A Random Image

Posts Tagged ‘cut the shit jackhole’

more missin’ than you’re worth, but I still do anyhow

Here I am in all this,
Last meal long gone and
Neck punching up a fierce crick,
Five or five-hundred miles
Past where you said the train would stop.
(I quit counting miles; I just listened
for the Johnny Cash in the hitch-gather of the wheels)
It’s not that you lied,
Or didn’t plan right.
It’s just that you underestimated my capacity
For saving you a seat.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

|| January 29, 2012 || 1:57 am || Comments (10) ||

So I worked at this plant where I was a supervisor on night shift. As a completely unrelated (and maybe worthless, I’ll leave that to you to decide) aside, I’d like to tell you that –despite aggressive insomnia that started taking over my sleep when I was in the neighborhood of eight or nine– ten months of working the night shift aged me ten years. At least, that’s what it felt like when I slung my safety gear over my shoulder and walked out of that joint for the last time.

Clock in at eleven, clock out at seven. There were three-hundred and fifty personnel on that shift, busted up into different sections, each section with a supervisor. A couple of the more sizable sections had three to four line supervisors, with crews of anywhere from seven to fifteen people for whom they were responsible. Out of those three-fifty, there were approximately eight women. Only one was a section super. Another was a line super. The latter was me.

The plant floor was always loud. It wasn’t only loud; it was dangerous, too, because we were working with caustic chemicals and we climbed things like monkeys and we teetered on the edges of slick, sharp inclines manhandling equipment that was half our bodyweights or more, high up in the air over solid concrete floors. There was machinery everywhere to bounce off of on your way down, if the thought of cracking your melon on some ‘crete wasn’t enough to keep you cautious.

I had a crew of twelve men. There used to be one woman on it, a woman who had been there for years and never been promoted because, well, she wasn’t. She was diminutive and appalling, because she was yippy like a chihuahua and always aggressively demanding respect out of one side of her mouth but then giving blowjobs in the parking lot out of the other. The kind of girl who, for instance, wanted to wrestle like a man but when pinned would intone in babyvoice, “Let me up, don’t hurt me, ’cause I’m just leeeedle!” Females of the world who are like this: Just give us all one big fucking break, would you? Everybody –male and female alike– pretty much wants you to fall in a ditch and stay there.

(I mean, I don’t give a shit if your aim is to have every dick within ten feet of you in your mouth at one time or the other, but don’t go acting like you’re surprised when none of the males those penises are attached to come to you for your philosophical take on matters. There is slut-shaming and there is poor judgment and we’re all adults here and can tell the difference, right?)

So Yippy was on my crew and her first order of business was to be passive-aggressive with me and Give Me Ten Kinds of Shit because I had all my teeth and two brain cells to rub together and oh yeah, tits. Good-looking tits. So HEY, I must be COMPETITION rather than her BOSS, right? It didn’t help that she was madly in love with my buddy Polack Dave and was convinced surely to all of high holy heaven that I was going to fuck Dave the very minute that Yippy (who yes, had been Dave’s mistress at one point) and DAVE’S WIFE turned their backs.

See? See what I was dealing with? I played poker with Polack Dave and Polack Dave’s wife and they fed me at least twice a week. Polack Dave and I high-fived one another on the way in the door every night and flipped one another the bird going out of it every morning. Why on Earth would I want to mess that up?

However, Yippy was inconsolable. Yippy did a good job, but Yippy was lippy and disrespectful and I did all the requisite you-try-to-fuck-my-crew-up-I’ma-fuck-your-day-up dancing and write-ups and finally I said, “You know what, Yippy? I AM HAVING YOU TRANSFERRED TO POLACK DAVE’S SUPERVISOR,” and so I did. She was (prematurely) gleeful.  Said super promptly hid her in a broom closet in the nether reaches of the plant and everybody was pretty gahdang happy for a time.

Then there was the night that a very large fellow named Howard stepped to me.

See, I think that maybe some people made the mistake of thinking that I had Yippy transferred because she was a female. Not so. I had Yippy transferred because she was a gigantic asspain and I just wanted to do my fucking job and get the fuck out of there in a timely manner each day. When I eventually got my crew hipped to my way of doing things, we were done with our line by four-thirty and could catch two hours of nap in the breakroom so that we’d be rested up and ready to find beers at one of the only two bars in town open for breakfasty patrons. If you work the night shift, then eight in the morning is your six at night and so by ten ay emm you’re good and shitfaced if that’s your aim. Sure, it’s in a scummy dive of a bar, but who is there to judge you? Nobody, that’s who, because they’re either the folks carpooling miles away from said establishments or the guy at the end of the bar with his asscheeks imprinted into the stool that he hardly ever leaves. He sees four of you and all four iterations have a different name, get it?

Holy cow, I digress. Anyway:  In order for me to do my job and get out in a timely manner, there has to be a cohesive team working toward the same aim and doing so at least quasi-jovially. Whistle while you work, bitches, and you will ride the clock for almost three hours for free and nobody is going to yell at you for doing so because you! are Union! and you! have done a bang-up job! that exceeds the specifications laid out for you in the super-big and ridiculously detailed company manual! This is because my aim is never to do just enough to get by; my aim is to have some stracked-out results whose worth cannot be contested. Selah! Amen! Nap! Then beers and billiards after!

An event whose progressive steps looked something like this, so as to save us some paragraphs and get us to the action right quick,

1) “Howard, man, I don’t like that. Can you do it the other way, please?”
2) “Hey Howard, could you do your job x way because your fancy new y way is slowing the flow and is less efficient overall and since my part of the line depends on your part of the line, you are slowing me down, as well.”
3) “Howard, I don’t know why you are looking me dead in the eye and purposely slowing both our jobs down but that’s not cool and I need you to cut it out.”
4) “Howard. Cut the shit, man.”

occurred over the course of about an hour and a half. By the time I got to “HOWARD. I HAVE HAD ENOUGH,” Howard had decided he’d had enough, too, and closed the twenty or so feet between us with a haste that, had it been shown earlier, would have saved us all the ensuing trouble and dramatics.

Howard got all the fuck up in my face. He had six inches on my five-ten and Lord knows how many pounds on my one-sixty. We were in full hazmat gear, but our helmets were magically, manically gone, flipped from our heads simultaneously and he was breathing down on me, enraged, bearing in, face literally two inches from mine. Howard began yelling in earnest and the whole ‘I’ll be damned if I’ma let this fool back me down’ aspect of my personality rose up in all its glory. I was on my tiptoes, meeting him where he was at and pushing back emotionally every bit as hard as he was shoving me and suddenly there was Polack Dave jumping lines to get to us, there were three members of my crew begging us to stop and more on the way. Everyone was afraid to touch us, everything so electric and precarious. They were attempting to shout sense over the clanging and banging of machinery but the fog of rage –not to mention our mutual shouting– engulfing us obscured them.

Howard got one warning from me to back up, then one more warning from me to back up then he told me to fuck off bitch and I gave over to fury. I raised the high pressure hot-hose that had been dangling limp in my hand (hastily shut off during Howard’s approach), put the metal key to it that dangled from a loop in my coveralls and kicked the hose on as I took a step back. A high-pressure stream of scalding water surged forward from that industrial hose and I nailed that fucker square in the chest with it. There was less than a foot between us. Howard went down.

I got reamed for this. Never once, though, not one single day of my life, have I ever been sorry for that moment. Sometimes your crazy is the only thing that you can rely on. Hatred is shameful. Fury is gorgeous. The two should never marry. If it is devoid of hate, sometimes your fury is a righteous and perfect thing with inexact but fitting results.

|| July 27, 2011 || 2:08 am || Comments (22) ||

There’s always something to outrun and there’s always something to quit and there’s always something to forget and don’t you tire of this place, this place where your brow knits and your whole face asks a question of nobody that you can particularly identify? The puzzle-look is just there waiting for the person that recognizes it to call out to you, to know it because someone else called it out to them.

My feet and brain are always moving. My heart is always waiting and I don’t remember how to exhale. Back when I used to be a scrapper the exhale came with the thud, the contact, the punch letting it all out and unleashing the glee and, hey: Look who is a functioning human being! Now that we’ve swung on one another and gotten that out of the way, we can get down to brass tacks: Do we pursue this, or do we walk away?

I’m real good at walking away, but I think even if I weren’t it would still be startling to me overall how many people are unwilling to agree to disagree and just let it alone. You get basically two choices, see? There is the whole Love You In Spite Of (with some Because Of in there for balance and also good measure) option and there is that hey we learned something here but we don’t ever have to sit down and have pie together and errbody will be just fine option.

You don’t have to like that you get basically two choices, and you can daydream all damn day long that there is a loophole fashioned all special-like for eedle ole you, but that doesn’t alter the very basic fabric of the universe wherein there is that silly fucking chaotic balance principle thingy to be accounted for. Without some negative energy and some positive energy bothering to go toe-to-toe there wouldn’t be any dang see-sawing going on, it’d just be someone constantly on their butt in the dirt or someone always dangling legs up there in the air.

Static scenery is bullshit. But so is staticky scenery. Both are an interruption in flow. “Movement is life,” one of my mentors was always saying to me, so I’m ever-mindful of my flow.

How do you define spirituality? Do you equate it with religion? Do you recognize it as the vehicle by which someone examines and attempts to better themselves? Do you view it as an excuse? A fool’s escape? A place to heap scorn and small behavior toward another human being who dares to state what they believe,  no matter how calmly (notice I did not say ‘placidly’) they try to do so?

Do you expect respect for your opinions and thoughts and for those things that move your heart? Oh, and: Is the volume at which you mete it out, this respect-thing, commensurate to the meticulously-adjusted level at which your expectations for it are set? I mean, I figure you’re –at minimum– clever enough for the working-out of your own soul; it would be really fucking special if you gave me and others the same sort of credit.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to the wedding of one of my best friends. I planned to (and did!) wear an orangey-red dress and unbelievably red lipstick and smartass black pumps with corset lacing up the three inches of heel (and the other two inches behind the curve of my foot). I tell you this because such a duded-up ladysuit requires some for real savage hair. Also, it was going to be roughly hotter than four hells and I suddenly find myself with a sheet of blonde mess down my back after more than a year of no-haircut tomfoolery*. So updo, right? Nobody wants to be the sweaty bitch in the awesome red dress.

(please remind me at some point to do a post explaining how, when people who love you want to gather and celebrate –with great goodwill and furious amounts of drinking– your marital union, baking said people attired in formalwear out-of-doors is decidedly impolite. rent a fucking hall, for shitsakes. there have been three –THREE!– outdoor weddings this summer and none of them were around a swimming pool and a trash can full of hunch punch.)

So I went to see my cousin’s husband’s sister-in-law, Layla, and showed her two pictures and handed her two black flowers replete with crystally things and sproingy feathers and said, “GO NUTS AND I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING. If this hair is in any way boring you and me can’t drink beer together no more, Layla.” Layla laughs like a hyena when we spend time together and wants to keep me around, so I was confident in my threat. Never make a threat you don’t intend to follow through on, Muffinassedly Ones; that’s just stupid. Lots of that going around these days. But shallow words are another hunk of writing entirely.

Layla looked at the pictures, looked at my head, said, “Hm,” then set her mouth, shoved some bobby pins in it and laid siege upon my locks. Every now and again she’d say, “Hold this piece of hair right here, Jay-utt,” but for the most part we talked about important shit since we are near-family and all. She’s a craftsman, this Layla, and she is of the mind that showing you an unfinished work is doing you a disservice, so when she spun me around at the end for a look-see I was just completely in love with what had been done.

I paid her the fair updo fee (wince) and tipped her five bucks (no wince here, I may hate to pay but I do like to tip) and the rain started. I had no umbrella.

But this is no tragedy-story, no, because my hair held up; it held up like a boss and I drove a couple hours away and got my gussy on and had one large fine time at that party. I was so happy and buzzed when we got back to the hotel that the only things I could find it in me to remove were my fluttery fake lashes and my stellar ‘potentially-a-loose-girl, it’s-hard-to-tell’ pumps.

The next morning, my beautiful hair was still (!) beautiful. “Aces!” says I, “I’m going to get my money’s-worth out of this wedding hair. I’m not unweaving or unpinning a single thing until Monday night!”


The next day after that my beautiful hair still appeared beautiful, but it was beginning to look a little fuzzy around the edges. This got me to thinking about it, this hair. I thought about how it might look serviceable on first inspection, but there were little aggravating curls that had sprung to life, and I was sure that there was a layer of guck beginning to form on my scalp. I thought and thought and thought some more about that hair, and finally I just took it on down and washed it that evening because this hair obviously would not be low-maintenance if it caused me to excessively regard the condition of the terrain underneath it.

And this brings me back to spirituality and the reckoning of our own souls: It’s not enough to just rest in something beautiful. If the substance of the thing is questionable, it will eventually begin to disturb us. We will stir uncomfortably, not able to sit with ourselves and our outdated truths. I don’t know why that can’t be enough; why we can’t let our actions say everything that needs to be known about our hearts. I don’t know why we have to be at odds with disparate beliefs, why we can’t just slap five and sing soul and smile and give the other guy the same room to be.

We’re just so wasteful with one another, and it really fucks me up when I think about it for too long.

*though not on purpose. fifteen months sans haircut. fifteen! months! this shit is killing me.

|| January 26, 2011 || 10:19 pm || Comments (9) ||

Sometimes a lack of humility creeps up my spine only to take root at the base of my brain and flower there. In the center of these flowers are fireworks of discontent and fury which –once the flowers reach their full self–righteous bloom– launch themselves into all parts of my headmeat, screeching and sending a breathtaking volley of majestic rage-colors all the way.

Then they magically transform themselves into sense-seeking missiles (that is, ‘common sense’, the thing my mother placed so clear an emphasis on when she chiseled away at raising me against the grain of my father’s egomaniacal urgings) and obliterate all manner of things that I was taught about issues like safety and personal decorum.

I am reckless with myself in these moments. In certain instances, I fully intend to be reckless with others as well. Most times, I do not. It’s in the shadow of the latter, when my nerves have stopped snapping static and a dull sorry ache has settled into me, that I find an uneasy quiet. In the center of that imperfect peace, that suspicious truce with self, I can feel the tug that predicates a subconscious hum. I listen for what follows, because it always follows….it always has, really, but over the years I have grown worse and worse at turning a mocking sneer toward it.

My insides are insistent: ‘I was made for love, I was made for love, I was made for love; foolish, fevered and gung-ho girl:

‘Let love win.’

|| July 26, 2010 || 12:31 am || Comments (0) ||

Two reasons why I don’t trust you are as follows: You have a slight underbite (not a solid, really-committed one, which is decidedly un-sneaky, unlike the merely slight underbite) and there is something wrong with your eyes. They are the color of a mostly-dead person’s, I think.

Oh whatever. Isn’t it enough that I just don’t trust you? Why do we have to do all this tedious explaining? We don’t.

Well, I don’t. I imagine you have a lot of explaining to do.

Here is where I open another window and write a poem titled ‘Save It For Saint Peter, Because I Don’t Really Want To Hear That Shit’.

Hey, I started this entry some five six months ago, left it hanging in my draft posts and just wandered away. In all the shuffling and fixing and getting ready to pull the plug on this site, I came across it again. I think it’s an important enough bit of my personal narrative to warrant hitting ‘publish’ on it. Maybe it’s a post that will stir discussion, because I have seen evidence in the past several weeks that I am not the only voyeurnaller who feels this way. Your comments are always welcome here –dissenting ones included– and I’m pretty sure I’ve made that clear from the time I installed a commenting system back in late two-thousand or thereabouts. On this post in particular I would ask that the lurkers, too, step out of the shadows and talk with me about their perspective on this.

Okay, so, you know when you have that invisible iron band at the top of your throat, and it’s cinched up just enough to remind you it’s there? And then, when you swallow, it’s like your tonsils become two branding irons that send shocks of bonfire heat all around the insides of that most tender of all the neckmeat? And good LORD, the itch! It is way down deep there in your ears and you’re praying that it signifies that something is a-going and not a-coming because that impending ER bill from several nights ago is going to SUCK and you can’t visit any healthcare-type facility again (save the one where you yourself are employed) until February at the very soonest, April at the outside. But April is your birthday month and it just wouldn’t be right for the Everything That Is to allow you to come to harm throughout the month that signifies your arrival on the planet, selah and amen.

That kind of maddening but vague-ish tonsilly-glandy-flarey throat pain that could mean you are getting better but also could mean that the strep dint get kilt fer shore dead?

You know that kind of discomfort, yeah? So you know, also, of how cranky it can make you in a sort of ‘let’s not be doing any fucking around, okay? I expect us to dig all the way to bone tonight’ fashion.

So, my throat hurts. And it is that kind of hurt. A no-nonsense kind of hurt, not bent on being crippling in nature but not wanting you to forget its presence, either.

My throat hurts and I’m back to square one with my ability to tolerate utter bullshit. Pain will do that to you: It will make you instinctual in nature, a person not prone to frippery like patience for your fellow man, no matter how stupid (or insulting) (or tedious) (or shallow) (or ridiculously, ridiculously self-absorbed) he may be, thusly earning him a pass on the basis of your most excellent home training and Southerin mannerliness. There will be no “Well, bless his heart“-ing done, dig? Your throat is on fire, and that supercedes tact, damnit!

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Did you know that the Willow Ptarmigan is the only species of grouse whose males take responsibility over their young….most specifically, the protection of those offspring? They will distract much larger foes (BEARS) by way of attack to ensure the well-being of their babies. Willow Ptarmigans may be little in comparison to a grizzly, but their desire to go unfucked-with is greater than the bear’s ample curiosity and orneriness. And also greater than that physically imposing stature business.

I think that is just about the fucking neatest thing ever, Fellow Internet Bastards.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

A little over a month ago the box in my head where I go to be happy was sluiced over with some sort of crazy mud that was cloying and uncomfortable to hang around in, so I was forced into other parts of my brain where things are maybe hazier and not very well-lit. Sometimes I wonder if I oughtta just stick around in the mud –in that sunny, airy room there– to see what happens, because the curtains still shimmy gleefully as they glance off breezes and the wallpaper never gets boring. But (and here is the thing that seals this wonky little deal) even the dark corners and the sundown lanes that trail off into nowhere smell sweeter altogether than that nasty mud. Though its surface is shiny and without blemish, I just know there are things in there, in that mud, rotting things that are just playing possum until I grow complacent. Were such a thing to happen, they would then lace themselves together elegantly and drag me down to the floor, planting my face solidly in four inches of my head sludge with no hope of coming up for air.

You can see, of course, why I would choose the ‘Wander Aimlessly Around Head’ door.

Okay, so I ended up in this mostly-unfamiliar spot that found me all butthurt about the most ridiculous of things, most of which resided right out here in the ether between my interface and those that belong to what I have loosely labelled as All The Rest Of You.

It was a weird state to try on for size, this Total Butthurtedness, and one to which I am mostly unaccustomed, owing to my habit of keeping my heart in my mouth rather than on my sleeve. I was swirled up in drama that was only known to my heart, asking stupid shit like, ‘Why is that person taking a swipe at me’ and ‘How can so-and-so leave me hanging like that’ and ‘Oh my gaaahhhhd, when will I ever just be able to be who I am without inciting fury’.


Said questions, of course, brought forth Total Butthurtedness’ maudlin (yet much calmer!) twin, Embarrassed Mortification. Embarrassed Mortification always goes over –with a fine-toothed comb– the ground that Total Butthurtedness flopped around on, finding every fragment of every thing that will enable her to hammer the fuck away at whatever aspects of you that Total Butthurtedness was kind enough to allow to hang around.

Are you still with me?

So at some point I began to get my bearings (and my medication, bahDUMpum!) and got really mad that I let Cyberia actually affect me this way. It’s not really ever been an issue before, and I began to root around for the source of why it all of the sudden was one.

Typically I’m not an especially insecure person whether on the page or off. In this case I had to remind myself of accomplishments cool digital-type shit owing to this: In the past you have been Instalanched! Kottke has linked you! You have even been cited on WikiFuckingPedia somewhere! It is a great likelihood that Norman Reedus probably read the entry where you praised him and dogged the fuck out of Armand Assante, hear you roarrrr!

….and so on.

I don’t give much of a shit about hits or traffic and have been more than willing to say so on more than one occasion. Let me get one thing straight, though: This is not to say I don’t give a shit about people. I care at the point where people take shape out of these strange and persistently-tabulated digits. ‘Oh, hello, Visitor Number one-hundred thirty-two thousand and nine-hundred, you are, in fact, Angela from Brighton, Colorado? Pleezdameetcha!’

There are a whole mess of women these days who derive their whole self-worth from their blogs; if their hits are high, then so are their spirits. God help us if a few-hundred of those eyeballs fixed on their sites wander away. I am not, in fact, one of those women. I derive a part of my self-worth from my blog, yes, but it is in one specific sense: That sense being that I am completely true to myself in the words that I heartily fling across the page where you now perch.

Also, and my! God! what an also, it has easily saved my husband thousands of dollars in therapy (my first twenty-five or so years on the planet wound me into quite a tight little skein; it took me five years of picking around just to find the thread that would start the unraveling of the damn thing and five more years after that for it to even look like I’d been working on accomplishing something). Let’s not mince any words here: He’d sure as fuck have to pay it, because I just don’t have it and he likes having me around. I know this last bit because he is one of the good ones that never lets me forget it.


And so, in rooting for the cause of my sudden insecurity on these here interwebs, what I worked my way back to was this: I’ve been sort of slumming it in recent months by dancing around the fringes of a group of people who care about shit like how many page impressions equal how many nickels (did I say that right, savvy persons?) and less about the currency of song and soul. People who weigh out quantity of words as more valuable than their quality. I’m no hater; that’s great for them. It is a method, though, that simply does not work for me and always seems to leave me wanting.

Plus? I am leaving the buoyancy of my self-esteem in the hands of people I’ve never even met, ones that sit in front of a little box and type words (sometimes incessantly! how do some people handle things like meals and peeing?) that I’ve attached some sort of weight to, whether or not that expectation is actually something like, I dunno, warranted or even deserved.

Here is where I head in the direction of sounding like a geezer, sonny, because I remember a time when this medium was a whole lot of creative and unbridled joy. Blogger (which still is such an ungainly, misappropriated word, yeah?) was just a euphemism for Rogue Writerly Person. Rogue Writerly People aren’t hampered by things like form and the conventional twisting-together of words. The RWP of this world stomp, Thor-hammered and big-bootsed, through the literary heather, silencing cicadas and bending breezes to their wills. They are dirty, dirty neologists waiting to sully your dictionary, sugar.

I used to spend the bulk of my online time being romanced by the amazingly adept voyeurnals of Bobby and Michael and Alanna and Paul and Rabi, to name a few. These people dug at the words, sometimes so deeply that loam would have to be brushed from them before they could be stacked into a structure that your eyeballs (and shortly thereafter, your brain) could hardly wait to shimmy through.

The internet was totally my boyfriend in those days. I have been madly in love with words the whole of my life; naturally, then, it would follow that I might be completely knee-swept at the notion of being only one page-refresh away from a stream flowing with clickable links to places where words were consistently fresh and completely delectable.

All I had to do was pick.

Somewhere in the noise of the last little while I’d forgotten all about that ‘pick’ part. I found myself just dully following a trail of (fingerquoteythings)big names(/fingerquoteythings) because they were big names and not necessarily mapping carefully what I took into myself. And not really –as I had done before– rooting out new content and gorgeous voices. Look, I like People magazine as a guilty indulgence from time to time, but if you told me that was all I could ever read again then I would likely say, “Okay. I’m pretty much over this whole reading thing.” Or I’d be all, “PASTE! Where is my fucking jug of PASTE?” and cut the People magazines to bits, then reassemble the words in a more pleasing arrangement. Something.

So. I’ve made up my mind to do two things. First, I’m gonna start giving the majority of my online time (which seems to be far less nowadays than it used to be) over to incredible writing by people that are doing it for the sheer joy of it above all else. Second, I’m gonna start remembering who I am in my own writing and occupying that space with the fierceness that I used to.

I’m not gonna worry too much about who or how everybody else is, because I’ll be too occupied with the flow of my own story to let anybody else’s make me feel somehow incomplete. I’m enough. And when I decide that I am not enough anymore, it will be because I have measured what I am at that time against what I want to be in the future and have found myself in need of work.

Those are things that I should in no way be passive about in making decisions. And if you want to know the truth, then you shouldn’t be passive about them either. I own myself and it’s time I started reading the fucking manual.

|| December 7, 2000 || 7:42 am || Comments (0) ||

I swear to GOD, if I am forced to listen to another Third Eye Blind song, I will put somebody’s eyes out with a white-hot fork. Who in the fuck KEEPS BUYING THEIR SHIT MUSIC! Stop propagating and perpetuating it, you ignorant schmucks!

So I am listening to a local station early this morning and they have a group of little girls on singing Christmas carols. They are representing their church’s ministry. The pastor comes on and is touching a bit on their charitable programs and activities going on now and in the near future. ///can I remind you here that this man and these little girls were oh-so-obviously invited guests on this program??\\\ The ‘head’ DJ in this morning show team of 3 replies with, “Wow, sounds like you have a lotta stuff going on, which is kinda good, I guess, since this is you guys’ big one. (meaning the holiday with regardd to the Christian church, if you missed that)” in a tone that was so ripe with sarcasm that the radio might have exploded with it had I laid a finger on any of the buttons.

YOU FUCK. –that was the first thought that hit my head, closely followed by, YOU ABSOLUTE FUCK. Then the thoughts came streaming in so fast that they crashed all over one another and became just so much heated fury.

These were invited guests on that show and they weren’t pimping some self-serving shit. This cat was BLATANTLY disrespectful, zinging this minister for no good reason. What kind of example was that for those little girls?

Uhhh, pardon me, WHY don’t kids have any respect for authority anymore? Damnit.

And hello, my insomnia is back. Five hours two nights ago, 3 night before last, 1 and a third last night. I am ready to squeeze some people’s heads like zits. Wanna volunteer?

Oh yeah…remind me again why I stopped using blow?