Alright, now remember when you were a kid,
and you'd lay on the living room floor and pretend you were dead?
just so you could freak out your mom and give her a panic attack?
No? You didn't do that as a kid?
Oh well, I did. I did it all the time.
I'd be laying on the floor,
looking like a dead body in an episode of CSI,
my mom would walk in and flip out.
"Oh my God, somebody murdered my kid!"
And I'd be committed too, I would lay there
until I could hear, like, the first two digits of 911 being dialled.
Then I'd spring up and be like,
"Surprise, I'm not dead! Isn't that funny?
What, what are you, mad? What are you mad at me for?
Your son's not dead, you should be happy!"
Now, why would I do that as a child?
Well, that's an easy answer, just because.
'Just because' is a good enough excuse for you to do anything as a kid.
"Uh, Billy, can you tell me
why you tried to flush a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle down the toilet?"
"Uh, because."
"Because why?"
"Because, uh... Just because, I don't know.
What do you want from me? I'm a kid, for Christ's sake!"
For example, in the 5th grade
I told my friend Randy that Stone Cold Steve Austin was my uncle.
Now, Stone Cold Steve Austin is a lot of things,
he's Austin 3:16,
and he's the Texas Rattlesnake.
But one thing that he isn't, is my fucking uncle, that's for sure!
So why did I tell Randy that he was?
Well, just because, of course.
Why the hell not?!
And Randy was dumb enough to believe in the first place.
"Wow, dude, Stone Cold is your uncle?!
Can I get an autograph?"
"Well, yeah, Randy, he's my uncle for Christ's sake!
Hell, I could have him Stone Cold Stunner your dad, if you wanted me to."
So sure as hell the next day I show up to class with a post-it note
that has a very obviously forged Stone Cold Steve Austin autograph on it.
It's obviously in my handwriting,
hell, it's probably misspelled on top of it.
I gave that post-it note to Randy,
his ass almost cried in the classroom.
"Oh my God, I can't believe it!
I'll cherish it always!"
And that is... well, that's the end of the story.
I never told Randy the truth.
Hell, his ass probably still has
that fucking post-it note framed in his bedroom, for Christ's sake.
"My God, Stone Cold Steve Austin had terrible penmanship in the '90s."
But that's just the type of shit that you did.
You did things just to do them.
Like another example.
One time I was standing outside my house on a summer day,
just doing kid shit.
And I see that my next door neighbor Michael left his bike outside.
So, what do I decide to do?
Well, I take his bike,
and I dip his handlebars in a big pile of dog shit.
Now, why would I do something like that?
Well, just because, of course!
That and because Michael got my Vortex Football stuck in the tree the week prior.
In my mind his ass deserved it.
So a few minutes later Michael comes outside and gets on his bike,
I'm sitting in my front yard,
waiting for him to put his hand in dog shit and cry like a little girl.
But to my surprise, Michael was such a dirty little bastard,
his ass didn't even notice.
All day long he's riding throughout the neighborhood,
totally oblivious to the shit smattered on his handlebars in his hands.
"Hey, why is that dirty little kid riding a girl's bike with one training wheel?"
"I don't know, but he smells like a fucking porta potty, I tell you what."
Hell, I even seen his ass eat an ice cream sandwich later that day,
and I almost threw up in my mouth.
"Oh, this ice cream sandwich tastes like somebody's asshole.
Oh, well."
Now, you had to be careful with the 'just because' excuse,
because 'just because' could get you in trouble.
Like for example, one time when I was a kid,
I was swinging a wiffle ball bat inside the house like an asshole.
Why was I doing that? Well, just because!
God damn, how many times I've got to say it?!
So imagine my surprise, when the wiffle ball bat
flings out of my hand like a fucking boomerang.
And it smashes into a seventh grade picture of my sister hanging on the wall.
Well, now what am I gonna do?
What am I, just gonna walk up to my parents, like,
"Hey, I was swinging a wiffle ball bat in the house just because,
and I broke a bunch of shit..."
No, I'm not gonna do that,
I'm gonna do what any 8-year-old is gonna do.
I'm gonna try to fix it myself.
So I dump all the broken glass in the garbage can,
and just pray to God nobody's gonna notice
that fucking picture frame with no glass in it.
I put the wooden panels back together with masking tape, hanging back on the wall.
But clearly, that's not gonna cut it.
It's not exactly incon-fucking-spicuous, that's for sure.
So I grab some crayons,
and I try to match the wood grain as best as possible.
And I have to say, I fucking Pablo Picassoed that thing to perfection.
Hell, I think it looked better than it did before I broke it.
So I hang it back up on the wall, all confident in my handiwork.
And I'll be damned,
that picture frame went unnoticed for like 8 years.
It wasn't until one day my mom was walking through, like,
"Hey, what the? Is that masking tape?
Hey, there's not even glass in this picture frame!"
And my ass, who was practically a grown man at this point, was like,
"Oh yeah, I broke that thing when I was like, 8 years old,
swinging a wiffle ball bat in the house."
"Uh, why were you swinging a wiffle ball bat in the house?"
"Oh, I don't know, just because, I guess."
So I guess I owe my mom an apology for all the bullshit that I've done,
and then apology to Randy
for his fake-ass Stone Cold Steve Austin autograph.
And hell, even an apology to Michael, for...
Well, you know what, fuck Michael, he lost my goddamn Vortex Football in the tree.
But anyways, the moral of the story is,
the next time you're trying to figure out why your kid fucking...
dumped a bottle of nail polish in your driveway,
or they duct taped a fucking G.I. Joe to your cat,
just know they did it because...
well, just because.
The end.
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