. Asked me to call his mom to come get him. She drove his car, he drove hers. When I called her, she said something to the effect of “jesus, he didn’t show up did he? How bad is he?” Not shocked I beat his ass, not upset I beat his ass, just disappointed she was going to have to pick him up, and wondering if he would need a doctor.
So, backtrack to why he was banned from my house. The straw that broke the camel’s ass was him standing in my living room, doing a southern goodbye that was one sided. He picks up DVD I had sitting on the entertainment center and slides it into his pants. Right in front of me. I told him to put it back and gtfo. He asked what I was talking about. I pointed and said that fucking dvd you just put in your pants. He said he did no such thing.
I grabbed him by the arm and pulled the DVD that was still visibly poking out of his pants out and told him I was done with his bullshit, to leave and never come back.
He starts trying to talk his way out of it and picks the DVD up again. I tell him to put it down, or I was going to beat his ass.
He says “what DVD”.
So I beat his ass. Popped him in the nose and then literally kicked his ass out the front door and down the steps. I told him if he ever came back, I would beat his ass down the road. I meant it more figurative, in that I would just whup him again until he left, but once he came back, I kinda wanted to make a point.
So, why did that merit assault and battery?
Wellllll, pull back to a long history of shit disappearing into his pants, pockets, or coat. Never anything huge or super valuable. Like, a fork. Or a post-it note pad. That kind of shit.
One time, we’re having dinner. Hamburgers. My wife had never seen him go full fucktard before, she thought I was exaggerating.
He gets up, says he needs to use the bathroom. He picks up his burger and takes it with him.
He comes back out, and there’s fucking ketchup and mustard on his left pocket. He starts making another burger. Now, I know Fucking Ryan. I know damn good and well he didn’t eat the burger in the bathroom. He put it in his pocket. But I tell him, “dude, if you wanted a burger to take home, you didn’t have to pocket it.” Dude straight faced asks me what I’m talking about. I point at the juicy bulge in his jeans, and I’m not talking about his cock. I’m talking about the hamburger that’s now dripping juice through the denim.
He then spends fifteen minutes playing dumb until I tell him to go the fuck home.
That’s Fucking Ryan in a nutshell.
Like, years and years of that kind of thing.
Back in the late nineties, I go over to his place. Well, his parent’s place. His bed is gone. There’s just a mattress on the floor. I ask him what happened. He just says he ordered a new one. Knowing Fucking Ryan, on my way out after we fuck around gaming for a while, I ask his parents what the deal is. His dad starts saying they took the damn thing before Ryan’s mom shushes him and says the posts were in the way and refusing to elaborate.
Just one of those Fucking Ryan things, right?
Well, a few weeks later, I’m at the hospital pulling a shift as a fill-in down in the er. Talking to some of the folks there, swapping war stories, I hear that some guy came in with anal injuries from having gotten stuck on the post of a bed.
Again, I know Fucking Ryan, so I know damn good and well it was him. Years later, his dad tells me the story of Fucking Ryan yelling for help and him having to figure out how to pull his adult kid off of a bedpost
So, you may be thinking that Fucking Ryan at that time must have been some teenage idiot. No. He’s only a year younger than me, and I was creeping up on thirty. The hamburger thing? We were in our forties.
You may also be thinking, “Gee, this sounds like someone with some kind of serious neurological issue, maybe something like autism combined with other things.” Nope. His parents spent a good bit of his teenage years and early twenties schlepping him for various tests and exams because he’s always been a fucking twat. His IQ is well above normal, no autism, no obscure disorders, no brain abnormalities.
Nor is there any hint of abuse from his parents or anything like that.
Dude pulls down mid to high six figures, does freelance computer shit, like security, cryptography, that kind of thing, not just tech support.
He’s just Fucking Ryan.
Oh! Back in the eighties! So, his mom is my grandmother’s niece. My grandparents did really well for themselves overall. Had a decent sized house, a few acres of land, that kind of thing. One section, where my grandfather built us kids a treehouse, is basically a half acre of trees we called “the jungle”. So, this was when I was maybe 14 or 15, during the summer.
All us kids were out running around and playing and such one Sunday. Ryan has disappeared. I go looking for him because I was the oldest kid, so it was in my head that I had to take care of everyone. I head towards the back of the jungle and there’s Fucking Ryan fucking a tree. Not humping, not grinding. He’s got his pants around his ankles, and his dick shoved into a hole in the tree, fucking it.
He later on, maybe a year or two after that, dug a hole in the ground and fucked that. How do I know? Because I’m the one he asked to put bandaids on his dick. I told him if he didn’t tell me how it happened, I was telling his mom because I was worried someone had done it to him. I didn’t believe him, because even though I had seen him fucking a tree, I didn’t think anyone would fuck a hole in the ground.
Nope. He took me to the hole and there was jizz in it.
So, allll of that is what justified beating his ass twice.
Oh! And I fucking forgot!
After beating his ass the second time, dude calls me maybe six months later, asks if maybe we can go shooting over at our uncle’s farm. I’m kinda dubious, but a bunch of us had been talking about a family get together and shooting session. So I call around see if he’s welcome. Strangely, nobody objects.
So, we’re all out there and he comes walking around the old barn. No gun, no ammo. Of course he wants to borrow something, and be provided ammo. But, hey, it’s whatever, wouldn’t be the first time his dad wouldn’t let him borrow one of his guns for a family shoot.
I loan him my 22 rifle (ruger 10-22 for anyone that cares), load him up a few magazines, and fun is going to be had.
And it was, for a while. He’s actually got a great sense of humor usually, and he’s a good listener. However, he’s also Fucking Ryan.
He pops off a few rounds at a target, misses, then swings around to crack a joke, while the rifle ends up pointing at multiple people, including me. And, as luck would have it, guess when his finger hit the trigger. If you guessed it was right as it was pointing at my leg, you win the prize.
Luckily, it just barely creased my leg. No damage to muscle at all. Hurt like a motherfucker, and I thought for a few minutes I was going to put a bullet in him, but my family includes a few smart folks, and they secured all the firearms well away from the angry, cursing dude with a bleeding leg and a ruined pair of pants. They were also smart enough to bustle him away and into his car and send him the fuck home, because shot leg or not I would have beat the fuck out of him if I’d seen him again.
So, yeah, Fucking Ryan.
Oh wow. This was an entertaining read, and I’m so grateful to not have a Fucking Ryan in my family!