Most of us can read the writing on the wall; we just assume it's addressed to someone else.
- Ivern Ball
Unlike certain dear friend of mine who dwells in the rather more northerly realm of Chicago, here in Charlotte, North Carolina spring has spranged. Somewhat.
The snow is gone (all 1.4 inches of it for the whole season) and the trees are taking that end-of-the-jetstream risk of sending buds to their tips: dogwoods have big white puffs on them, my parson's pear didn't die last year and has plenty of evidence of bloom to come, my fruitless plum is littered with dozens of cheerful pink flowers, and my Japanese maple – almost killed three years ago in the blast of an April ice storm – grew a whopping foot and a half of new branches, all of which are budding.
And now I gotta mow the fucking lawn.
The kids and I will head to the park today, for a few hours of the big plastic play contraption and a walk through the trail along the Frisbee golf course in the woods. I may wear shorts.
Even the cats are with this Spring thing. Jeffrey, our chickenshit orange tiger tabby who believes sitting humans are safe humans from a distance, but standing humans are evil and horrible creatures who want to eat him, hopped into my lap recently, made biscuits on my thighs, and curled up just long enough for my foot to fall asleep. Living your whole life in a cage does that to one.
And get this: I've yet to get my taxes off to Mr. tax man. What kind of idiot doesn't send off his taxes? Don't I need the money? Am I just rolling in dough?
An idiot, yes, and no. But the tax money was spent a long time ago, surviving a bout of unemployment between contracts which exhausted our savings and sent many thousands of dollars onto the credit cards...which will be partly paid off when the tax return gets here. Ever dime of our return is spent already, on debt.
That's good news, though - we have that debt covered (many don't), and my shitty-paying contract is keeping us in food and garbage pickup and shortly enough gasoline to fill the mower and get the outside of this house looking respectable (many can't) and spring has sprung.
So I will smile.
DP was a tiring, bitter jerk-off this week, but suitable for therapeutic reasons. Please read the originals here.
Suffering With Skeletons – Your name is your answer. Recap: you met the offspring of the offspring of your abuser years after it was over. This individual is a good guy, but you need to ask questions.
You won't be any fun for me at all – I can't beat on you for this one 'cause it just ain't right.
I'll tell you something simple and definite, though: even though you say “legal action was taken, and I thought I was over” it you need to get the fuck over it right quick, 'cause if you do nothing this is like herpes. Every so often you'll have a flareup because of it, and it's life altering, and it's fucked up, and everlasting. And pills can hide the symptoms for a while but not cure the disease.
Unlike herpes, you can actually get over this. Gotta do it, and sooner is better. You're young yet – imagine a life where this shit isn't clattering around in your head every time you see someone that looks like “him.”
You owe it to yourself to take this to the curb. You will thank me, and everyone else who tells you to do this (and the people who love you will tell you to do it) later on. Just go.
This person you met, regardless his pedigree, isn't an issue. You are. Go. See a shrink. Go.
Go on. Git.
Afraid of Oedipal – cereal? Really? Recap: your tot saw you and hubby fucking like wild animals. The young 'un is a true-blue genius who knows everything there is to know about Captain goddam Crunch, and you suspect that he may have been so deep in thought about the inclusion of niacinimide in the crunch-berries and how it may prohibit the absorbency of pyridoxine hydrochloride that he might not have noticed you were wearing a leather cup-less bra and riding his daddy reverse cowboy and screaming “yeah, pound it, buckaroo, pound it!” As usual, you don't know what to do. Bada boom. The world ceased spinning and Jesus wept.
Number one, Supermom: lock the fucking door. Are you stupid? Are you sick? Did you suffer a massive brain injury as a youth from a blow to the head or oxygen starvation? Did you take too much goddamn acid and fry the circuits? Are there toothless, grinning family members in your past who married as siblings? What are you, some kind of fucking asshole witless empty-headed astrotarded moron?
Here's why this is a good idea: If the door is locked, little Billy doesn't have to watch you and daddy fuck each other with “acrobatic” flair and gusto. Get it? Jesus Christ. His 2:00 AM visits are typical, you say, yet you were surprised to find him standing in your open doorway, staring at you, post coital? Dipshit.
Number two, genius: you don't know what to tell him? Good lord.
It's time to go to the “Schuyler The Cat Tells You What the Fuck to Say O-Matic!” Here's how you play: I will give you three things you can say to your little brain-surgeon-cereal-genius child, and you pick one. Pick any one. Then say it. It's that simple. You could fuck it up, but most couldn't and that's what make my show worth watching, you Hoover-headed butthole.
1.) “Billy, see, when mommies and daddies love each other very much, sometimes their feelings are so strong they go farther than just kissing and hugging – you know how mommy and daddy kiss and hug a lot, it's just icky, huh? – and that's when mommy and daddy wait until they think you're asleep, then mommy and daddy take off their clothes, and daddy puts his erect penis into mommy's vagina. He kind of pushes it in and out, because that feels good for daddy. Then he grabs my hair and says “take it, take it bitch.” Mommy likes to make daddy feel good, so I say “god I need that big cock so bad.” Sometimes, daddy spanks me. Well, anyway, it's a very grown up thing, and you shouldn't worry about it. Want some Count Chocula?”
2.) Billy, mommy and daddy were playing and wrestling last night. Hope we didn't wake you. Great idea, all that, the less milk on your cereal thing. Want some more Fruity Pebbles?
3.) “What do you mean, 'what were you and daddy doing last night?' Mind your own business, you filthy little pervert! What mommy and daddy do are grown-up things! You better talk to Pastor Bob this Sunday and make sure he gets those filthy-naughty thoughts out of your young head, you monster! Oh, let's all pray, hurry, let's pray!” Oh, after, you can have some Lucky Charms!
Okay. Pick one, stay with it. I recommend 2, but 1 is fine, given he's a cereal genius.
And please don't have more kids. Fucking hell, please don't. You have enough of a mess on your hands trying to comprehend one child.
Frustrated Fiancee – how many times is Slate going to dust off this asinine fucking letter? This is what, the tenth time I've seen it over the years? Interestingly, it gets stupider with time – they must be letting their more clever editorial staff go for budget cuts. Recap: this is the fake letter about the chick who's fiancee's mother treats him like a baby. You know the story.
One difference: your letter said “insert mother-in-law joke here.” Fair game!
Didja hear the one about the mother-in-law with the fucking vapid asshole dinglepuss of a daughter-in-law? Yeah, she killed her with a goddamn fire ax and hacked her up and buried all the chunky bloody gobbets and pieces around her rose garden and saved the whole world from the horror of the potential offspring of another really stupid person! Then she made her 25 year old son some Ovaltine and combed his hair real nice and said “go find us another stupid one, Earl, but get a rich one next time goddammit!”
Hah! Ah, yes, that one gets me every time!
Anyway, this is a stupid letter and the answer is “get a different guy and by the way grow the hell up, you fucking dumbass.” Yadda yadda yadda.
RSVPut Out – Oh, hell.
It is my assertion that weddings are the only naturally occurring event in the universe that can cause the IQ's of entire populations to plummet to Kate Moss' belt size. What's the deal?
Recap: You got a save the date for a wedding for someone you do not know. You actually have to ask “should I get a gift?” In other news, recent evidence has shown that people can survive indefinitely without any brain matter at all in their hollow little skulls. You are the third known living example. George W. Bush was the first. Glenn Beck and Michelle Bachmann are fighting for the right to broadcast a temper tantrum proving they were second.
This is the matrimonial equivalent of getting one of those Nigerian scam letters where the late dictator and grand Poo-Bah of Nigeria, General Sonni Ben Dofhuur, has died and now his widow wants your help in getting his $80 million out of the country. I can only assume you've fallen for that bullshit at one time or another as well.
You feel indebted to buy something? Go ahead. By the way – what's your address? I have a daughter, she's of marrying age (she's 8 actually, but I want to get a head start on both your generosity and your idiocy) and she'd (meaning: I'd) love a Kindle.
Come to think of it, I have a couple of daughters! Yeah, three, maybe four! Four! And uh, they're all princesses (my late father was King Lee Kmabals of Gumbabwe), and they could use a new digital camera (Canon G11, please) and a car (I'm...I mean, she's rather partial to the new BMW M3) and a trip to Vegas (a suite at Venetian would be a fine wedding gift) and a...
In other words, no, you don't have to buy her a wrinkly old dry lump of cow shit from the fields, you bloody idiot. Jeez. I'll still take that Kindle, though. Small payment for having to answer such a stupid question.
As I have the kids all to myself today (my wife is studying) we shall proceed forthwith to the park (after chores are done, of course) and then to the store for orange juice, eggs, a few extra bottles of beer for me, and a few packages of pasta, upon which later a hearty amount of clams and garlic and finely diced tomatoes and olive oil (mixed in proper proportion by yours truly, the occasionally chef of the household until graduation in April 2011) will be dumped later.
Bien à toi, grosses bise.