As long as the world shall last there will be wrongs, and if no man objected and no man rebelled, those wrongs would last forever.
- Clarence Darrow
I am an outlaw.
Dark and mysterious, a questionable past and some bad choices made which shape who – and what – I am today, jaded and bitter, yearning for something better but no recourse for me: I must face my destiny as it comes to me, and suffer for it.
My story, you ask? You probably can't handle it, punk. See, I got a ticket for failing to renew my registration, and I forgot to pay it. Now there's a warrant out for my arrest.
I'll never stop fighting those bastards, and I'll never top running until the fight is done. I'll pay the ticket, I guess – my fault, pretty damn stupid. Until then I am an outcast, spurned by society. A vile darkling not made of the kind of stuff that needs the light of day cast upon it, the better to veil my shame in the shadows of my bleak sorrow; this fate, thrust upon me, become me.
You know. An idiot. I may be an dipshit, but I sure am stupid.
Like these idiots.
Yuck – I like your thinking! Recap – you caught a senior guy milking man mustard from his meat machine, flogging the dolphin for salty seafood yogurt, slapping the spicy salami seeking a spurt of sticky seed. Oh, this while in the office.
At first blush this is not terribly interesting, and my stupid alliterations don't help much, but your inclusion of the line “...it is not as though I can leverage this in any lucrative way” gives me shivers goosebumps and takes this post to the level of bloody goddamn epic. You fiery little minx, you! You're thinking the right (read: lawyer-ly) way!
Meanwhile, I am appalled you didn't offer to go in and finish him off first. Seriously. You should have swayed in the door, a hungry look in your eyes, hit your knees, and done him right there...and tape it with your cell phone camera, then blackmail the shit out of little Mister Jimmy Jerkoff! Profits, lawyer-lady: it's about profits. You don't make the big bucks in the legal space until someone blows someone.
I mean, wait, you are a lawyer, right? I though that meant you are both smart and unscrupulous? Sigh.
Maybe next time, kitten. Meanwhile, start staking out the other bigwigs, because this one won't likely make that mistake again. There's a pony in there somewhere.
Mad – boy, nothing says “I love you” like being an idiot married to an idiot. Recap – your ex said bad shit about you and you seem to be formerly unaware that sort of thing sucks. Side note: your son was who he said it to, and now the boy thinks you're a whoring slimeball.
Listen, witless: you were fighting about child support? Not any more you're not. You now have the means to bring those little money wars into your side of the ring and gain the upper hand. What I am suggesting may seem slimy. Well, it kinda is, but it kinda isn't.
First: you could be the grimiest whore ever to step on this Earth, I don't know, but moms and dads need to learn to shut the fuck up about this stuff around their children. Kids don't need to know what kind of dickheads parents are about relationships until later in life, and even then a father who slimes mom without taking a little heat for himself is both a liar and a fucking moron, and he's creating another one from scratch.
Start snatching this data from the boy's computer – you are his mother, and you should have the right (slimy of you, but there it is) to go look (ask the lawyer-lady above – she'll know). Save it to a thumb drive or something. Over time you might drop hints to him about his emotional distance and see what he writes further, and later you can outright confront him and ask why he's being so mean, and if daddy dearest said anything vicious. Keep at it – he'll write something...incriminating, eventually.
Copy everything he wrote and save it. Then give it to your attorney.
Shortly after, you might just let your ex know there will be one last little fight about child support. And keeping his fucking mouth shut. And attempting, somehow, to quit being a fucking and giving his son such shitty examples. It's not about the child support; it's about the boy.
This is only the start, of course – your son will need to know about everything after all. The end of the rainbow is the truth in this case, and even if he hates you for it now, I strongly suspect he'll understand it better later, and that's when he might learn the real lesson: don't be a fucking douche, like dad.
PS. I hope you know that goes for you, too.
I Lost Someone, Too – I doubt this is weird. Recap: you and best friend were in a crash, and she didn't make it. You want some of the stuff you gave her back for mementos.
Can we assume if you were really best friends that her folks were close to you too? And can we assume the lot of you have had some unfortunate but needed quality time together since the wreck?
Get your balls out, sister. Sad or not, quit quibbling: just go ask for the stuff. You know how to do it (gently, duh) so just go. Be prepared for some confusing answers, but hope for the best. You should be fine.
Didn't Lose a Leg in Iraq – well, you both lost your fucking brains, that's for certain. Recap: people ask about hubby's lost leg and assume it got itself blowed off in the war, but it didn't. You are such a dipshit-licking dullard you have no idea how to discuss it when they get all Toby Keith “Proud to be an American” on him over the non-war-wound missing leg.
Listen, you cretinous, yak-witted, nipple-brained moron: this ranks way up there among the stupidest question ever asked in the history of asking stupid fucking questions, and I am stunned that you can operate and manipulate a machine like a computer (or a pencil...or fucking Crayolas) well enough to put this dunderheaded, galactarded insipidity to words.
Sigh. Deep breath.
You dumbass fucking cheese head – here is a sample conversation between people with an intelligence quotient numbers assumed to be roughly about the same as, or slightly higher than, the nearest speed limit sign:
“Hi, we're Bob and Mary!”
“Hi, we're Dick and Jane!”
“Gee, were you in the service, Dick?”
“Yes, I was.”
“What a great sacrifice, you fighting and losing your leg for this great country! This goes to show that Americans, no matter who they are, are brave and true, and stand up for what is right and just! I do believe I am starting to shed many tears of pride right now.”
“I didn't lose my leg in the service, Bob. I drove a desk in Washington.”
“Oh. Really? So, you hear about Ken Griffey, Junior? Whoda thought he'd ever be old?”
Yadda yadda yadda.
Unlike the people in this example, you are too goddamn stupid to figure this tactic of “tell them” out on your own. Glad I could be there for you. Idiot.
I might add that doing this will not discourage people from giving thanks to vets in the future. I will assure you people will be likely to do so regardless the fact you two are so fucking flagrantly and profoundly stupid. Just so you know.
I hear Bon Jovi...”Wanted, Dead or Alive...” Of course, some might say it makes perfect sense a fucking weasel like me would have his first arrest warrant made out to the tune of a goddamn unpaid expired registration ticket, but pay those jokers no mind: it's all about the danger, all the time, every day, that's what I am made of, and just you watch yourself: I get a hold of your license plate, you could be right up the shitter and on your way to the big house.
I am a very bad and dangerous man.
Now if you will excuse me, I have to go feed my kitties.