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You Better Not Cry by Augusten Burroughs

Not Yet Rated
Voice Over • Audiobooks


A sample of my audiobooks demo, Comedy, Character, Southern, Female, male child, Southern accent.

Vocal Characteristics


English (North American)

Voice Age

Child (5-12)


US South (Deep South, Dixie, Delta)


Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
you better not cry by august and burrows. When I walked innocently into the kitchen, my grandmother clapped her hands together, then petted her thighs. Come here precious and sit on my lap. I was still technically small enough to be able to fit on a lap, but in a matter of months I would be banned from laps as I would shoot up almost a foot and weigh nearly as much as a big dog. Now, what is this business about referring to santa as? And she whispered the name jesus. I just looked at her and blinked. You know, it's wrong for you to make fun of jesus, don't you? I bristled at the mere suggestion, felt my small ears crow warm. I certainly did know this. And furthermore, I wasn't making fun. I know that. I said I would never say anything hateful about jesus. That's why I'm so happy. He's here. My grandmother studied me, her thin lined lips puckering around a cigarette that wasn't there, no, honey. When you say you're happy, he's here. You mean here, don't you? And she placed her hand on her blouse above her heart. No Caroline! I said, calling her by her first name as all the grandchildren did. I mean, I'm glad he's here in the house, out there in the living room next to the tree where Jack stuck him. You saw you were there, my grandmother was now flustered Jack, she said, give me that and she nodded to the drink in his hand. She meant business. So he took a step over and passed it to her. She grabbed the glass from his hand and took a deep swallow, then handed it back. That's when she asked me, honey, do you really think that big red stuffed sinner we brought you is jesus, christ, our Lord and savior. The room fell eerily silent all of a sudden and everybody stared at me, waiting for my answer. It was the silliest question in all of the world. The answer is so obvious that I was alerted to a possible trick. I craned my neck around to look at my father, my mother, Jack, all of whom were looking at me expectantly. Well, I said carefully, as though taking my first step across a frozen pond, listening for the crack of the ice, I know that he's santa. And my grandmother smiled pleased with my answer, and she patted me on the head. But he's also jesus, I added, and I felt her stiffen beneath my legs. Margaret, Caroline said, glowering at my mother. What does he mean? My mother stepped over to the sink and ran the faucet over her cigarette, tossed it into the trash and immediately let another. I'm not sure what it means at all Caroline, she replied. the new calm smile still attached to her face, Augustine. Why do you say jesus and santa are the same house. So, so this is how it came to pass that I got my first lesson in christian theology, front row, center on my grandmother's lap. I learned that what I had believed all my life was not only terribly wrong, but deeply sinful and disrespectful. In fact, I could likely burn in **** for all eternity for my error, Jesus was real. Jesus was God's own child as surely as I was my own mother's. He lived in the sky, not absurdly at the North Pole above Canada, and he invented everything including Eskimos and goats and pop tarts? I asked. No, my grandmother replied. Not pop tarts, she continued, with the lesson, Jesus was the Holy Father, or at least his son, which I asked. I told you, she said, Jesus is our Lord and savior then, who's God? I asked. Jesus is God, she replied. But you said Jesus was the son of God, just as surely as I am, the son of my own mother. My mother cleared her throat and everybody turned to face her, she asked, I can't interest anybody in some cheese crackers. She winked like she was trying to be some pretty television star, except it was just a muscle spasm. Everybody turned away from her, but the interruption had given my grandmother her escape hatch. She changed the subject and I still didn't understand how jesus could be God and the son of God at the same time, santa claus, she explained did not live in the sky. He flew through it once a year on a sleigh powered by reindeer. He lived at the North Pole with mrs claus and some little people who make toys for him. You mean midgets slaves? I asked. My grandmother sucked in her air. Goodness gracious. No, I most certainly did not mean midgets slaves. Where did you even learn to combine such words? These are little lepre cons. He has up there with him and my grandfather blasted in. Oh **** now Caroline, don't go twisting the boy back up in knots all over again. Now that you finally got him straightened out. There aren't lepre con son, They're elves. Leprechauns are those little drunk motherfuckers from Ireland Caroline that had a little help. J. G. Robertson. I should wash your mouth out with soap. You know better than to use such language in front of a child. I told my grandmother it's okay. We say much worse things here. Her face grew dark. You do. Jack chuckled into his drink and my grandmother moved on