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After an eternity of Matt making dinner, solo, and putting a sixty-percent portion of leftovers in the fridge for Trey to inhale—ice cold—when he gets home stupid fucking late, the South Park Elementary Holiday Extravaganza!! Concert is here at last.
Hoo-ray. Fa-la-la. Bah-hum-burger, with cheese.
It’s the second week of December, and winter is in full swing. Colorado got the memo early in late September, when the ground first froze and since then never really thawed. There’s a good two feet of snow outside, courtesy of this morning’s squall, and it blankets everything except for parking lots and roads so heavily salted they rival bacon.
Not for the first nor last time, Matt’s spending his Friday night in an elementary school auditorium. He would say it’s out of love, but that sounds fucking weird without the context that it’s out of love for Trey. Who else? Matt does not have children and is certainly not using his cum the way nature intended, thanks very much.
Anyways, he’s here now, and alone. They arrived at the event separately: Matt had a circuit civil trial go a little past six-thirty and stopped off at home to get a snack and change out of his monkey suit. Trey’s been here since seven this the morning, despite class starting at nine; he’s so frequently present outside school hours he probably should pay rent.
Preparations are coming along like a well-oiled machine, if he judges from Trey’s mania. Matt’s known him long enough to tell he’s whipped himself into a frenzy over this silly little school show. In the fifteen minutes since Matt’s arrival, they’ve yet to meet up, because Trey’s spectral apparition appears in flashes on- and off-stage, fiddling with this, talking to that, moving and shaking and producing. The man has the body for football coaching, but a mind built for Broadway.
At some point, Matt catches him in a stage corner: Trey chews on a hangnail on his thumb, moves a microphone stand two inches left, chews some more, moves the stand two inches right, then hand-to-Christ disappears into thin air. He imagines sauntering up to one of the volunteer stagehands trying and failing to keep with Trey’s fluctuating demands, jutting out his hand, have you met my husband, Phantom of the Menace of the Opera? Oh really? Yeah, he tends to do that. Sorry.
Parents really start to pile into the audience around fifteen ’til eight, when the show officially starts. There’s some form of opening entertainment going on now, a boy with forearm crutches doing crowd work. Matt does not give a shit about any performance that Trey hasn’t had his hand in, so he makes like a tree and bounces.
To kill time, he walks around the locker-filled hallways, the theater lobby equivalent, with arms loosely crossed. It smells like popcorn, puberty, linoleum cleaner, and the funk of thousands of cafeteria meals past.
To say he feels out of place is an understatement; even Trey’s coworkers—like Ms. Garrison, who he gives a wide berth—wouldn’t have much to say to him without the former to drive the conversation. There’s an art exhibition out here with tables chock full of trifold poster boards and amorphous glazed clay and future trash, clarification, current trash to anyone other than each child’s mother.
He chances getting hand, foot, and mouth disease by flipping through a spiral coil-bound storybook of cutesy forest animals and metal man machines, shocked to find himself impressed by it. Halfway through, he gets the prickly feeling someone’s watching him. Ever-honed by the antics his and Trey’s extended friend group got up to in Boulder, those heightened senses of paranoia did not evaporate on graduation day; they just took root.
Matt shifts his gaze and catches an unmistakable group of moms surveying him from another table without even trying to hide it. He gets that rush-of-blood-to-the-head feeling of being twelve again, and a group of girls giggling and whispering in his direction. As preteens they were terrifying, as thirty-forty somethings they just rankle him. Whatever their issue—is it what he’s wearing? So what, he’s not dressed for the fuckin’ Met Gala, but tonight’s not worth more than a pair of joggers and a Columbia half-zip fleece, it’s just not—it’s their problem, not his, and he replaces the cover to ‘A Woodland Critter Christmas II: J-Day’ and moves on. Regrettably, really, because it’s publication-worthy.
He ambles some more and ends up at a complimentary drink station, sadly bereft of anything that could fuck him up even a modicum. The government would probably frown upon an open bar on school grounds, the wet blankets. So, this will do. He’s already planned on taking several piss breaks to break up the monotony, might as well make them real.
“Aren’t you Kevin’s dad? I don’t think we’ve met before!” Some blonde declares to his left, stepping just between him and the punch bowl, beckoning in all its fizzy pink deliciousness. She’s got way too much glittery makeup on and is dressed in red-trimmed white fur like she’s auditioning to be Santa’s second wife, Golden (tinsel) Bachelor-style.
He most certainly is not, and he knows she knows it because she has the haughtiness of someone who’s made it their job to sniff out any potential undesirables, AKA perverts, at her meticulously planned winter showcase. As if anyone would get their rocks off with this pathetic display of refrigerator art, but okay, lady. He can suddenly smell the PTA fumes wafting off her.
And, yeah, he could pony up and say, no, but thanks for asking! My nephew and niece, Stanley and April, go here, as does my overgrown manchild, Trey, but where would the fun be in just giving that information out. Actually, that last point gives him a great idea. “His name isn’t Kevin.”
Eleven lines appear between her skinny eyebrows. Her Botox must’ve taken the night off. “What’s your son’s name, then?”
“Technically, it’s Randolph,” he cocks his head and juts a thumb in the sure-fire direction of the propped-open auditorium doors, and probably in Trey’s direction, too, assuming his location has stabilized now that it’s ten ’til. Doesn’t even need to turn around to know he’s dead-on in his accuracy; he bets to anyone else that would’ve looked pretty cool.
It does not impress Mrs. Wanna-Be-Claus. “You have to have a child at this school to be here, sir.”
He’s had his fill of this conversation, and now wants his fill of a drink. “’Kay. Take it up with the fruity music director.” He sidesteps her, plucks a pre-filled plastic cup of punch, and has a third of it in his gullet by the time she’s squawking back at him.
Matt shakes her too easily—long legs—and slips his way past countless huddles of parents talking about whatever those sad sacks have to talk about. All these non-performing siblings at their sides look fucking bored, and he sympathizes.
He loops once around the hallway to evade the bouncer before he can get back into the auditorium, and he pushes his luck but honestly it was just too easy to sneak another one or three cups of punch in the process. He just throws the empty evidence into a classroom—whoops who put those there.
Now back in the fray of the audience, he starts aiming for the stage. There’s a crap-ton of people in these seats, and not everyone’s settled but enough of a crowd’s formed for the boy who’s still performing to be killing it, quite honestly. He gets about halfway down the far-left aisle when yet another woman accosts him in his quest.
“Hi, Matt.” Shelley too has the ability to materialize at his side like her brother, and he doesn’t even startle. It’s a family trait.
In the same vein, she’s got sandy hair like her mom but Trey’s, or their dad’s, mouth and chin. Her aloofness and self-actualization relate her more to Matt, though, and they’ve salvaged countless family functions getting drunk-high somewhere quiet that doesn’t involve their joined wacky-ass families. Tonight’s instance is a microcosm.
“Hey, Shell.” He looks between her expression and at the same cup in her hand and compares its color difference to his fourth, which, lamentably, is nearly gone. “Seriously? You’ve become your father.”
She tsks and takes a good long pull. Whatever her pick-me-up’s spiked with, it’s candy-apple red and coats her immaculately straight teeth. The proudest day of Trey’s life was getting to introduce Matt to Shelley, then whip out a photobook of her in her headgear from ages eight to thirteen. He’s got a filling on one tooth and a still-healing hematoma on the back of his arm from her reaction. “Whatever helps.”
“…Gimme some.”
It’s vermouth, what the fuck. He scrunches his face up at her and runs his tongue over his eyeteeth as it claws allll the way down. He’s got a veteran liver and too much inherent tolerance for some ounces of booze to do anything other than break the ice, but he does feel more at peace now not going through this night with a zeroed-out BAC.
“That’s—huh.”
Her mouth twists up in the corner. Sadist. “Keep it. I’ve got more in my Narnia purse.”
He raises it next to his ears: sláinte. They bid each other adieu, godspeed, soldier, so that Shelley can return to her seated hubby—and flask—and Matt can go find his own. He’ll soon return to take the seat she had the foresight to save for him, but a preternatural sense tells him Trey’s probably eating his fingers right about now, and the homing beacon in his ribcage points him ceaselessly on.
One of the stagehands admits him through the side of the curtain, and it’s a funny gesture that makes him feel like he’s some sort of designated plus-one to this very exclusive event. He makes a quick mixer by pouring the remainder of Shelley’s ‘punch’ into his, then hands the helper the empty cup, and, like a manservant, they just take it! Which is awesome.
Behind the scenes, it’s not quite the chaos he imagined, but it’s loud and noisy the way only kids and-or drunk adults can be. They’re lining up into the choir stands, making the third row almost on par with his freak height. Which also means some brat on the end shrieks too closely to his ear, almost making him slosh his drink. That and the suddenness of it makes Matt want to tell them to shut up like he would a fellow adult, but the little shit would probably tattle on his not-niceness. So, in the name of the holidays, he manages not to, although he also does not bother to conceal his annoyance as he passes by.
Despite his disappearing acts earlier, it’s actually very easy to find Trey. He’s at the piano, positioned on the far end of the stage; Matt automatically thinks he’s been done dirty by being anywhere other than front and center. Trey’s preoccupied with one hand on four keys, and the other gesturing meaninglessly at a small, extremely nervous blond boy.
Feet away, he hears Trey say, “…it like that, okay, Butters?”, and Matt almost laughs. If he squints, this munchkin is the reincarnation of their own lil’ butty, of Eric, who’s not even dead, just terminally boring now that he’s married with kids of his own in Denver.
The boy christened ‘Butters’ wrings his teeny hands. “Aw, geez, Mr. Parker—I’ll—I’ll try—”
“You’ve got the holiday spirit, champ!” He claps Butters on the shoulder, and okay, it’s cute to see the kid’s face light up like a tree at such earnest praise. It tugs on Matt’s grinchy heartstrings.
Butters skuttles off just as Matt stops behind the man of the hour, who’s transitioned to stress-playing scales with deft fingers. It’s Matt’s favorite place to be, meaning in Trey’s shadow, also maybe in the sexual way, but that’s not a trail of thought to continue when surrounded by so many wide-eyed innocents. Still, though. Accurate.
“Hey, dude,” he plucks a tent into the knit of Trey’s bedazzled holiday sweater. If he was a chick, Matt could’ve been snapping his bra strap right now, or unhooking it like a degenerate, but life isn’t always fun and easy like that.
Trey pivots his whole body on the piano bench and upturns such a genuinely warm smile at him that Matt grins back, some lovesick loser shit he never outgrew. Gross, disgusting, isn’t love supposed to be liberal propaganda?
“Matty! When’d you get here? How was your trial? Hey, do you think I need to tune this mid-F key? I might finally be going deaf but I swear a string’s gone slack and—”
“A deep breath would do you good,” Matt interjects, dropping next to him on the bench and folding his legs at the ankle beneath. He scoots close enough to provide as much of a comforting presence without actually touching Trey, although he would like to, it’s best if they don’t.
Trey laughs, point proven, breathlessly. “Okay, alright. Sorry. Your turn.”
“One, like, half an hour ago. Two, went great, Judge Carpenter gave us until January to submit our proposed final judgements so that’s cool. And three, probably, ’cause this piano looks older than us combined.” He lifts Trey’s wrist and presses the cup into his palm. “Four, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Trey looks like he’s been given the gift of life itself, looking between Matt and the concoction, and sucks it down in one gulp, nodding and smacking his lips at the aftertaste. Matt thinks, that’s my boy, and says, “your sister’s an alcoholic.”
Trey barks out a laugh and crumples the plastic in his grip. “And we’re not?”
“Oh most definitely.”
Trey puts this last empty cup on top of the piano, ruby-red legs sliding down the inside walls. He goes to say something, but Matt can tell there’s someone behind him based on how his expression morphs into neutrality, so he turns at the waist away from Trey to look.
It’s just their nephew, Shelley’s son. “Hey, Uncle Trey, Uncle Matt,” Stan greets as he sidles up to their right. Paces behind him is Gerry’s redhead boy, Kyle, who’s also Stan’s best friend. That’s cute, too, he reasons. It’s still amusing to him that a fellow attorney at his law firm has the same name and wife’s name as his parents, but that’s how coincidences work. Gerald and Sheila are common enough; come back and talk when there’s somehow a crossover between the Apples and Dweezils and X Æ A-XIIs of the world. “Can you drop us off at Cartman’s house after the show? April’s going to a sleepover and we wanted to have one, too, and Mom said I can go but someone else has to take us.”
Trey pulls his other hand off the piano keys to steeple his fingers to his cleft chin. “Did you guys get your reading done for Monday?”
Stan and Kyle exchange a look: uh, no? Shit. He’s supposed to be cool!
Abruptly, Trey cackles and proves them right. “Just kidding! You’ve got all weekend. Or Monday morning at eight-fifty-nine. Sure thing.”
Delighted, the two boys rush to high-five him, then each other, and stalk off. Matt feels like an elderly third-wheel observing this whole ‘hello-fellow-kids’ exchange.
“Am I crazy or do those two remind you of us?” He muses, leaning an elbow on the raised fallboard of the piano. He watches Stan and Kyle join a few other kids in the stands, chiefly a chubby brown-haired boy who looks pissed to be here and another whose face is so obscured by his hoodie, the drawstrings pulled that taut, only a sliver of his eyes and nose is visible.
Matt twists his head back to catch his reaction, and Trey is dividing his attention between him and those same four fourth-graders. “Funny you mention that, since Kyle’s Jewish and looks as out of place at a Christmas concert as you do.”
“I take it back, you’re so not Stan.” Matt drops his elbow and jabs it into Trey’s side. “You’re the fat one who’s eagerly waiting for his big fuckin’ moment in the spotlight.”
That boy, now shaking his clenched fists, is barking something at the obscured-face boy. He’s kind of loud, so Matt has no trouble catching, “YAH HUH, KEEENEY!”
Trey blows air out of his nostrils, looks to the sky, and momentarily closes his eyes. “That’s Eric Cartman. The fucking nightmare spawned out of Satan’s unexpressed anal glands.”
The name rings a clear bell; like, the kind they use to start a WWE match or a cockfight. Trey’s not one to bitch about work or his kids, but in their house this one…this one is a legend. And the rumors? All true.
“Put some respeck on the Eric name, kid,” Matt whispers, meaning their Eric, still watching this Cartman boy’s little public freakout. He’s oddly entertaining, in the way that that video of a police car rushing onto an active railroad track too soon and getting demolished by a train is entertaining. Horrible, and yet…
“YAH HUH THE COON IS TOO KEEEWL!”
None of the other kids in the stands are paying attention, as they chat and joke amongst themselves; they must be that used to his antics, but Matt just sits there, enraptured. You usually have to pay for content like this.
“HE’S A FUCKING RACCOON! BUTT-FUCKER QUESTION MARK MYSTERION CAN SUCK HIS BAWLS!”
“See what I mean?” Trey sighs as Matt starts choking on his laughter. “Every goddamn day with this kid, I swear, man. Eric Cartman!”
A beet-red Cartman pauses his raging and squints his beady eyes at Trey. “WHAT?”
“Now’s not the time! Save it for after the show, will you?” He can hear Trey go into teacher mode, and how the atmosphere between them shifts, now that the children are waiting in the stands and things are ready for takeoff, so Matt slides off the piano bench. He lays a clandestine hand length-wise on Trey’s forearm and squeezes, hopes Trey’ll feel the phantom of his touch even when he slides back into his seat next to Shelley and Larry.
He doesn’t mean for it, but that breaks Trey’s concentration. He tracks Matt’s arm touch and subsequent movement with a bobblehead, and his eyes are wide, evidently thinking but not saying something like don’t leave! Such a silly thing, since they both know he was born to be the big wig on stage, but now that Matt’s going, reality’s sinking in. “Come find me after the show, okay? I wanna get dinner and hear more about the trial, later.”
Matt bows his head. “Okay. Okay.” He feels the pull to walk away but resists, sucked in by Trey’s gravitational propensity for clinginess. “Break Eric’s leg.”
He leaves Trey laughing, hands clapped together. On his way back out, he thumbs-up the four boys—pretty sure he hears Cartman ask Stan, “Dude, your uncle’s a fag?”, which is goddamn hilarious—and finds and waves at his niece, Stan’s sister April, who returns it merrily.
He salutes that same stagehand upon his exit, who just looks back at him with a blank expression. They’re still holding that cup.
“Move your feet,” Shelley smacks Larry’s thigh to make him scrunch in on himself, as Matt’s trying to squeeze past to his seat. “Welcome back. How’s turd boy doing?”
“He liked your wizard potion,” he collapses into his own fold-up chair, and surprise, surprise, his kneecaps sit flush with the backing in front of him, “and I heard one of Stan’s friends call me or Trey a fag. The youth is in good hands.”
Shelley snickers; Larry, holding what seems to be his wife’s purple iPhone in landscape mode, looks alarmed. He’s a nice guy but big and doughy in every sense, and the definition of pussy-whipped. Shelley could probably ride him into battle, the way she’s got her household pecking order sorted. Truthfully, Matt thinks she could’ve done better, but she knows it and likes that imbalance, so he leaves his judgement of their freaky marriage at the door. He’s got his own cocktail of weird to be throwing stones.
Randy Senior’s an eccentric but a good guy, and Sharon’s gentle, level-headed. Matt does not know what the hell happened with their adult children.
The boy doing jokes must’ve finished his set while Matt was gone, because the lights dim on an empty stage. He stirs in his seat, already uncomfortable with the lack of legroom, but then the curtain’s opening, and Trey’s baby is being born.
The spotlights focus on him in front of that microphone stand, the same one Matt caught him moving around at his most deranged. He can’t help it, he feels his heart swell with pride at the sight of a grinning Trey in his element, doing what he does and loves best. And he really doesn’t care if it’s embarrassing if he thinks: that’s my husband, look at him go! I get to suck his dick a couple times a week!
And he’s a natural up there, too, unquestionably. Trey waits for the polite applause to die down, yet to say a word and already commanding the stage. He looks past the curtain, makes some sort of technical motion, and unclips the corded mike from the stand and starts to move with it.
“HELL-OOO PARENTS OF SOUTH PARK ELEMENTARY!” Trey’s voice booms out of the speakers, and the audio pops and breaks at the end, goes eeeERRRRRRRR as it splits into an ear-piercing whistle tone. Two AV Club dorks at the base of the stage start franticly twisting dials on the mixer, the world’s saddest deejays.
The crowd at the very front reacts like they’ve been shot.
Matt loves him but is also not averse to snickering at his misfortune. He looks at Shelley, and, yep, Christmas came early for her, too.
And then he feels kind of bad about it. Trey’s a consummate professional, and Matt alone can pinpoint the flop-sweat sheen glistening off his forehead. He’s also a stickler, a capital P ‘Perfectionist’, and his untreated OCD is worsening the older he gets, to the point Matt’s thought about dropping him off at a psychotherapist like fucking daycare. There are some, not many, but some things in life he can’t handle on Trey’s behalf, and it’s pretty easy to dwell upon that whenever he’s left alone in a cold bed because Trey has to get up to check the front door’s locked for the third time since he brushed his teeth.
But that’s a problem for next year, probably. Here and now, little blunders like that are simply out of Trey’s control. This is an elementary in, gentrification efforts aside, still-bumfuck Colorado. No shit the audio system sucks; whoever installed it didn’t exactly intend on Billy Eyelash playing her next Tiny Desk Concert here. Maybe Michael McDonald, though.
“…Is this thing on?” Trey tries again, taps the microphone and pantomimes mutely speaking into it, which gets a good amount of laughter from the audience. “Alright, sorry about that, everybody. It wouldn’t be a school gig if something didn’t go wrong. But now that’s out of the way! Welcome, my name is Trey Parker, and I’m your kids’ band, choir, and music teacher. And it is my honor and privilege to welcome you all to this year’s Holiday Extravaganza—” he pauses for more polite clapping “—thank you. Now, these awesome kids behind me have put in countless hours over the last couple months for tonight’s show, and all I had to do was bribe them with KFC on Fridays.”
More laughter. “Psst,” Shelley hisses. Matt looks over, and she’s dangling her flask out at him, her splayed-open Coach bag in her lap like a spatchcocked bird. Larry stares straight ahead, dutifully filming, and it’s not because of that he’s been skipped over; he’s a teetotaler.
There’s your fag, Cartman.
“Oh yesss,” he reaches shamelessly over Larry, the roadblock, with grabby hands. He narrowly avoids the sharp eye of the camera as the iPhone fumbles a little in the latter’s butter fingers.
Matt takes a good swig—more fucking vermouth, at least this time it’s not cut with Sprite and pink-lemonade Kool-Aid—and catches the eye of a parent behind them. He looks appalled, and Matt shakes the flask at him. Not as an advertisement to share, this is for the Stone-Parker-Feegan family alliance only, but just in a, ‘hey guy!’ kind of way.
Trey’s still talking. “…will sing for chicken! Okay, enough intro: without further ado, please give it up for children of South Park Elementary!”
Flask returned, Matt pivots his full attention to the stage and claps no harder and no longer than expected. He keeps his eyes trained on Trey—the way he’s done since he first walked into a CU lecture hall and sat next to some floppy straw-haired fuck in the last row—as he moves like liquid back to the piano and commences the choir song with crisp, twinkling notes, the impeccable playing of someone who lives and breathes music.
This is all live, by the way; there’s no ‘sacrilegious’ backing tracks here. God only knows what spectacle they’re gonna have to orchestrate at Trey’s funeral someday if they don’t want him to haunt them all.
And, side note: that cup he brought him is still sitting on top of the piano, like a talisman. It’s tangible proof of Matt, who was there, and still is somewhere in the crowd. He sees Trey look up at it once or twice.
The kids start singing a modernized version of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’, at a current tempo, and here’s where Matt starts to tune out and either stare at Trey’s profile or ponder his day, which he treats like white-collar meditation. At ‘Feliz Navidad’, which is kind of butchered overall by the majority of kids who refused to memorize a song in Spanish, there’s still not enough alcohol in his system for his liking, but that extra gulp settles into his bones quite nicely by ‘Wonderful Christmastime’. He almost forgets his knees are going numb by the time ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ rolls around; he’s happy to report Trey covers George Michael’s part.
That’s fitting. That’s also very hot.
All in all, the Extravaganza plays out without any other hiccups. It’s a talent show with a variety coat of paint, where the entire group of kids breaks after two more songs, and then groups divided by age or grade or singing prowess take the stage, or to do their little holiday-related acting or reading. Notably, the comedian comes back, this time with a boy in a wheelchair who seemingly can only say his own name, but they surprisingly work as a duo. Stan and Kyle get to do some Snow Miser-Heat Miser back-and-forth, which, perfect. Cartman even gets to read a very truncated version of his Critter story, holy shit, he wrote and drew that? Matt sits up in his seat in glee when the imp gets pulled off stage by Mr. Mackey at the first mention of ‘animal blood orgy’. He literally goes kicking and screaming.
It’s only about an hour, hour-fifteen tops, but Trey’s working his ass off up there; Matt sees the sheer magnitude of effort he puts into keeping time and playing solo and backing vocals, main vocals a good portion, too, and everything that requires his undivided effort is herculean. That dumb heart swell thing just keeps happening to him throughout the evening. Even the children recognize it’s a one-man show from the way they defer to the all-mighty, all-talented Mr. Parker; and while he’s always personally assumed they all get to live in Trey’s world, it’s also good to get proof from unbiased sources that aren’t fucking Trey.
The big finale involves bringing all kids back out and putting them in the stands again so they can joyously sing ‘Happy Xmas (War Is Over)’, which is entirely fitting since the original song ends in a child chorus anyways.
He’s one of the first to stand when it’s time to applaud; he is that proud, also he was probably going to lose his legs below the knee from lack of blood flow if he sat for another five minutes. The pins and needles are outrageous, and he hunches like a turtle-shaped fuck for about a minute. Two sixth-graders are doing that arm-lifting ‘take a bow’ thing with Trey, and his sweater and face aren’t just sweaty, he’s wet. If this was football, they’d be upturning a cooler and drenching him in an orange Gatorade shower right about now.
Done. It was actually a great show, but it’s greater in hindsight and over for another year. And if Trey even thinks about implementing a program in the spring like he’s threatened before, Matt’s going to go postal on him.
As quickly as they came, people start filtering out in droves. Larry gets up, presses the red ‘Stop Recording’ button on the iPhone, and brushes non-existent specks off his shirt. He says a succinct but well-intentioned goodbye to Matt, which he returns, while slinging Shelley’s bag over his elbow and hauling his non-responsive wife out of her seat. She finished her flask thirty minutes in and, instead of just getting buzzed, fell asleep on Larry’s meaty shoulder around Butter’s recount of the story of the Nativity.
He smirks as they co-dependently hobble off, and sits a numb asscheek on the edge of the now-empty chair in front of him. Digging out his iPhone, he shoots an errant email off to his paralegal, something technical he remembered during a number, and switches to Safari for open-late restaurants. He can sense Trey’ll want to hit up a drive-thru somewhere on his way home from dropping the boys off, but tonight deserves a sit-down celebration. That is, if he’s not too tired. Jury’s out on that one.
He retraces his steps backstage, and he lets himself in through the side of the curtain this time. Way more kids are back here than he would’ve thought, except their accompanying parents are back here, too, and at least ten are huddled around Trey and visibly commending him for yet another successful year of quality holiday entertainment: the trademarked Trey Parker promise.
Trey’s laughing when Matt catches his eye. He looks exhausted. And still soaked. His expression is reminiscent to the day they got married at the courthouse—in Weld County, not Park County where Matt works, that was his one requirement—like they’re the only ones on this godforsaken blue marble, and they rule it, and they just get to sit on top of the world and shoot the shit together forever.
He excuses himself from the literal parent trap and books it to meet Matt by the center stage.
“How was it?!” Trey half shouts once they’re in each other’s orbit again, his arms wide and flappy. It’s the adrenaline or satisfaction or maybe that dogshit speaker system finally blew out his hearing, but he’s beaming like he swallowed the sun, and that kind of joyousness is pandemic infectious and always makes Matt grin back. Trey plus happy equals Matt happy: simple math is the best math.
“Awesome, man.” He can tell Trey can’t really hear him or is just so stimulated he’s unable to listen. “AWESOME.”
“I know! They did so fuckin’ good!” Up close, he’s absurdly sweaty and stinks, but it’s nothing Matt’s unused to. “God, I can’t believe it’s over!”
“I’m driving,” Matt says, because turning Trey on the road in this condition would be as irresponsible as Larry making Shelley take the wheel. Tonight, their unsung mission is to get the Parker siblings home without killing themselves. “We’ll get your truck in the morning. Where are the boys?”
“Here, there! Somewhere! I don’t know!”
“Right,” Matt snorts, and pats the driest part of his sweater he can find, it doesn’t exist, and wipes his hand on his pants because of it. “Stay here and mingle and I’ll play sheepherder.”
He finds April before Stan, in her own gaggle of girlfriends that come up to his knees, and he steps in for Shelley to make sure April’s got transportation sorted. “Text me and your dad when you get there,” he tells her, and she says she will. Careful to not embarrass her, he lightly squeezes her shoulder and is on the move again.
Stan and his three core friends, plus the little Butters character, are behind Trey’s desk in the main part of the choir and band room, which is attached to the stage. Stan’s centrifugally spinning Kyle in Trey’s chair, and a sniggering Cartman and the hoodie-face kid are doodling cubes and gaping assholes and Stüssy S’s and big-boobed stick figures onto Trey’s once-immaculate whiteboard. Butters stands off to the side, mouth popped open and tapping his index fingers together, and he shrieks a little when he sees Matt descend upon them.
“Great job tonight, boys,” Matt half-smiles at him in particular, casually, with his hands in his back pockets. He’s not a teacher—like he wouldn’t approve? Mortgage, mid-thirties, fixed bedtime notwithstanding, he isn’t that much of a square.
Butters smiles back, assuaged, and it’s a good smile. That’s a fine boy someone’s raised. The others, however:
Cartman’s taken a break from drawing to huff his uncapped dry-erase marker; either of the two doodlers, probably him, has drawn three anatomical dick-and-balls in the very right corner of the board. They’re good, little hair strokes and a raphe and everything.
He hopes they’re the kind of markers that don’t fully erase without some dedicated cleaner and elbow grease, so that the shadow of those literal dick prints stick on the board into next week.
“Thanks, Uncle Matt.”
“Is Mr. Parker still driving us to Cartman’s?” Kyle asks. Stan’s just stopped twirling him in the chair, and his eye contact is swimmy as he tries to re-calibrate. Up close, this kid really does remind him of himself, fuck Trey for not seeing it. He had the jewfro to end all jewfros in college, and it was one-to-one to this kid’s, it’s actually insane. Matt doesn’t have red hair, but it runs in the family since his mom does; if he didn’t know this boy’s dad, he’d be sweating right now.
“Mr. Parker will crash you all in a ditch if he drives right now,” he deadpans. He remembers—not proudly, admittedly—Trey being the designated driver one night when he, butty, and four of their other friends were, in the process of elimination, somehow more fucked up than him. They swerved back to campus between the painted lines on State Highway 35, like threading a needle and zigzag-stitching a hem; and, in the first university parking lot he could find, Trey didn’t so much park as he just stopped Adrian’s car perpendicular to two spots. They all slept in there, too. Somehow the State Patrol just let them do this without interruption; that was a real bummer on their part. In an alternate universe, Trey killed them all in that stunt, and Saint Peter would’ve laughed and waved at them as the elevator door closed upon their descent to Hell. “Nah, you’re coming with me. Ready?”
The boys chirp in assent, pulling away from Trey’s space and already bickering over the backseat arrangement, and Matt snakes the marker Eric not-so-successfully tried to smuggle in his red jacket. The little fatty scowls at him, mumbles some swears under his breath, and he just shrugs back. He looks at the board again, and draws the quickest two circles and oblong oval of his life in a chunk of whitespace, then caps the lid and sets the pen on the metal tray.
He turns around to follow his charges, looks over Trey’s cluttered desk, and halts.
How long has he had these? Three framed photos sit upon the composite wood next to a thick Dell monitor, and they weren’t there the last time Matt was here, on ‘Meet the Teacher’ night back in August.
One is of Matt and Trey at a Phish concert in Denver on a day they had classes that were easily skippable—mm, that was every day, but yeah, especially that day. Matt in a tie-dye shirt, standing akimbo and resting his other elbow on Trey’s shitty bleached crown, and the latter’s thumb-upping the camera and his eyes are half closed, caught in mid-blink. The second is the smallest, a polaroid: them on the foggy Great Wall of China and visibly jetlagged-slash-over it.
The third and last, and biggest, is just of Matt, from easily the most professional photo session he’s taken in his law career, an outtake that’s not even on his law site bio. A perfect blue backdrop, face shaved, and spotless suit and tie-bar and watch on display, ring, too. What in the Mystery Date? This dreamboat version of Matt doesn’t really exist outside of this isolated example, yet it’s probably who Trey sees every time he glances his way. He’s lame like that.
As if Matt doesn’t have similar picture frames on his desk in his office, but whatever. His cherry-picked photos of Trey are much more damning and paint him in the worst light, as God intended: Trey so knocked out in bed that he looks like Marilyn, just found dead of a pill overdose, and that time he had to get stitches on his forehead from trying to do an axle stall on a halfpipe, ate shit, and Matt laughed his dick off. He’s also got normal stuff like their wedding day and combo family events and their undergrad graduation, but those are neither here nor there. He’s not going to gather a collage of their years spent together so he can sit around fawning over how good his other half looks; he’d rather laugh at his expense here and there.
And yet—suddenly the distance between them feels like a chasm, and he’s gotta Evel Knievel it to get his bearings straight. Pun not intended.
With the boys, sans persona non grata Butters, leading the way, they collect Trey from another group of parents, after it takes an embarrassing number of farewells and hugs and waves to pull the sticky bastard away from his adoring fans. Luckily, he procures a roll of Bounty out of thin air and uses them to mop at himself on their way out.
Then they traipse to Matt’s Tesla Model S—midlife crises are scary and real—Trey up front chatting with the unintelligible hoodie boy, who he overhears is named Kenny, and Matt bringing up the rear.
“Everyone buckled in?” He asks behind the wheel, adjusting the rear-view mirror to peer at his passengers. If asked, he could truthfully say he doesn’t mind schlepping his nephew’s friends around, but suddenly he’s keenly grateful that this isn’t part of his everyday life. They’ve brushed upon the topic, admittedly not at any length, of maybe fostering some older kids someday, chiefly those who have self-agency and can wipe their own asses. It harkens back to the time when Matt’s sister had just had a baby, and he lost hot potato and ended up cradling his larva-like niece, and his balls retracted into his body with fear. He can’t do that. They don’t even have pets; he considers Trey to be a good equivalent based on sound and smell.
They trill in unison, atop Kenny’s mumbling: “Yes, Mr. Stone.”
Trey’s shotgun in the passenger seat, fiddling with the settings on the MacBook Pro-sized touchscreen built into the dash, and he starts cackling.
“…‘Matt’ is fine.”
After inputting the directions to Cartman’s house, they pull out of the spot next to Trey’s blue RAM 2500 with a soft electric whrrr, and the front and back passengers split into two separate insular convos by the time they’re on the main road out of the school district. Trey’s got his neck tilted on the leather headrest, arms folded; they chat easily about the show for a bit, until the responses slow, and Matt sneaks glances at him to make sure his eyes stay open. He catches the exact minute they’re not and isn’t even mad about it, just surprised it took this long. Work hard, play hard.
“Cartman,” he interjects, now that he’s only got some low-playing Christmas tunes on KOSI 101.1 for company, and he’s not exactly its target audience. “I meant to tell you that I think your story was the best part of the night.”
That stops whatever stupid shit the boys are discussing, and they switch looks between Matt and their frenemy, like, is he for serious?
He can hear more than see Cartman’s ego puff up like a marshmallow in a microwave. “Ah! Yes. You noticed that, did you?”
Matt fights to keep his mouth straight. “Mind telling me how it ends?”
“Well, this is the sequel, brah, where Skynet sends the Woodland Critter Creatures to Hell to enact Judgement Day, or J-Day, on Kyel for jewing them out of a host for the Antichrist by getting an ass abortion and dying of AIDS, and—hmm, you really need to know the original story for it to make sense.”
“Fuck you, Cartman!”
Let’s GOOO! “We’ve got, like—” he looks at the direction estimate “—half an hour.”
“Mr. Stone—Matt, please—”
“Uncle Matt—”
“Mmsmph—”
“Kyle, you have my permission to keep his ass in line if he rips on us Jews too much,” Matt’s shoulders shake with mirth as the light at an intersection goes green. “Now entertain me in exchange for driving you. Without waking Mr. Parker.”
And, much love to Trey, but this is the show he should’ve seen this evening, or heard, whichever medium. The other three boys groan as Cartman launches into the abridged tale of the little boy in the red poof-ball hat with startling detail and an overarching anapestic rhyme scheme.
They’re onto the sequel in, supposedly, the first of a three-act structure and end-credit cutscene as they’re going down Main Street, because the City of South Park has it really nicely decorated, and ‘it’s totally vibes’, as the young’uns say online. If they recognize he’s extending the trip by taking the long way to Cartman’s house, no one says anything. There’s a good deal of traffic out tonight; patrons shopping and eating and maybe other cars partaking in this living Hallmark card like Matt’s doing right now. Streetlights wrapped in garland and a bounty of twinkly multicolored lights play off the fresh snow tumbling from the sky; it’s not a heavy fall, but he has to have his wipers on because it melts upon contact with the heated windshield.
“…So, like, the Terminator Beary, rips his fur off his face and woooahhh it’s just a metal bear scull and red eyes and, and, he goes, ‘gee whiz, guess we’ll have to fuck you up then, mister!’, and whoooosh throws it in the T-1000’s fuckin’ liquid metal face, and all the Terminator Critters duke it out with the T-1000 to decide who’s worthy of killing the new T-800, who’s trying to stop Kyel, who used his jew magic to give John Connor HIV without fucking him in his butt…”
They’re ten minutes from Cartman’s house when he realizes Trey’s awake again and gazing at him. He doesn’t look to know; it’s the return of the same Spidey sense that indicated that group of women was watching him earlier. Again, what was that about? Did they want to fuck him, like how Sarah Connor went back to 1984 just to use the first movie’s bisected T-800 as a dildo?
Sidenote, Cartman’s mom needs to have The Talk with him. He’s clearly working through something here. Yet another reason to enjoy being DINK; if anyone’s gonna put their dick germs all over his stuff in his house, it’s gonna be them.
The Tesla’s stupid clit-sensitive pedestrian-detecting sensors make him hard stop at a crosswalk, and it miffs him just enough, I was gonna, Elon! Christ! He uses this bingo-card-free-space to look over his shoulder at Trey.
He’s got his neck cocked into the seatbelt pillar, crystal-blue eyes and scruffy face softly illuminated by the glow of the touchscreen, and one hand’s playing with the grab handle above the door. The other’s splayed just next to the gear shift, unmoving but beckoning.
Kyle’s busy snapping at Cartman for one too many slurs at his expense when Matt transfers, in a fluid motion, to one-handed driving and places his right atop Trey’s left, then slides to link their fingers together. The kids can’t see it over the center console armrest, doesn’t matter if they can.
Trey’s supposed to be the squishy romantic here: refer back to his high school and college flings and even prior engagement to that heart-wrecking bitch, and he was still throwing his junk around as they spent years edging their feelings for each other.
By junior year, tensions were cement thick, and they’d become weirdly mean and possessive of each other for no just reason. The epiphany of why arrives one night when Matt recognizes he’s actually jerking himself off to the thought of his best friend, remembers thinking, uh oh! and finishing anyways. That post-nut clarity had hit like a horse tranquilizer.
He doesn’t remember when it finally boils over as much as how, although with Trey’s hoarding tendencies he probably remembers the exact hour. They had to hit each other a few times, and were on track to end their friendship entirely, before their donkey brains correctly settled on fucking for dominance on butty’s bottom bunkbed, only because it was most accessible in the red haze, sorry butty. Hey, they washed the sheets. And even though it took a long, long while after that first time to go from ‘buddies who fuck’ to ‘fuck buddies’ to ‘the only time I feel alive is when my Jim Henson dick is in your Kermit ass’, they got there. It all worked out in the end.
He sees Trey’s Adam’s apple work, like he hooked into Matt’s brain and heard all his stupid sappy musings. He digs the crescent of his thumbnail into Trey’s pinky flesh to make him knock it off. Dude, I love you, it’s not that deep.
The Tesla finally pilots down Bonanza Street as, final battle leaving no survivors once Chickadee-y and the T-800 take each other out, Cartman tells them with gusto the big Marvel credit scene twist: the Coon! arrives in a swirl of cape and trash-panda fury, and he’s going to end Cyberdyne once and for all, because he’s the real John Connor and ‘not that butthole imposter dead of AIDS’.
Matt lets the full self-driving take over for a sec so he can actually clap. The rest of the car, silent, just seems grateful that it’s over.
“Thank yew, thank yew. Yo, Stan, your bro’s kewl.”
He eases to a stop in front of Cartman’s house; a green three-story midcentury modern, two-car garage, a trio of Jesus, Santa, and Frosty inflatables in the foreyard. Eric’s mom opens the front door and waves as the GPS chimes like the Pop-Tart’s ready, ‘you are here!’
“Night, guys,” Trey turns to face the backseat, reaching out to tap his nephew on the knee and fist-bump Kenny, Cartman. Kyle’s still pissed from storytime and is already outside and moving as far away from Cartman as he can by running into his house, oh the irony. “Whatever you do tonight, don’t try to conduct a séance to talk to Kobe. And definitely don’t tell him I want a piece of him.”
Matt snorts, because he’s a tax-paying adult and understands innuendo. And that BBC isn’t just an acronym for the broadcasting company.
“Honk,” Trey suddenly shoots out a hand. Matt knows why, saw what setting he adjusted before they left, and double-honks as directed. It’s a feature, not a bug, that the Tesla makes two loud fart sounds as a parting gift.
Of course the boys love it. They laugh themselves silly—Kenny so much he nearly slips and kills himself on a patch of black ice on the driveway—as they get out of the car and haul ass into the warm home, ushered in by the angelic Gloria, AKA Ms. Cartman.
“Thanks, dudes!” Halfway up on the sidewalk, Stan waves back, shivering because he’s not wearing his hat and mittens for once. “See you Monday!”
Trey keeps waving back out of the cracked window until the front door closes, and then they’re alone for the first time this evening.
Thank fucking God.
Matt’s staring arrows at him when he twists back.
“What?” Trey startles, reclipping his seatbelt and throwing an arm over to punch him, lightly, in the bicep. “Take a picture, fucker.”
“You were fucking awesome tonight,” he says gravely, like he’s giving his murder confession. Heat pools in the pit of Trey’s empty stomach at the earnestness of it. He thinks he’s too hungry to get hard, but his dick has proven him wrong before; its unlimited stamina reserved for Matty alone could attract an army recruiter. It’s certainly old and stupid enough.
Looking between Matt’s angry love eyes and hands death-gripping the steering wheel, he’s struck by a barrage of thoughts: tonight was incredible, he fucking loves this gangly loser, they gotta hit a drive-thru soon or his hangriness will get to the point he’ll get bitchy-moany, which he knows Matt actually hates. “Thanks, man. Now set phasers to stun and point this starcruiser to some genetically modified food, stat.”
“Aye-aye, Captain Cock.”
He does recognize they talk about Matt’s trial and their overall days and listen to holiday music on the way to get some grub, but Trey basically blacks out everything once oh god oh god oh god they’re in line at the TacoHut, or known in the Michelin Guide by its Christian name ‘Combination Pizza Hut and Taco Bell’. It’s one of the last free-standing bastions in America, never mind the great State of Colorado, and it’s Mecca to fat high fucks. Tonight, he’s only one of those two things, but even half is plenty enough.
The beauty of The Taco Bell—man, he thinks, those Buckeye retards are onto something by trademarking THE Ohio State University—is in its simplicity: you just take however much cash you have in your pockets, shake the kief off it, wave it at an underpaid teenager who hates your fucking guts, and they hand you the same monetary amount in cornmeal, flour, and dog food. The menu is a paradox of choice: it’s the same color meal repackaged over and over in different levels of crunch and shape. It’s as glorious as it is delicious. USA! USA!
Trey’s hoovering a Chalupa Supreme, number redacted, when Matt’s iPhone goes DING from a text. It pops up on the touchscreen, so they both glance at it.
“I asked April to text when she got to her friend’s place,” Matt says between sips of Baja Blast, codename nectar of the gods. He scrubs his fingers on his sweatpant leg and types a quick affirmative to her via the screen; some real Star Trek shit going on in this car tonight. “I’m sure you’ll be surprised to hear it, but your sister couldn’t take the heat tonight and browned out.”
“She shit her pants?”
“Fuckin’ idiot,” Matt snickers as he taps the ‘Send’ button; it creates a whoosh sound. He reaches back to his lap, crumples up his meal’s Doritos-branded tissue paper, and throws it at Trey’s head. “So, Cartman.”
Trey’s got a new mouthful of food, so Matt barges on. “What the fuck happened to that kid?”
“…Complete pushover single mom. No dad, she used a sperm donor. Girls hate him because he’s fat and mean. Anger issues up the wazoo,” he wipes his mouth with a napkin, “and he hates my class because I make him sing lame songs from The Great American Songbook and not Whitesnake covers. I think he’s secretly infatuated with Kyle. Also, he printed out the Wikipedia article of every curse word in the English language and carries it around like a lifeline.”
Trey’s class was part of mandatory curriculum for fourth and fifth graders, an elective for upper classmen with musical aptitude or just those who preferred his teachings enough to keep that boulder rolling. He doesn’t relish another year and a half of this particular shackle.
“Woah.”
“Yeah.” He could go on and on, but Eric Cartman’s a conundrum who can’t quite be defined by the English language or human rationality. Ms. Garrison’s got some choice words for him, though, no Wikipedia required. The next teacher get-together he’ll have to bring her and Matt together, now that they have something in common. That would be funny.
Matt gets contemplative. “He cracks me up but…I feel bad for him. You were out and I don’t know how much of his story you heard, like, he’s a real creative kid, just…that subject matter for a fourth grader is unhinged.”
Trey pushes his trash together, wrapped around Matt’s makeshift paper dodgeball, and tries to contain any of the likely flecks of cheese on his shirt into the paper bag to preserve the sanctity of Matt’s dumb nice car. It was part of their vows for him not to get mad when Trey inevitably gets food on something he loves, though. And it would’ve been a clause in their prenup if they had one, but Trey’s got that covered; Matt can have it all, his solution to the hypothetical end of their marriage is a gun in his mouth.
“Oh I heard it. And you giggling at Rosie Perez ‘spreading her pussy lips to crush the T-X Antichrist skull with a Kegel’, you sick bastard. She’s not even in those movies.”
“That’s why I laughed!” And he starts up again, eyes bright. The tinted moonroof is no match for that overhead streetlight here in the TacoHut parking lot, and Trey’s pleased to see the light snowfall has faded away. Woo. He has other plans for tomorrow than shoveling the driveway, like, anything but shoveling the driveway. They need to put up their tree and decorations this weekend, or they’ll blink and it’ll be March.
Matt isn’t laughing anymore when he says, “I wanted to take you to a real restaurant tonight to, y’know, celebrate like normal people do. Yet here we are.”
Trey fixes him with a disgruntled look, and resumes digging through the glove compartment box for the Wet Ones canister. He uncaps it, yanks out three, and puts two on his knee and slings one at his limousine driver. There’s already a water stain on his pant leg when he goes to use them in tandem, she leakin’, she soakin’ wet! Yours truly, the Ying Yang Twins. “Um, much as I appreciate you overestimating my sophistication, you of all people should know this my Disney World, my church, my NASCAR track.”
“Your coffin,” Matt sighs and, elbow on the center console, raises a proffered hand. “And I live in the dirt with you. Ready to go home?”
Of course he is, he’s happy and warm from both The Bell and the heated seat beneath his ass; a good shower is next on his Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, now that the sweat beneath his knit sweater has fully dried down to a grubby-cummy feeling on his skin. Also on that pyramid is getting his dick tugged on by that same hand just to the side of his face, and he winks when Matt sees that thought cross his mind.
Matt makes an aggrieved face, but, come on, they know he’s going to get pulled into the shower with him, and they’ll mess around and turn the master bath into a splash pad, and Matt will probably watch the rest of I’m Thinking of Ending Things once Trey’s passed out starfish-style in their bed. He’ll awaken in the lazy morning hours of pre-dawn so they can actually make love. Instead of going back to sleep, Matt will go for a run in the tundra, and Trey will sit on the toilet until he gets back.
He just might let Matt take him out to The Pizza Hut tomorrow night, if he plays his cards right.
In the here and now, Trey grabs and grips Matt’s hand just like the arm-wrestling scene in Predator. The real difference isn’t that they’re not roided up like Schwarzenegger and Weathers, it’s that when their hands drop back down, they don’t let go this time.
In the bowels of 28201 E. Bonanza Street, at three-oh-three in the morning, a friend group of young boys gather around the bathroom sink in the basement powder bath. Using ill-founded instructions, four ten-year-olds speak a multitude of incantations into the mirror as one of their mother’s lavender-lemongrass soy candles burns, soothingly, ominously. It’s the witching hour, and they intend to call upon the dearly departed spirit of: Gilbert Gottfried.
They do not succeed, but they excite upon the flame flickering in an unnatural way: there’s no wind down here. One of the boys—the blond one, near-mute, with faraway eyes—thinks maybe, just maybe, he hears a nasally voice hiss, ‘…TWELVE TSUNAMI TWEETS’, though he does not share this with the rest. He does not sleep well that night.
But mostly because the fat boy keeps farting in his sleep and choking them all out.
larryjfeegan00 · Follow
Original Audio
larryjfeegan00: hello all. Last night was stan and April’s holiday recital directed by my brother in law @treyparker55 great job me and @shelley.parker-feegan loved it. check It out #video #merrychrstmas
[File: 467619596_1559908361574691_7802932735519574681.mp4]
[Duration: 0:00 / 00:57]
[The video is of a dark auditorium, what with the silhouettes of heads in the foreground; in the distance, there’s a heavenly lit stage with children in choir stands. The audio is a little muffled due to the novice recorder having their finger partially over the speaker, and sometimes even in the main lens, judging based on the reddish smudge in the corner of the video. A loud-voiced man is on stage doing some sort of introduction, and it’s unclear exactly what he says due to the audio mishap and distance, but the crowd laughs.
Then the iPhone slips from an unknown motion off to the side, and then it’s pointing, seemingly on accident, at a thin thirtysomething man with cropped hair sitting next to the person recording. The camera quality improves this close to a new subject, and for a good fifteen seconds it’s just this unknown man staring with intent at the stage. He’s arguably stone-faced but there’s something soft about his unblinking gaze, in the subtle slant of his brow and the upturn at the corners of his mouth. It’s all very cinematic, then the iPhone tips down, and the video is black with even more garbled audio for the remainder. It cuts on another crowd laugh and a scuffling sound.]
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shelley.parker-feegan: WHAT THE FUCK is this LARRY you didn’t fucking record THE WHOLE THING like i told you TO!!!!!!!!!!
48m 1 like Reply ↓
larryjfeegan00: can you come to living room how do edit
treyparker55: shutup @shelley.parker-feegan go drink your fuckin wine and stop bullying my brotha @larryjfeegan00 I appreciate you 😎👍🙏
21m 1 like Reply ↓
shelley.parker-feegan: @treyparker55 make me, *turd*
larryjfeegan00: @treyparker55 thanks big t
therandolphparker: TREY CHECK OUT MY NEW P HOTO JUST PPOSTED A NEW FELDSPAR PICKED UP AT CAVE OF WINDS SEE YOU SOON AT CHRISTMAS BRIN G MATT HI SHELLEY LOVE DAD
15m 3 likes Reply ↓
treyparker55: k dad
treyparker55: matty’s too cool for insta or fb
treyparker55: he says hi
treyparker55: and nice rock 🗿