Treehouse: Waiting for That Apology (Don't Hold Your Breath)

Alright, so look—I'm in my mid-twenties now, graduated college, about to marry my fiancée in like three months, and I spend my weekends in the garage building monster trucks from the ground up. Like, actual frame-off builds.

Out in my driveway, in my garage, covered in grease and metal shavings. It's honest work, man. It's what I do.

And then there's my cousin. He's eighteen, nineteen—somewhere in that zone where you're technically an adult but still figuring out how to do laundry. Kid's an influencer. I don't even fully understand what that means, but he's always posting videos, doing whatever it is they do. Never stressed. Always in designer hoodies, those weird pants that cost like four hundred bucks but look like sweatpants. Balenciaga or some shit. Good for him, I guess.

But here's the deal—this is Oregon. This isn't LA. This isn't some clout-chasing, no-rules, "do whatever feels good" kind of place. We have manners here. We say "please" and "thank you." We take our shoes off at the door. We're family-oriented. We grill burgers, we watch football, we respect each other's homes. That's just how we were raised.

So we invite him over for dinner, right? My fiancée made this whole spread—pot roast, mashed potatoes, the works. And this kid walks in with his white Air Forces on, steps right onto our carpet like he's walking into a SoHo loft or something. And we've talked to him about this before. Multiple times. "Hey man, shoes off at the door. Just be mindful, you know? Manners."

He's like, "Oh yeah, my bad, my bad," takes 'em off, whatever.

So we're all in the kitchen—me, my fiancée, my mom, my dad—just talking, laughing, having a good time. He's on the couch in the living room, scrolling on his phone, probably filming a TikTok or something. And then, out of nowhere, this kid lets out the loudest, most intentional, most disrespectful bubble fart I have ever heard in my life. Like, it echoed through the kitchen. It reverberated off the cabinets. My mom's casserole dish practically rattled. It was like a foghorn went off in our living room.

We all just stopped. Forks down. Dead silence. My fiancée looked at me like, "Did that just happen?" My dad's jaw was on the floor. And this kid? He's just sitting there, smirking, like it's the funniest thing in the world.

I walked into the living room and I was like, "Dude. You need to leave. Right now."

He tried to brush it off, like, "Bro, it's just a fart, relax."

And I said, "No. It's not 'just a fart.' It's disrespect. This is our home. We invited you here. We fed you. And you're gonna sit on our couch and rip ass like you're in a frat house basement? Nah, man. Get out."

So he left. And we haven't spoken since.

Look, I don't care what's going on in his influencer life. I don't care how many followers he has or what brand deals he's got going. In our house, we're mindful of our manners. You save that shit for the basement, for your boys, for wherever. But not here. Not in front of my family. Not in front of my future wife.

He's not coming back over until he apologizes. And I'm talking a real apology—not some half-assed "my bad bro" text. A real, face-to-face, "I messed up and I'm sorry" apology.

That's just how it is, man.

Oregon values.

Family values. Respect.

-Monster Truck Builder, Manners Enforcer