Where's my angry elephant when I need it!?

Edit:
I have decided that I need to include a mood indicator on my posts kinda as a warning system of some sort...
The forecast for this post is: Overcast early on with a 90% chance of nihilism and scattered rage storms by late afternoon.

I hate working in a public building with a public bench directly outside my very old and very uninsulated window. In this old building the windows are anything but sound proof and if you happen to sit outside my window and speak in anything other than a conspiratorial whisper I can and will hear abso-fucking-lutely everything you say. And being the horribly judgemental hateful person I am I will most likely repeat it verbatim to anyone who might remotely find it interesting, pathetic, funny, or instructive. I found the conversation of a thirty-something mother who sat on my bench this afternoon to be ALL those things and more, so I thought I would post it in it's entirety. The following occurred precisely as I've recorded for your reading pleasure (the bits in quotation marks are spoken into a cell phone):



No.
Sit here.
No.
You will sit here and you will stay here.
No.
One way or another you will learn to sit here and you will learn to obey.
Stop.
No.
Sit.
Stop.
Stop.

"No.
I have to stay here because they won’t behave."

Sit.

"What?
What?
Well, alright."

You will learn to listen
You will learn to behave
One way or another you will learn
The hard way or the nice way
Are you guys gonna sit down and behave?
No?
Sit down.

"He doesn’t want to sit.
He won’t sit on the bench like he’s supposed to.
He just wants to kick things."

You will sit.
Why are your shoes off?

"He will learn to behave."

You’ll be sorry.
Sit.
Sit.
Be quiet.
Stop it.

"Oh my god, these kids."

Stop it now.
Now.
Quit.

"*muttering *… you would of thought.
Uh-oh."

Stop.
You’re a naughty boy.

"I don’t know."

Say please.
No.
Alright babies, be good!

"I can't go back in, they won't behave."

No.
You can't you back in.
Only good kids get to go in there.
They don't want you.
You have to sit.
Sit.
No.
No.
Behave.
Sit.
Be quiet.

"I have to go.
They won't behave."

Stop it.
Stop it.
There’s no reason to cry.
Aw fudge! (That's right folks, she won't curse in front of the little bundles of joy God blessed her with. Probably because it would be unChristian to do so. Just a guess on the motive there, but I'd be willing to lay down money on it.)
You listen!
Stop.
Sit.
Sit.
No.
No.
Be quiet.
Stop it.
Get to the car.



That's it. That's the conversation this wonderfully charming person carried on with, and about, her babies. I did not leave anything out, except for the bit that was muttered, and that certainly wasn't uplifting and caring sounding by the tone. Speaking of tone, almost all of this was delivered at conversational volume in an almost monotone, as though she had said this a kajillion times. The two children, one boy and one girl both under the age of 3-4 years old, took turns crying, quietly and persistently, throughout this 15 minute ordeal. When I stepped outside an hour later to leave work I spotted something sitting on the bench under my window. A solitary cheap white plastic cigarette lighter. I feel sorry for the woman, and even sorrier for the kids. Yet, wait, ...no. No I don't. Fuck 'em. I chose not to have children and will die a lonely old witch, so I say "That's what you get for fucking without thinking!" Sure the miserable little tykes will end up paying for their parents horrible judgement, but really don't we all... So yeah, fuck 'em. I hate people and the people who turn them turn into the people I hate.

A View of the Death of Hustle on a Perfect Southern Summer Evening

My bigstupidhero was gracious enough to allow me to accompany him to a bashball game last night. The evening weather was absolutely fabulous! It had rained ALL day, right up to the start of the game, so it had stayed cool and didn't even turn steamy once the rain ended like it does sometimes down round these parts. The sun hid behind the clouds and I only had to shield my eyes through part of one early inning. My Big Stupid Hero only asked one favor of me the whole evening; "Could you do something about that sun?" Alas, this heroine lacked sufficient strength in her pointer finger to push the offending orb below the mountain horizon. I still think I should get points for effort though, which brings me to the point of this post... I watched Hustle die a slow and painful death on a perfect southern summer evening. Early on the visiting team hit a couple of home runs. Now, I can't play ball worth a flip, so I my love of sports (bashball in particular) is a very observational one. I love to watch the pivot and arc of a player REALLY swinging for a ball, whether he hits it or not often times doesn't matter to me. I do root for favorite teams, but I am a fickle and easily swayed fan and tend to care more for the effort a team puts into their season than the wins. So those first few home runs curving away over the outfield made me happy. I foolishly thought the old Lookouts would step up and refuse to be outdone and I would be treated to a rare evening of repeated long balls over the back fence or at least of players hustling to play a game like that. Alas. As the evening slid leisurely past the home town team seemed to slow more and more, become looser and less interested in their own game. Now I realize they are a Double A minor league team and they get paid squat and I don't expect a World Series level passion and effort, but after months of playing in dry horrendously hot southern summer drought weather I expected a certain pep, a certain joyeux de vie, brought about by the cool evening breeze, the overcast sky which had been washed clean of dust, pollen and cynicism, and the crack of bat against ball sounding out like a heavy gauntlet thrown down upon the water sparkled outfield grass. Alas. In the latter innings there was a loose ball, I believe it was a pop up foul, but I was so surprised by the following moments that I can't remember exactly what led up to them... The catcher goes to throw the ball to third base to make an out (which, unless I'm a truly horrible judge of distance he should have been able to make) when suddenly I am left wondering where the third baseman is. Then I realize that the player I thought was the shortstop just standing there at the edge of my peripheral vision is indeed the third baseman. For a moment I flashback to the images of my little brother's long and unremarkable T-Ball career. The kids standing feet wide apart, arms hanging limp, over sized gloves dangling from fingertips, and heads tipped skyward pondering the imponderables of a perfect southern summer evening with no school the next day...

I found that not even the death of Hustle could make me sad on such a perfect southern summer evening spent talking with a dear friend and knowing that what little sleep I do manage to grab before getting up and going back to work will be the sleep of a girl I used to be many years ago when it didn't matter which team the little boy played for we were all just glad someone finally hit a ball and that the weird boy pulled his finger out of his nose long enough to throw that ball halfway back towards first base with all his might.

Go Ahead and Scoff

86%

Maybe if it's not too big a waste of ammo, I'll shoot you in the head when the Zombies really do show up. This has always been one of my biggest fears. Hell, it might just be my biggest fear if I really own up to it. I'm sure it's a phobia of some sort since it is rather unrealilistc. See, I admit it. The possibility is very slim. But we'll just see who ends up a drooling walking corpse when the time comes. You tell me if Mad Cow Diease isn't just a cover up for rare cases of spontaneous Zombieism. I have my cast iron ladle and I know how to use it!

What the Fuck?

I was NOT surprised (much) to find that my blog merited a NC-17 rating. I was however surprised by WHAT merited such a rating!

This is what displayed directly below my rating after I submitted my site:

This rating was determined based on the presence of the following words:
shit (9x)
ass (8x)
fucking (3x)
steal (2x)
masochist (1x)

Ok, I admit, I'm a bit of a potty mouth when left to my own devices. But can anyone tell me why MASOCHIST is on that list? I don't even think I used it in a sexual context, though truth be told a little spanking is always appreciated. And STEAL? What the hell people?!

Now for a story...
When I was a young girl I lived on a farm. On this farm we had a dozen cows, a few chickens, and an ass. It was my chore to muck out the barn every day after school. It was very hard work. The cows weren't too bad, as they usually stayed outside, but the ass slept in the barn every night. One day after shoveling ass shit from a barn stall, I wandered over to the hen house to steal their eggs off their nests for breakfast the next morning. On my way I passed two of the cows fucking. It looked uncomfortable. I figured the heifer had to be a masochist to enjoy that. Right then some ass fucking moral majority piece of shit decided to steal my right to free speech and he actually thought I would roll over and take it like some masochist bitch. I killed him and wrote this story using his petrified dick and a pint of his own blood.

Parts of this story are fictional, but not all of it. You decide which is which.
And Always Remember Kiddies - Words Don't Mean Shit!

Generation Gap

I was forced by my Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World to buy new shoes recently. I absolutely fell in love with them. They spoke to the outcast in me. The girl who would refuse to speak for days at a time and thought drowning herself a suitable escape plan from the hell of school in Podunk, USA. The poet who killed and perished between lines. The punk who wore combat boots to work in the kitchen of her own restaurant where she would sleep in the booths at night rather than drive home. The elegantly melancholy ghost who dabbled in l'amour with blonde haired hippies whose fingers could play anything, pool playing Jeep driving good ol' boys, wicked wiccans, and punk rock drummers who rolled their cigarette packs up in their shirt sleeves. The woman who still takes her coffee how she leaves her men; dark & bitter.

I manage to forget my own age until something I take for granted is challenged. And so it happened. When I showed off my kick ass - ass kickers the first reaction I got was "Those are great Pirate shoes!" Pirate shoes?, I asked in astonishment. What? I have long lusted after Pirate shoes, those beautiful soft leather boots that loosely encircle your thighs like a lover. These shoes were NOT Pirate shoes! They were Punk shoes! They were kick your ass sexy irrelevant PUNK skull and crossbones shoes! Dammit all to Hell the thought NEVER crossed my mind... Pirate shoes, pfffft. As if. Though I lust after Johnny Depp with every other woman who felt those first vague stirrings while watching 21 Jump Street, I would never look at these shoes - my PUNK, Cyndie Lauperish, pointy toed, pieces of footwear perfection, that I would have gladly worn to see Henry Rollins perform back in the 90's - and think "Cool sparkly fingernail polish, LOL, Avril is soooo much cooler than Ashlee, teenage angst shoes!" When did it happen that my anti-establishmentarian hieroglyph become some banal Walt Disney trademarked rub-on tatoo!? When did the irreverant become the endorsed? I'm done. I need a couple of swigs straight from the old SoCo bottle to restore my faith in the world. Shit. Henry Rollins now does stand up. The whole thing is beyond me some days.

Genius!

I had one of those lightning strike moments of pure genius last night at 3 o'clock in the morning! (Which, by the way, is what time the Geek stumbled in after going bowling after work with all the other little Geeks) We were talking and I was confused because I couldn't remember what day of the week it was (Which, now that I think about it, was probably brought on by the fact that it was IN FACT technically Friday when I was trying to talk to my Geek about what had gone on during my day and what my plans were for tomorrow while in point of fact my "today" had become "yesterday" and my "tomorrow" had become "today," and I had consumed endless amounts of coffee for nigh on a week now...) Anyway, I was struck instantly by the idea that my life would be soooo much easier to keep track of if the work week only consisted of 4 Tuesdays and a Friday. Then, whenever I said anything to anyone what required a "day" reference I would have a much much higher probability of getting it right. If for some reason I got it wrong and some smart ass corrected me it would sound something like this: "What the hell are you talking about, it's Friday not Tuesday!" Then instead of thinking what a know-it-all little smart ass the person is I just think "Shit, it's Friday already, yahhh!" So that's what I want 4 Tuesdays, 1 Friday, and 2 Saturdays (so I never suddenly realize that it's Sunday when I thought it was Saturday and still had half a weekend to get shit done around the house) I think Franklin Covey should make day planner pages like that. I'd use them in a heartbeat! Well, that's it, my brilliant idea...

Destruction

I've been meaning to write an entry, even if it's just some stupid little piddly piece of fluffy kitten vomit, but I've said I'm too busy, too tired, too far gone in my own deep dark spring time induced little grey funk to be able to muster something so pointless as a blog entry.

Bull shit.

I'm officially getting the fuck over it.

Here goes:

Last Friday I awoke late way too early, did my entire bathroom routine in the dark (the fluorescent bulbs my Geek has replaced all my nice 25 watt bulbs with is WAY too bright some mornings so I just get dressed in the dark... which explains alot, I know) feed all the whiny needy defective pets I have, couldn't find the mate to one of my favorite shoes, had to wear my crappy black flats instead, and was heading out the door late way too early, when I spotted a note. Written in black Sharpie on a blank piece of what I still refer to as "Typing Paper" was the following:

Hey Sweetie,
I hope these make your day a little "sweeter!"

Kisses -- *My Geek*

The note was weighted down by a Dark Chocolate Orange (you know the big round orange liqueur flavored chocolates you whack on the table and break apart the little segments to eat) and a can of Mango Juice. Let's just say that at 3pm while drinking that heavenly nectar and lingering over my dark chocolate fix I cried because I was so lucky.

Today as I write this, I am safe and sound at my job, and my best friend is safe and sound at her job, and my Geek is safe and sound at his job, and my parents are safe and sound at their home and jobs, and that is enough to make me cry just a little bit.

When the world is as stupid and pointlessly violent and ignorant as it is today and everyday for all it's history sometimes you have to be a little self indulgent just to feel anything at all...