McDadd Arrives Late to the Party
by Todd Schindler
Tolstoy wan't the first one
To turn that age-old phrase,
That happy families, they're similar
And sad ones, none the same;
That seed was planted long ago,
Through generations tales were told,
From Seth and Cain and Abel,
Down to our very own.
So, for all discerning debauchees,
Here's a tale of young McDadd;
Forget 'bout Mom loves Dad, and Dad loves Sue,
Who loves Billy and the cat.
For this story is of wickedness,
Of greediness and spite,
Of folks who do the wrong thing
And turn their back on right.
McDadd and His Mother
McDadd, he loved his whiskey,
His bedroom was his bar;
Too drunk to make the bathroom,
He'd pee inside a jar.
His sheets were stained with alcohol,
His house it smelled of mold;
He'd lived on disability
Since he was ten years old.
His mother, she lived right next door,
And Mary was her name;
She fed McDadd on bills and coins,
Just like a funhouse game.
She loved the boy and hated him,
Six children she had had;
The first five by her husband,
Then, the milkman's son, McDadd.
Her progeny had all moved out,
And found success alone,
They married and had kids themselves,
They never came back home;
But the youngest never left the nest,
The youngest and the worst;
And he loved his mother jealously
For the coins inside her purse.
Now Mary took a second spouse,
When her first had passed away,
And McDadd had pledged to kill the sot,
Until his dying day;
"Unhand my mama's money,"
He shouted in a rage,
"Or whose dime will I drink upon,
When I am in old age?"
McDadd Makes Mountains of Molehills
Mary's husband was called Barry,
A hygienic man he was,
Liked the house so neat and clean,
Without a trace of dust;
His backyard, it was manicured,
Just like a putting green,
But McDadd's yard was a jungle,
Like this man had never seen.
One day McDadd heard Barry,
In confidence to his wife,
Say, "That boy is so damn slovenly,
That boy is full of vice!
It's time we made of man of him,
And taught him Lesson One:
A boy who is so feculent
Is an insult to his mum."
But Mary spoke in dulcet tones
To the man who'd down her son,
"My dear, McDadd's a good boy,
And he's now my only one;
He drinks too much, he loafs too much
Don't think that I don't see,
But I love the clod with a mother's love
And deep down, he's just like me."
Still, McDadd, he started scheming,
To break Old Barry's will,
He stumbled to his backyard,
He began to build a hill;
He piled all his trash and junk
Against his mother's gate,
Dross and dregs and cigarette butts,
And a six-foot tall bookcase.
The mountain grew by leaps and bounds
Till it dwarfed Old Barry's yard,
It could be seen for miles around,
And in the town was heard,
"Have you seen the new volcano
That drunk McDadd has cast?
It's giant, it's a danger,
I tell you, it won't last."
So, Old Barry, he takes one quick look
And his heart, it palpitates,
He collapses at the threshhold
Of the garbage-covered gate;
He crawls and squirms his way inside,
Till he makes it to the loo,
And McDadd, he squints through happy eyes,
Saying, "The bastard, he is through."
Then Ernie gambols on outside,
He is Mary's hound;
He sniffs and then he lifts his leg
And pees upon the mound;
Suddenly, a rumbling
Shakes the ground 'neath Ernie's path,
Then the hill collapsed on Ernie's spine
And snapped the mutt in half.
One ambulance arrived that day,
A hearse just on its heels,
The first rushed Barry to the hospital,
The next, Ernie to the field;
The dog was buried quickly,
Old Barry, he survived
But he had to wear a pacemaker
All the days of his cursed life.
McDadd Goes to Court
Mary took her son to court,
For the folly he foretook,
The damage to her hound too great
To let him off the hook;
"The court has heard the evidence
And it's hereby decreed
The plaintiff shall pay seven bills
To buy back his evil deed.
And let us say in passing,
That we have rarely heard
Of a man so inconsiderate
To she who made his world."
When McDadd had learned the verdict,
He broke down as from a lash,
But his black heart, it was burning
'Cause he'd lost his source of cash.
"Where will I get the money?
The lady's left me broke,
No money for my whiskey,
No money for my smokes
No money for my for my beer-pint,
No money for my bets,
Where will I get the seven bills
To rid myself of debt?"
"So I've taught McDadd humility,"
Mary smiled to herself,
But she knew she hadn't taught a goddamn thing
To her boy or no-one else,
"But I'm not long for this wicked world,
And soon I will be gone;
I'll find comfort in this little lie,
I'll find comfort in my son."
For the doctors had all examined her
One gray and rainy morn,
They said the word "inoperable,"
Said it was in her bones;
"You better get your house in order,
And make yourself a will,
'Cause Death, it will come quickly,
And for your pain, here's pills."
McDadd's Mother Returns to Her Maker
Mary, she was buried
In the churchyard down the road,
Old Barry, he attended,
McDadd was home in bed;
Old Barry's new pacemaker
Kept time as teardrops fell,
He'd been as faithful as a hunting dog to her,
McDadd could go to Hell.
When McDadd did rise at noon that day,
To the mailbox he had gone,
Hoping for arriving news
That the lottery he had won;
All he found was an envelope,
Inside was Mary's will
Deeding to him all her cash,
And her old house (and the hill).
Old Barry he got nothing,
Though dear Mary he had loved,
With all his heart and all his soul,
Lord in Heaven up above;
Old Barry he got nothing,
Though no evil deed he'd done;
Yet all of Mary's bounty
Went to the milkman's son.
When McDadd had read the documents,
He didn't crack a grin,
He just walked right past his mother's grave
On his way to buy some gin;
He bought gin by the caseload,
And whiskey by the keg
And he walked back past his mother's grave
On drunk and wobbly legs.
And so McDadd was wealthy,
As Mary'd saved and saved,
And the milkman's son indulged himself
As his mum lay in her grave
So the moral of the story,
If there's anything we've learned:
A boy need not love his mama
To get love in return,
A boy need not love his mama
To get love in return;
Remember that, you children,
Better yet, you mums and dads,
The wicked children you bring into this world,
May be the best ones that you have.
Todd Schindler is a writer, filmmaker, and semi-professional paranormal investigator who lives in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in Men's Journal, Metropolis, Condé Nast Epicurious, Fodor's, and on public television. His forthcoming album of filthy limericks, Songs of Detest, is available for purchase through his e-mail address.