Neila
aka The Sue Chef 1958-202? (Est.)I will only complicate you
Trust in me and fall as well
TOOL - "Sober" - Undertow - 1993
OTHER NICKNAMES: Affluenza Mom, Fat Gilligan, Lisa's Bitch, Toxic Buffoon
10 years my senior, she was initially a great big sister who later became a great, big scourge. As I grew up, her home was like a refuge for me where I was safe and welcome. Her husband was my dearly beloved friend and we had tons of fun.
They threw yard and mechanical work (plus some freebies) my way to help enable the glorious teen party rampage that shaped my '80s experience. The difference they made in my early life was critical and will always be treasured and appreciated.
But, that was a long, long time ago. Let's have a trot down memory lane and see some of how one earns kook wings and pig ears. Know that this section will be quite long, LOL:
5. Family Member (sibling)
I did an online survey asking “To whom was the first pussy you ever saw IN PERSON and IN DETAIL attached."
Choices and results were:
1. Girlfriend/date - 73%
2. Wife - 11%
3. Stripper/sex worker - 10%
4. Playmate - 5%
5. Family member (specify) - 1%
6. Other (specify) - 1%
My answer? I suppose ya already done figgr'd that out: 5. Family member (sibling).
When Neila was an impressively beautiful high school student, I often hung out in her room where she would run around butt-ass nekkid. We're not talking at a glance at some nipples and bush, but more like extended periods where I could almost swear I saw light leaking out down low when she opened her mouth near a lamp.
When Mom got wind of that extremely unusual behavior, she put a stop to it and that was that.
The attitudes behind it remain interesting to me. She was certainly not a nudist, danger slut, or free spirit hippie-type; in fact, she leaned more toward uptight. Perhaps she thought an extremely advanced and precocious 7-8 year-old boy who had a girlfriend in the first grade and was already devouring adult level books at breakneck pace just didn't notice things.
If so, she was quite wrong.
In a not-greatly-related matter, one who answered "6. Other" specified "corpse" as the pussy vehicle. Oh, dear.
No Small Potatoes
Neila had a vast amount of clothes as a teen and a room that often looked like a tornado hit it. She would wear something, discard it to the floor, and Mutchie would just buy her more stuff at Northpark Mall.
She would also borrow clothes from friends and fail to return them, causing a few instances of parents ringing our musical doorbell to retrieve belongings after other attempts failed.
In one such incident, Mom and I were digging through Neila's above-ground landfill in a quest for a pair of shorts while the latest pissed-off parent waited in the adjacent living room. We found the shorts under a rotting 5 lb. bag of russet taters, all hidden by a pile of clothes. That explained the curiously earthy stench permeating the room for the last week or so.
Mom was flabbergasted at this sack of taters that would become a running gag for 40+ years. Mom often couldn't eat a potato without mentioning it. I'll never forget the annoyed visitor craning her head to see what Mom was freaking out on, then asking for a prophylactic paper sack to protect her skin and car interior from those nasty, mistreated shorts.
Crotch Watch '77
I guess it was 1977. Neila got some clothes at a garage sale. Among them was a bikini she really liked. Problem was, it had this big, gnarly, menstrual lady stain thing right plumb, as one might expect, in the crotch, clearly visible from the exterior.
For some far-out reason, Mom had a problem with that.
The ensuing blowout over that skank-ass bikini bottom resulted in Neila leaving home and fleeing down the road to Mutchie's where Reagan soon joined her, bringing Mutchie's Operation Steal a Daughter (MOSaD) endeavor to full fruition. I loved having her around, so it was a heartbreaking milestone.
Eggistential Superfund
Soon after, a story emerged amid the flurry of gossip about the young couple constantly flowing between Mom and Mutchie. It was claimed Neila became enraged after Reagan had a lunch burger without her, at odds with her apparent policy of toxic perpetual Siamese twin togetherness, so she removed her ring and flung it into his breakfast, making a mess.
I found that interesting. Mom never wasted a chance to slam Reagan, but suddenly she was very sympathetic, cooing pathos-drenched support:
Reagan went and got a hhham-boo-gerrr because he was hungry.
Her hand rose, thumb and index fingertips barely separated to illustrate.
Annoyed at her overwrought account and the hypocrisy of her first ever show of regard for Reagan, plus the constant drive of those biddies to get all up in those kids' shit, I simply had to mess with Mom some:
Yes, I understand that people seek food due to hunger. He got a quarter-inch hamburger?
I mimicked her tiny burger gesture. That made Dad chuckle. Mom glared at him, then me, then continued.
She took off her ring and threw it in his food! He was crying, all covered in eggs!
More hand gestures, now suggesting full upper body coverage by flying eggs. At least his feet were spared. Clearly, yet another intrusion onto the absurd was afoot.
He wuz "all covered in eggs" 'cuzova flying ring???
I removed my chunky Navajo Pimp turquoise man ring, a garish gift from Mutchie I wisely soon abandoned, and held it out for consideration.
And a girl's ring, too! Or did she strip him of his surely-more-hefty ring and chunk it into the eggs? That's how I would have done it.
Mom was not impressed:
HA SIKTIR BOK!!!
Mom bragged often that I was in the Talented and Gifted program, but, to her frequent disdain, it taught us to scrutinize arguments and discern invalid positions. That only got worse with the more advanced academic arenas, also engaged at her insistence. A big role model throughout was eminently-logical Mr. Spock, also endeared to me by Mom but most unhelpful to her aims of dodging scrutiny.
My academic and intellectual might were great sources of pride and identity for Mom unless I used them to dissect her (or John's) behavior. That sin often led to me being cursed at in Turkish or called disgusting or deranged, a pattern that lasted well into my 40s.
In the long run, she may well have had a smoother ride had I been shot in the brain instead of the knee.
Drop Yer Cocks and Grab Yer Socks!
Mom and Dad always had Xmas on the 24th, with the 25th slated for a smaller family dinner so that everyone's visitin' needs could be accommodated.
On Xmas Day 1977, Dad was getting the turkey ready for the oven and I was enthralled with my presents from the night before, especially fascinated with my cool, marble-dropping Stay Alive game. It was a nice Xmas morning after the hectic activity of the 24th.
Then the call came.
Neila and Reagan were getting married shortly at the edge of town and we had to throw ourselves together in a panic. Mom was livid, not just at the disruptive lack of basic consideration for others on Xmas, but also that Neila was marrying Reagan. I was bummed to have to disengage from my new game.
We rushed there, me clad in a pullover shirt with a clip-on tie and Mom with steam a-shootin' outta her ears on each side of a forced smile. The deed was done, we had some refreshments of a nature I can't recall, and eventually made it back home.
Methinks the refreshments sat out too long. Soon after, we started feeling ill. I got the worst of it and ended up leaning over the side of the bed and puking all over my Stay Alive game. Ah, THAT'S why Dad always said to put box tops back on things. And to not carelessly put things on the floor.
Ashamed of the mess I'd made, I cleaned it up and deposited the hot mess of a Stay Alive game in the white plastic, little-used dirty clothes hamper in the pink bathroom I once shared with Neila. There it sat for a few years until a profoundly baffled Dad happened upon it.
Six months later, The Flozberks get married again in a lavish affair at which I, ten years and two days old, got quite drunk.
It's a Wrap
Newlywed Neila, a poster child for self-improvement, started smearing expensive stuff all over herself, then Reagan would wrap her up like a brisket in a shitload of clear plastic wrap. It was a perfectly rational, sure-to-succeed path to a slimmer life minus the bother of actually trying.
When I asked what the bathroom scale said, the repeated explanation was that one loses "inches, not pounds."
HUH???
Interesting. That would mean one's density would have to significantly rise. Sounds potentially fatal to me, but hey, what the hell do I know?
Turned out the only things that shrunk were their bank account and dignity. Soon we quit hearing about it.
The Sausage Pounding
It was at the duplex, their first home, shortly after the big wedding. He was grilling 99 cents worth of Eckrich smoked sausage as we threw his wonderful, weathered, pavement-softened old NFL football.
Prone to enjoying each others' company, we got carried away playing and he burned dinner a fair bit. When Neila saw that, she went apeshit and started beating his ass. Never before had I sausage a thing.
She was pounding him, hammer-style, in the back. He was laughing his ass off, wide-eyed like he does, laughs punctuated by both his cries of pain and the blows resonating through his thorax. Then, as we poked at the carbonized tubesteak and he gave the “It ain't so bad” angle a shot, she nailed him again before storming away.
I thought YOU were supposed to give HER the sausage pounding, dude!
We about died laughing. From inside the house, she exploded:
STOP LAUGHING, GOD DAMN IT!!!
That was the first domestic abuse I'd ever witnessed. I must say, Reagan, who I've never seen truly angry, took it like a real champ. Well, no - more like a chump, really. Me, I'd have straight-up kicked that bitch's ass.
It blew my mind that someone would vow to honor someone for all eternity before a huge crowd in an event that cost a fortune, then just shit on the vow like that over a buck's worth of sausage. To me, such an act makes the whole wedding a farce.
A Judas Priest Wedding
1983. I was doing yardwork for them when the storm door suddenly slapped against the house and Neila's shriek shattered the peace:
WHAT DO YOU MEAN RECORDING OVER MY WEDDING?!?!?!?
I gathered she meant video recording, a new pursuit at the time and they were the lone souls I knew who had a VCR, used primarily to record All My Children.
ME: Huh? There's a video of your wedding?
HER: NO, GOD DAMN IT - THE ROYAL WEDDING!!!!!
Never had I seen her so livid.
Oh, OK. How silly of me. The Royal Wedding of Charles and Diana. It had graced our lives a couple of years before. Yes. OK. That thing.
ME: You wanted to keep that???
NEILA: YOU JUST RUINED MY CHILDREN'S LIVES!!!
ME: You don't have any chil...
DOOR: SLAM!
Reagan heard the ruckus and came down the driveway.
REAGAN: What happened?
ME: Neila said I ruined your children's lives.
REAGAN: We have children?
Turns out I'd recorded the MTV broadcast of Judas Priest's legendary Memphis '82 Screaming for Vengeance concert atop the sacred Limey nuptials. As Neila sat at the end of their bed watching what I'd wreaked upon her and the unborn, she actually cried, which made me feel awful.
However, the part of the show she'd happened upon, the insanely indulgent and unmusical 3 minute burnout ending, was flat-out HIGH-larious. As the very gay leather and studs-clad frontman par excellence Rob Halford bullwhipped his toppled Harley, Neila could only watch in tearful, puzzled shock and disgust. Absent the context of the whole show, it was indeed a curious display.
NEILA: Why does he have to be so violent?
ME: Whippin' a motorsickle ain't violent. Whippin' a baby is violent. Really, screaming at me that I ruined your hypothetical children's lives is more violent than whippin' a motorsickle.
I actually feared she'd detest me forever, but we were still a good 35 years from that outcome.
She eventually calmed down and life went on. Obviously, neither of the fry they later spawned gave half a flying fuck about watching the silly Royal Wedding, and, for the record, Judas Priest still rocks on, outlasting the horribly dysfunctional sham union of Charles and Diana by about THIRTY YEARS. And counting...
Many years later as we partied and watched some of a Priest gig, new Flozberk kook Langdon cracked me up something terminal by asking if the whole band was gay or just Rob.
Bassinot
When Neila was about to have her first child, future mega-failson Ryan, Mom offered to buy them a bassinet, or, as I call it, a bed. Neila, as we've seen, was oddly preoccupied with the Royal Family and selected the same one used for Prince William. Or Harry. Or whichever the hell one of 'em it bloody was.
Mom, rather annoyed by Neila's absurd audacity and opportunism, balked at the four-digit price tag. I forget exactly how that turned out, but Ryan obviously had to shit and drool on himself on a non-royal crotchfruit bed.
Wet Backs
Years later, having actual flesh children to protect, the opportunity to exploit some illegal alien peasants trumped at least some of Neila's fierce drive to spare the children such harms as deprivation of the ability to repeatedly watch the wedding of Charles and Diana.
Into their house flipping biz and home came a pair of young male Latino illegal immigrant workers. Yes, they actually allowed them to live there.
Mutchie hated them so much that it was a hoot. She claimed, seething, that they showered together, miming one scrubbing the other's back as she complained, but it remains a challenge to know exactly how she knew that.
The "Floztinez Brothers" stayed in an office with adjoining bath centered in The Flozberks' home. They were friendly enough, likely decent people, and I'm unaware of any trouble, but with a preschool daughter, early school son, and two parents who were not the sharpest spoons in the ol' dishwasher basket, well...let's just say I wouldn'ta done did it.
"Likely decent people" just ain't quite good enough for that situation, sorry.
DIE, Children! Or, at Least, SUFFER!
Around 1992, The Flozberks were on an outing with several boisterous children. At their destination, the kids piled out of the van to run amok, as kids do. Not all had adequate foot protection.
Neila hollered at them to come back. When they did not immediately comply, she blew her top and screamed:
I HOPE YOU GET A NAIL IN YOUR FOOT!
Not a warning about nails or a demand they settle down and head her way for a moment, but an actual loudly-expressed wish that they get seriously injured.
A disingenuous soul would proclaim that proof Neila is a beast who wishes harm on our most valuable and innocent resource - the children. No, that's not it. She loves children and would have been quite upset (amid a flood of smug I told you sos) had one gotten nailed.
The point is that merely an excited child stepping on her toes could instantly get her so angry that she heaved her convictions under the bus and explicitly wished harm upon children in front of witnesses, a behavior that is, for obvious reasons, rather uncommon.
Santa Buds
Christmas Eve, 1997. Talking about math with Tiffany, I found it topical to mention that I used math at age 6 to figure out that Santa couldn't exist, at least not as a singular force who gifted to the globe over a mere one day. I saw not the slightest clue she was upset and The Flozberks later went home.
Soon after they left, Neila called Mom's looking for me. I took the phone and started by again wishing her Marry Xmas, but before I could finish, she exploded:
WHO ARE YOU TO TELL TIFFANY THERE IS NO SANTA?!?!?!?
I was astonished. It was like an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm, exceptin' fer that there was no such thing yet.
ME: What???
NEILA: WHO ARE YOU TO DO THAT?!?!?!?
ME: You're kidding.
NEILA: I AM NOT! SHE IS LOCKED IN HER ROOM CRYING ON CHRISTMAS!!!
Tiffany was closer to age 11 than 10 and wearing a bra. At one point in the fracas I actually bellowed:
She wears a bra. SHE HAS BUDS!!!
My then-girlfriend's face went quizzical, with "Did he just say the girl has buds?" written all over it.
Wowzers! Did Tiffany believe in the reindeer, North Pole, and the whole banana, or was she shedding the myth in stages? What of the Tooth Fairy? Easter Bunny? Did she at least manage to draw the line between mythical humans, animals, and bottom-tier characters like, say, The Great Pumpkin?
An argument broke out and I was unwilling to budge from my position that Neila was off her rocker and was tragically taking Tiffany down with her.
The Golden Psycho entered the room and asked what was up. He hated Neila, so I figured I'd at least have a bias-driven voice on my side. Wrong. He bowled me over by declaring that it “wasn't my place to deprive a kid of Santa Claus.” This is a guy who:
- Repeatedly drove 100+ MPH with me, no seat belts used
- Gave me the worst haircut in history
- Took me to The Exorcist at age 6, basically ending my childhood in just 2 hours
- Roped me into his scams on his wife and even our own parents
Uh, go sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up, dipshit. In fact, do it twice.
That was not to be - Mom entered the room and he told her that I “went and got Tiffany and told her there was no Santa.” Ye gods, the flair of these people for corrupting reality with slanted language in situations they knew little about is epic.
Mercifully, Mom was in sensible mode that evening and heartily concurred that the poor lass was way too elderly to believe in Santa Claus, adding that she acted like a "nut" at another gathering a few months back.
Like with the other conflicts, nothing came of it. No discussion, no resolution, and everyone acts “normal” next time as if nothing had happened.
How creepy.
In my world, things get understood and resolved with the simple goal of having fewer bad things and more good things happen in the future.
Pax Flozberka
The 90s was a relatively stable and peaceful time in FlozberkWorld I'll amusingly liken to the Golden Age of the Roman Empire, Pax Romana.
The kids were young, the elders were not that old, they made big bucks, blew big bucks, and even won $100,000 in a newspaper contest. Their country club membership meant Mom and Dad's pool was no longer useful to them, so they were not heard from for as long as 5 months even though they lived just 2500 feet away.
As seen with Rome, though, the shit would soon hit the fan, again and again and again and the list of disasters under Neila's watch went slap nuts.
That Poor, Poor Dog
Around 2001, Dad and I had a date to go out for some chicken fried steak. He called from the vet's office, literally snorting with anger, to tell me he'd be late. On the way to my house, he had stopped by Mutchie's to check on her dog and found it in a deplorable state - weak, emaciated, filthy, matted, covered with parasites, and in great discomfort.
He took it to the vet where a Humpty Dumpty situation was diagnosed and the pooch was put down. The vet made it clear that with proper care, the dog likely would have lived on.
When Mutchie declined to where she could no longer live at home, she moved in with The Flozberks and her dog had to stay behind, entrusted to The Flozberks, who lived 7000 feet away.
It would seem their standards of care fell short. The vet invoked the word "criminal."
Never did I see Dad so disgusted, before or since. His trust of and esteem in The Flozberks was forever dented.
We made it to the grub a couple hours late, but it was not pleasant. Dad lacked a poker face, so the anger, sadness, and embarrassment of that failure were etched on him throughout. Periodically, he'd scowl even more deeply and blurt "God almighty, that poor, poor dog." He only ate half his food, a first in our chow dates.
I'm more appalled at his suffering than the dog's.
Mutchie and Neila had the tightest bond in family history and, still, that was the result. As was often the case caring for Dad and his dog, The Flozberks (generally Reagan), seemingly always on the run, would swing by, do the least possible and least mindful work that could qualify for a check in the caretaker box, and haul ass outta there.
There's more to taking care of someone's dog than hastily dumping some food and water in bowls, making sure the dog is still moving, then departing as if the whole thing was a NASCAR pit stop.
Nothing, Not Even a Broach
When Mutchie shuffled off her zany mortal coil in 2002, Mom was dealt a mighty blow. Yes, she was sad to lose her alleged mother and the last close link to her old life, but the way she was totally disregarded in Mutchie's death shattered her heart.
She often said it was the worst she'd ever been hurt.
Neila and Mutchie skipped a generation and The Flozberks completely cleaned out her estate. No mention of Mom in the will even though Mom and Dad gave her lots of money over the years, had a close relationship with her, and saw to it that she had daily home-cooked food (of course, Dad did all the work) as she lived her final days in her own home before moving to Neila's camp.
Not once did Dad flake out and use the Jack in the Box that was around the corner from her home, smack between his home and hers.
Mom had her own resources and had no aspirations of cashing in on Mutchie's death - she was a soul who did not ask for child support and even found life insurance offensive. She was all too well aware the old lady was partial to Neila and, as her caretakers and favorite people, The Flozberks were heavily entitled to her estate.
The problem was that Mom's old world European sensibilities were horribly wounded by the total disregard. The absence of the critical phrase "To my beloved daughter I bequeath..." was a tragedy for her, with her oft-repeated lament being "Nothing. Not even a broach. Not even a note."
In response, I once quipped that I bet they'll do better the next time Mutchie dies, earning a sly guffaw from Mom.
To make things worse for poor Mom, John relentlessly harassed her to attend his wedding, two days after Mutchie died, and dance with him while she was shellshocked and very weak. Her wearing red to a wedding as her mother laid in a mortuary fridge left her mortified. Remember that old world sensibilities thing?
That one of the Golden Psycho's marriages lasted less than 10 months - he threw his bride and her 3 kids out of their home on Xmas Eve that year - and the wedding remains the only one I've attended in which a guest was bitten by a rat.
Kindly understand that we're just getting started here.
A Dirty, Filthy Thief With a Heart of Gold
After Mutchie croaked, Neila came to Mom and Dad's house and had a fit, claiming that a cache of cash stashed at Mutchie's had vanished. I think the number was $30,000.
Mom said, in no uncertain terms, that Neila accused Dad of swiping the loot. He has confirmed that.
A heated exchange took place in the entry hall of Mom's house, upsetting Mom and Dad terribly. I had long been a defender of Neila and Reagan against the frequent, often-petty complaints and gossip by Mom and Mutchie and tried to mitigate by suggesting that Neila was stressed and just had a bad day.
Mom would have none of that, though, and long remained very cross about the incident. I, too, found it well short of charming.
There was never a resolution or apology. Any notion that Dad, a very honest millionaire, stole someone's money is absolutely disgusting and unhinged.
16 years later, Neila would move her crosshairs to the next generation and accuse me of being a thief.
And, if Mutchie really had that much cash stashed yet would put on pitiful performances to milk Mom for money, well, that ain't cool. It would not be the first time she milked my parents while falsely crying poverty.
As for the alleged missing money, there are certainly more fitting suspects than Charlie, LOL. The word "Ryan" comes to mind, for some odd reason.
Whaddaya Want on Yer Tombstone
So, The Flozberks allowed Mutchie's dog to rot, failed to make sure Mom was regarded in her mother's death, and accused Dad of stealing a bunch of money. It couldn't have gotten worse, right?
Wrong.
Dad would periodically visit Mutchie's grave and return troubled that she had no grave marker. She was a vain woman who definitely would have wanted a durable, significant memorial. They kept mentioning it to The Flozberks, and did so gently due to fear of Neila's wrath, but were only met with empty promises.
Eventually, they tired of the bullshit and just bought the damn thing themselves. In another entry for the "ya just can't make this stuff up" file, Mutchie is planted literally next door to Northpark Mall, a place that has been almost a shrine for our big-spending Flozberks.
5 years, 6 months, and 25 days after Mutchie died, she got her grave marker bearing the truth-stretching text "She walked in beauty." So, it turns out that Mom did get something from Mutchie's estate - the bill for the tombstone, which was far, far less that 1% of the value of the estate The Flozberks sucked up.
Oh, and Mom also got the bill for euthanizing the neglected dog.
This concludes the Mutchie segment of disasters. Time for some fresh ones.
The Sue Chef is Born
A couple of years after Mutchie died, The Flozberks sued Mannatech, claiming that Ryan's many difficulties were caused by their glyconutrient supplements. Before, they actually tried to get me on the stuff, a costly, MLM, church-based magic elixir derived from plant sugars that seems to do little or nothing, good or bad.
I scoffed, preferring tequila.
The 3 year effort consumed enormous resources and time better devoted elsewhere. Neila was adamant that victory and vast compensation were certain. She was wrong. They lost their case and the defendant remains successfully in business.
This matter is covered in greater detail on Ryan's page.
Re-Enter The Sultan
As the Mannatech saga unfolded, The Sultan of Sodomy's marbles got to fallin' out in 2006. Late the next year, Neila got power of attorney with a document that every attorney I've shown it to found highly remarkable.
All 4 members of the Flozberk household, including the perpetually unemployed druggie Ryan, would get their pockets stuffed as long as the old scumbag lived. Atop that, they enjoyed a lot of high livin' with dementia-ridden Aydin picking up the tabs.
Neila also acquired the place next door, a large house in one of the best 'hoods in town, to renovate for Aydin. That ended in disaster and foreclosure during the 7+ year war, called "The Incident," that erupted between Neila and John over The Sultan that sucked my parents in and ruined the ends of their lives.
John and his lawdog were eventually appointed guardians, Neila was ordered to repay Aydin's estate over $340K and was indicted for felony misappropriation of the ol' pervert's dough, but the legal actions all fizzled out and Aydin croaked under John's surely-less-than-loving shadow.
Throughout this ordeal and for over 5 years, Dad was drugged into complacency with daily lorazepam, prescribed starkly at odds with medical standards by Neila's hack strip mall sawbones, a sports medicine doctor unsuitable for Dad's needs and often called a "dear friend of the family" by Neila.
I detoxed Dad in summer 2017 after protesting vehemently to his treatment. His cognition and balance immediately improved.
More of the Same
As the war with John got rolling, Reagan's father expired in notably sudden, violent, and remarkable fashion. 5 1/2 years later, Reagan's mother followed from natural causes. They had gone to great lengths to ensure a quick, even split of their substantial assets between Reagan and his two siblings, both nice people who were close to The Flozzies.
Of course, a years-long legal battle broke out and the relationships were shattered.
We are now 3-fer-3 in exceptionally poor outcomes with the old folks. Their administration of Mutchie, Aydin, and Reagan's parents all involved big time misadventures and a whole bunch of money milked by The Flozberks.
The only ones left were my parents, reeling from their entanglement in The Incident.
Charlie
A half-year after Aydin bought the farm in late 2014, Mom fizzled out after a 3o+ year stretch of inactivity. Dad then stunned me by putting me in charge of his affairs. After watching The Flozberks for 37 years, for some odd reason, he simply did not trust their values, methods, or intellects.
He instructed me to audit the books, figure out what the hell has been going on, and come up with a solution to make things fair. I did exactly that, he approved it, and the process began with his blessing. I made no effort to conceal anything and Dad was free to discuss anything he liked with whomever he pleased.
Still, as far as I was concerned, it was between me and Dad. Nobody consulted with me regarding the fiascos with Neila and John, and Neila & Reagan, indigent yet living in an exclusive neighborhood, reaped on average over $6600 a month for years while helping care for Mom and Dad and often doing a half-assed job of it.
Late in the process of establishing fairness, Neila went off the rails and broke out the ol' hatchet job machine against me, starting a 1 year power struggle that demolished the end of Dad's already many-times-ruined life.
Early in the struggle, she somehow obtained power of attorney in a process Dad, blind with ARMD and glaucoma, had no specific recollection of, and his memory was generally sharp.
Then, she convinced him to agree to sell his million dollar stock portfolio and put the money in an account under her control, depriving him of the 5% dividend income in exchange for a much, much lower savings account rate. He later cited that as one of the 3 biggest regrets of his life.
I found out that The Flozberks were at least 69 months behind on their $552K mortgage, and that their failson Ryan had been arrested with sufficient heroin, pills, scales, cash, and a loaded handgun to be facing serious prison time. None of this was disclosed to Dad or me and Neila refused to cooperate with me in any way.
That made Dad agree to make more videos with an aim of trying confirm as much of my account as possible while contradicting the hatchet job FlozberkWorld was wreaking upon me.
After a final attempt to work with Neila, we had to act. Dad had revoked her power of attorney the day before and we got very ethical legal counsel that agreed that action was badly needed. Dad agreed to make more videos to supplement the one he did months earlier, grant me power of attorney, and change his will from the complex mess Neila and Mom conjured up to a simple, fast, even split between me (his son) and Neila (Aydin's daughter).
He also would remove Neila her as his executor, something he was adamant about.
Within 12 hours of him signing the new PoA, he was in the hospital with a head injury and died a few days later on his 88th birthday. He had an appointment to sign his new last will and testament immediately after his birthday.
Begone, Non-Useful Child
Perhaps the most offensive act on this list involves a pretty cool little guy.
Neila's pseudo-twin brother, The Golden Psycho John, who is gravely estranged from one of his children and has a chilly relationship with the other, is the father of Tony, single father of young laddie Jax and doing a damn good job of it.
After my lifelong separation from Dad's excellent family, visits from the Grim Reaper, and conflict-caused estrangement, Tony and Jax are the only family I have left.
The Sue Chef and Princess Corn Log tried to sabotage that. After ignoring them for years, they threw Jax a big, Star Wars-themed birthday party after Dad was killed. Shortly after, Tiffany called Tony all tanked up on wine and wallowed in many sorts of bad behavior that are now primed to blow up in her face, including implying that I killed Dad.
Tony, who knows me very well for many years and, unlike The Flozberks, is a thinker, wasn't buying. As a very nice, chill fellow, he was not rancorous or insulting. He just wasn't gonna leap on the creaky trolley offered by the drunken young mother Tiffany.
So, after about 40 years, Neila flicked her nephew and his son Jax, away like roaches. On Jax's next birthday, there was silence from them even though there was no conflict. Jax, already struggling with the abandonment by his troubled mother, was saddled with two more women abandoning him.
NOT cool.
They could have easily done the right thing for the kid without much engaging Tony. Jax did nothing wrong. A simple easy gesture would have made such a different result. Instead, like a sleazy suitor who manipulates a kiddo to get in Mom's pants, they wined and dined the child in a transactional move, then ditched him when their scam didn't pan out.
Absolutely appalling.
Aftermath? Or Beginning?
Dad's $900K house, my childhood home, was under Neila's control with a generous cash allowance for its maintenance. It was sold about 3 1/2 years after Dad was killed. I was sent a check for $225K in a process that was a bit of a fiasco, then a massive one broke out in dealing with the personal property from Dad's house.
Dad's biggest fear was that I was going to get shafted on the house. That seems to be coming to pass. I'm now locked and loaded, so to speak, after almost 5 years of preparation, to fight with a broad stroke they will find astonishing.
For Dad, the saddest part of this is that, after being treated as a laborer and errand boy for over 50 years as Mom's side of the family ran amok, he finally got to take the helm and directly, as the boss, do something to change his son's life. Neila ruined that vastly overdue, tremendously important experience for him as she trashed the last year of his life.
It's hard not to cry when thinking about it.
The Bottom Line
Regard Dad's biggest regrets and we find Neila in the center.
Regard Dad's biggest fears and we find Neila in the center.
The Flozberks are estranged from all of her and Reagan's siblings.
They carry a stunning history of failure, disaster, and parasitism.
It's always someone else's fault.
Oh, and the mortgage lender they were 69 or more months behind on? The Flozberks sued them and lost, all the way up to the state Supreme Court.
Coming soon: Watch Neila's music video "Toxic Buffoon"
Read more about Neila's antics in the Appendices
Watch triggered Neila make an ass of herself
