A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs. It's jolted by every pebble on the road.
- Henry Ward Beecher
Here today, gone tomorrow. Funny: I have written a DP column several times the last 6-7 weeks, and simply didn’t publish them. Dunno if my therapy is working or if the workload is getting to me: been busy.
Work notwithstanding, I have been busy shedding myself of a 2,698 square foot, 2 story “Craftsman” style home in the University area of Charlotte, North Carolina. In the end, the bank wanted too much to save it, rejected the short sale, and finally I became unwilling to lift a finger to make them happy.
It was like removing a carbuncle.
Damn, I hated that house before it was over. It was the one kind thing the bank did when they kept fighting with me about it: they cured me of the insane notion that a house, just some place I lived in, was more valuable than it really is. In the end, it wasn’t just worth $100,000 less than I owed: it was basically worthless to me.
Meanwhile, as mentioned in my previous RTSAC, my darling, brilliant wife graduated from school (magna cum laude, 4.89 GPA!) and has already landed a job. She starts Monday next. She’s awesome, eh?
So we’re all sleeping well, and life is good, and we are happy. Hopefully all our Flysters are as happy as me.
I have decided to cease adding letters in: I invite you to read them HERE and come back for my responses: the CORRECT responses, I might assert.
Your story needs to be rewritten. There’s all this stuff about some old guy, and then there’s all this other stuff about lawsuits, and frankly I just got fucking bored about it all, although I think I finally got the gist of it. Lemme try for you:
Blah blah blah blah guy is an asshole prone to lawsuits and I ran over his cat blah blah blah blah.
BTW – your husband is right about everything except buying the guy a cat – that’s just stupid.
Anyway, shut your yap and grow up.
So you’re not 20 any more. What, are you…25? Both “hmm” and “wow” to that.
You are a doormat and an idiot all in one. You just tell hubby to say “fuck off” to the freeloader, or you will say “fuck off” to the hubby. Wait a bit and see what happens. Note: this may not go the way you hope.
Grow up, Punkin.
Dear Still Living,
Let’s gain clarity: your mom died. Your dad moved on and found some poon. He’s likely going to die too, because hey, life happens. The woman your dad’s boinking will also die, if statistics and nature hold steady. You say Mommy Deadest would be upset about shared occupancy in the family plot, a la Three’s Company meets Beetlejuice.
I say dead people generally don’t worry about shit-picking asshole-ishness like this. I say YOU, on the other hand, do.
And I might add: when you die, it’s unlikely you’ll care about it any more.
So I say: grow the hell up.
Dear “Thank God I Never Dated You,”
Old people are all drunks, little kitty. All of us. We drink scotch for breakfast, gin for lunch, and vodka for supper. Our snack times consist of endless orgies of schnapps shots and flaming Goldschlager enemas. I just stepped out of an executive status meeting where we basically all passed a gallon jug of whiskey around and barfed a lot. Drink, drink, drink. That’s us.
Your sophomoric mention of your and his respective age seems to have struck a tone here, youngster. We old people do not like you young people who discover our secret society here at The Church of Our Lady of Puke-Inducing Alcoholic Excess. Hic.
Additionally: I learned something a long time ago that lil’ chilluns like yourself have yet to learn: when I stuck my finger in a candle flame it burned like fuck-all, and I shrieked like a little child (I was a little child, mind you, so this was the appropriate response). This guys bugs you? Go elsewhere. If he’s endangering you or others’ lives, make a stink. Otherwise, go have a goddamn margarita, loosen up a little bit, and maybe get laid. You gotta relax.
Oh, yes: and grow the fuck up.
Here I go, headed into the weekend with a spring in my step and (for the moment) nobody banging on my door for past due payments on anything. One day, you know, they’ll come a-calling: “sorry, dude, but we sold your $280,000 house for $125,000. You owe us the balance.”
And I will say “yeah, sure. Let me get right on that.”
Should have taken the deal, el stupid-o bank-o.