My dad was sitting on the couch slamming down a few cold ones, watching some wrestling show. He was yelling and screaming at the TV screen. And even though it was not directed at me, it scared me a little.
I was sitting there in the corner, trying to make myself as small as possible, trying not to be noticed, because as soon as I got small enough, I was going to sneak into my little sister's Barbie Dream House and have some tea with Ken and G.I. Joe.
In the back of my mind, I knew that this was really ridiculous, but damn it, Ken and G.I. Joe were sooo hot! If I had dance music, some drugs and I took off Ken and G.I. Joe's shirts, it could totally be a Tea Dance. I even knew where I could score the drugs: the Flintstones vitamins on the dining room table.
During the commercial break, my dad noticed me and almost as if he read my mind about shirtless Ken and shirtless G.I. Joe, he decides that this was going to be a Teaching Moment. He was going to teach his gay son to be a man. And by God, it wasn't by teaching him not to ask for directions when he's lost.
He grabs his beer and shoves it under my nose and tells me to take a swig.
"Come on," he said. "It'll grow hair on your chest."
I hesitated. On one hand, I thought hairy chests were sexy, and on the other, it'll be a bitch to shave off for my cabaret act. Nobody wants a hairy-chested Liza Minelli!
(It was only later in 2002, that I learned that I was wrong, there was someone--David Gest. Mr. Gest probably would prefer Liza to have a hairy chest, and probably a penis too.).
The dark, wheaty smell made me wrinkle my nose. Warily, I took a sip.
It was horrible! It tasted like piss, but without a salt lick and a lime wedge to bite on afterwards.
My dad laughed his ass off.
My mom heard the commotion. She came in and yelled at my dad, turned to me and said, "Let this be a lesson to you. Beer is for grown-ups. Don't drink it!"
I nodded to my mom. I had learned my lesson.
I'm sticking to gin.