More road rage stories

August 17, 2007

    There was a great road rage incident today out by the airport.  I wasn’t in it, but had the good fortune of being right behind it.  It’s kind of a funny road.  It’s a T with a split in it, and it carries 3 lanes of traffic that split again about 1/2 a block north.  The cars come together there all the time, but I’ve yet to be stopped by an accident.  On the way to work two cars did the swerve thing, and came close enough together that they both ended stalled right in the middle of the road.  This incredibly stout woman in the passenger seat of the one car screams out the window “you should learn how to drive.”  In the other car is a runtish man of about 90 that can probably see just a  little between the top of the steering wheel and the dashboard.  The litte guy had moxie though, and he yelled back ” you should learn to shut your coc&$ucker.”

   Well I was just tickled as shit.  The mornings have been rough lately, and entertainment on the way to work is a good thing.  I’ve been scowling a lot lately, and a nice little altercation between inept motorists was just what the doctor ordered.

It gets better.   This woman gets beet red, and lumbers out of her car.  She struggles to achieve a totally erect position, but I have to tell you she was as imposing as a grizzly when she did.   So I’m thinking “this is to good to be true…I’m going to get to watch a little old man get the supreme crap kicked out of him by a semiambulatory behemoth of a woman.”  So,  I shut the car off, and I pull a Dew out of the cooler.  Then this crazy wench does the strangest thing…

   She reaches in between the two largest breasts  I’ve ever seen.  I’m almost sure they had their own gravity and were orbiting around her.  She pulls out this gargantuan crucifix and starts praying for the dude.

  If she prayed for him to start his car up and drive away while calling her a “loony B1tch” her prayers were answered.  I’m not so much for the praying, but if divine intervention placed me right there, right then, I’ll happily kiss gods ass for at least a month of sundays.


Did not

July 26, 2007

   That’s my favorite comeback of the day.  A man in his thirties used that to rebut an argument.  I was impressed.  The reason there was no 6 a. m. hateful this morning was because I wasn’t up at 6 a.m.  I wasn’t even up at 6:30.  The power got knocked out, which killed my alarm colck.  It has this little compartment in the bottom where I could put a battery if I were so inclined.  My lack of interest in being the “always prepared boy scout” type stems from my desire to never be to dependable.  Dependability is a flaw most often taken advantage of by those who have no right to do so.

   So for the first time in about a week I was late for work.  I wouldn’t have been.  I was out the door at the usual time, but alas, my karma was shit city this morning, and I made the wrong choice as to the route I should take.  I chose the possible to achieve mach speed freeway route.  7 other people also chose this route, and I’m sure because it was raining and foggy failed to maintain there forward progression.  This failure was achieved according to the bass brain on the radio by slamming into each other, and thereby shutting down all of the westbound lanes of I-70.

   Even this would not have created my unbearable lateness of being.  What stumped me was the asswit in the green G35 that thought it would be cool to also block the shoulder so those behind him could not exit the freeway.  After waiting for 8 minutes for him to change his mind I walked up to his car and tapping gently on the window with a pipe wrench requested in a civil yet incredibly creative profane way that he either remove his vehicle or I would commence performing structural modification to the vehicle.

   I thought for a moment he was going to get out and slap me across the face with his doeskin driving gloves and challenge me to a duel, but somewhere deep in the recesses of his occipital lobe I assume it occurred to him that pansy gloves are no match for an irate pipe wrench, and he proceeded to move his piece of shit infiniti before I turned it into a yugo.  Judging by the horns honking around me I could quite easily have been elected mayor of this shitpit had the vote been taken at 7:02 this morning.   As I maneuvered past the posterchild for roadrage insensitivity he flipped me off. I waved and smiled.  I’m not an unnice person after all.

   Ever notice that when you’re late every redlight in the world is just waiting for your arrival?  I got stopped by a redlight at an intersection where the last car to use the crossing street was probably called “horse.” I got skipped at the redlight to get back on the freeway,meaning I had to sit through it twice, and then got nailed by one at the airport that was being manually controlled by the oldest living member of the human race in a policemans uniform.  I thought about going after him with my pipe wrench, but my father taught me at a very young age that a club is useless in a gunfight.   He was old, but he was packing, so I just sat there and ineffectually wore out my entire litany of cusswords, including the appendix labelled  “I stole this phrase from…” while I waited for the old bastards prune juice to kick in and give him the rush that was needed for him to raise his right hand 8″ and hit the switch that again allowed me to continue on my merry way.

   I intentionally left out the part where I called my boss and informed him I would be late as I was enjoying a liesurely sabbatical at the I-70 parking lot.   I was regaled with peals of laughter as I explained the pridicament, and it was a little ignominious.  His parting words were to the affect of “don’t worry about it.  You don’t obey any of the other rules no reason you should obey this one.”  It’s nice to be appreciated.  I sincerely believe that your job is only as safe as your relationship with your immediate supervisor.  This means I will never be fired.  I add joy to his life.  I’m quite sure tormenting me ranks right behind beer, and sex with whatever species is handy, in his hierarchy of needs.

   Anyway, I arrived at work 3 minutes late, 7 if you include my “nature calls” moment.  Well, not really calls.  My colon doesn’t call.  It demands.  When I walked into the office my boss looked up and stated with a big old smile “lets see now, late, unshaven, sleeves rolled up, shirt untucked.  Hell I could ring up enough points to fire you before break.”  I replied  “you could fire me for 3 uniform violations and an I don’t give a fuck, but what I need is a 3500 psi powerwasher, and the most powerful HVLP pump money can buy.”   Bosses are like women.  When you hit the top of the shit list send them shopping.  He was in a good mood all day.  Spent almost 8k, and had a target for his mirthful musings.


Moving…out, up, and undecided

July 3, 2007

      Of all the nerve.  Several years ago a friend of mine, almost certainly in jest, called me misogynistic.  One of the few times in my life that I didn’t bother to look it up.  I should have.  I just did, and almost pissed my pants.   The reason I didn’t was because it was an online friend, and she had issues to numerous to count in the men department.  To be honest, I figured it was probably a synonym for narcississtic which I’m not either so I let it roll on by.  We continued to have many humerous conversations, and until I withdrew from the online world we remained moderately good friends.

    I’m not sure why I confessed to ignorance and apathy there, but maybe just to make the point that I’m niether.  Although misogyny would be a good one to be if you had the time to be hostile and hateful a lot.  Narcissism on the other hand would be boring from hell.  Maybe not for you, but I generally treat me like I treat everyone else that I’m not openly disdainful of…with barely concealed tolerance.

   The really funny thing is that I tend to like almost everyone I meet.  as long as they have no affect on my existence, why not?   It’s when it gets deeper than that my issues tend to spring forth like a late blooming flower, all colorful rhetoric, with maladroit social graces as garnishment. 

    I guess what brought this on is I’m about to make a move.  Homewise this time.  One of many moves made this year.  For better or worse, my sedentary approach to my existence is in the middle of cataclysmic upheaval.  Faced with this, and being a firm believer in the old saw “in for a penny…in for a pound.” I’ve decided a change of scenery of the domicile variety is in order.  The kids are all for it as this place is cramped from hell, and with the ongoing alcoholism issues the other parental unit is currently experiencing they spend most of their time here.  I fear if more space is not forthcoming fratricide will be.

     I made this decision like I make most.  I saw it, I did it, nobody to consult.  I like that.  It makes things simple.  I am in one of my nearly perpetual sabbaticals from decent relationship living, and it removes all the comprehensive consultation and compromise that is required.   The last one ended like all of them.  It was wonderful, it was horrible, and it became intolerable.  Funny how love or the belief of love can do that.  After oodles of soul searching, I chalked it up as all my fault and went to breakfast.  That sounds a little snide, but it’s quite possibly as close to the truth as I’ll ever get on the matter, so its a good place to bury the body.  I could dig deeper and try to decipher the myriad of mistakes that created the death of it, but why put myself through that?  When it’s time to move you pack your shit and you move.  When its time to get over it you pack your emotional garbage, take a couple years off and deal with the abject misery of making all of your own decisions for awhile.  Darn, sounds horrid doesn’t it?

    I’m not sure how I got from misogyny to here, but I’d probably characterize myself as stubborn, selfish, and independent.  If that be misogyny then the dictionary has it all wrong.   For those of you not wishing to scamper to a dictionary, and being as dense as I am…it means being hostile or hateful toward women.  I’m hateful and hostile towward the bulk of society, and am disqualified as a result from taking part.  Damn the luck.


why do i do it?

July 3, 2007

   I don’t usually do these.  Straightforward speak isn’t a gift of mine.  i have 72,356 defense mechanisms that generally keep me from being figured out by anyone.  Except I suppose my children, because what the hell, someone always knows you.  Which isn’t the concern particularly.  what everyone should be concerned about is knowing themselves.  Unfortunately, thats not always the easiest thing in the world.

   Who are you? No, really.  Tell the truth now.  You are a product of your experiences, your intellect, and your emotions.  I’m sure there are more, but being as were all animals its probably best to keep it simple.  How you behave is on a very basic level your reaction to the combination of those three things.    Ergo, how you interact with the rest of the creatures on this planet tells a lot about you.  Bored yet?  I know, My sigmundcricket routine needs work.  thats what this is…practice makes perfect.  Lets work our way through a few practice exercises and see what falls out of your tree.  If nothing does that says nothing except that jiminy isn’t real good at pushing peoples buttons.  Apathy is a harsh mistress.

   How are your relationships with others?  Not how you see them.  How did they see you.? What are you doing?  How they saw you is irrelevant.  They looked at you through the prism of their own little troika.  See, you already messed up if you tried to look at it through their eyes.  Sorry, just funning with you.  True though.  the only way to know yourself is to take all the little skeletons out of the closet and let your mind perambulate through the bones for awhile. Go ahead.  Even if you’re a supreme whackjob you’ll be able to look in the mirror when you’re done.  Supreme whackjobs are unaware what they do is wrong.

   I personally am not so hot at relationships.  this isn’t a point of pride with me, but rather an obvious shortcoming.  I’ve been involved with what I think are wonderful women, and I somehow manage to bring out the worst in them.  I hear  “it’s not what you do, it’s what you don’t do” so many times I’ve developed a form of paralysis that makes me do less.  Not maybe the best way to handle a situation, but if you’re not pleasing your mate then you either get the hell out or change.

   Change is that jingly shit in your pocket.  I have a very limited ability to understand it as anything else.  You can either fight who you are, or you can roll over on your back and drift with the current.  This isn’t to say I’ve never made an effort to change.  It just never takes.  Mulishness leads me to believe that though I have several hundred thousand flaws, they are mine and I enjoy them, and I am keeping them.

We’re not here to talk about me though.  What is it that makes a person leap to the defense of someone they don’t know at the merest hint of a slight? What does that tell you?  I don’t know, I’m asking.  It tells me that they have a bit of a problem with insecurity, and are therefore uncommonly overprotective.  It probably tells you something else.  We don’t have common experiences is my point.  We can both go through exactly the same thing, and see the entire situation differently.  Other experiences we have cause this divergence in observation.  i know, you’re thinking this is way elementary to you.  It may well be.  Your exalted intellect has now taken the baton from your experiences, and is willing to carry the load for awhile.

   Intellect is a funny thing.  When looking at yourself it’s more important to understand what you don’t know than what you do.   There are no omnipotent intellects, and yes, that includes yours.  Ok, I’ll grudgingly add mine, but I do mean grudgingly. I know some incredibly intelligent people. Dumber than stumps.  Can’tt wipe their butt if you don’t have directions next to the toilet paper dispenser.  It’s because  they have managed through education and study to amass a burgeoning cesspool of knowledge, yet managed to cocoon themselves within their specific fields of study and failed to experience life outside that bubble.   Having a sound intellect without experience is what leads to…well, for lack of a better term….blogging.  That was just a cruel and unnecessary shot, and I apologize.  I’m sure you know what I mean here.  Without experience intellect isn’t exactly filet mignon.

   Halt you heathen bastard, I shall take no more of your troglodytic slander.  See, right there your emotion took over.  I could rattle on for hours about this one.  I could attempt to inveigle you to my way of thinking, and if I knew the right buttons to push based on your intellect and experience probably succeed.  Unfortunately, my emotions don’t allow me to get real persistent.  I’m not exactly warm and fuzzy, and I’ m not cold and heartless.  My experience and intellect have created a mixture of cynicism and naivete, and you should try lugging that cross up Golgotha.

    Ok, so none of that means anything boys and girls.  we know this because I said it.  It’s just worthless junk tossed on the trash heap of your experience.  Yep, you just experienced 7 minutes of Criminy Freud, and still don’t know yourself any better than you did when we started.  You might know me a little better, but that and $43.00 will barely get you a tripple cappucina mocha souffle at starbucks.  BTW, I know nothing about coffee.

   did I mention love?  No?  go figure.


Not much to be afraid of

July 2, 2007

     Growing up in rural america in the late 60’s and 70’s (no, wiseacre, not the 1860’s) was a fairly carefree existence.  We had to work and such, but there wasn’t much going on to be afraid of.  Our parents tried to put the fear in us, but lets face it; “the moonies are going to kidnap you if you stay out after dark,” isn’t exactly a terrorizing comment to a kid.  What the hell is a moonie would’ve been the only appropriate response, but responses were passed over in a rush to get out of the house.

    The country is a lot different than the city.  In the city if you wish to go for a swim you go to one of the parks and swim with several hundred other people.  Many of whom are not exactly fastidious about there bathing practices, and I don’t even want to contemplate the whole bodily functions issue.  I lived near a creek.  It was the fun in the sun summer hangout.  Whether it was swimming, fishing, digging for clams, or creative attempts at drowning, thats where the kids went when the thermometer rose.

     The swimming holes were creatively named “the crick” (it was a creek), “big falls” (they were big),  and “killer cliffs” (three kids died there while I was in high school.  The water wasn’t deep enough to handle all of the “hey y’all watch this” moments that occurred there), creativity not being nearly as important as strong backs in those parts. Where you went depended on which locale you were from, and if you had someone to provide transportation.  Yes, mooching rides is a universal teen thing.

    These places were our meeting halls, our ceremonial lodges, and arena’s.  It’s where we learned about such diverse topics as hitting a bong, which girls put out, and which boys were still virgins.   I say diverse because drugs, and sex were about as diverse as it got in the way of entertainment. 

    We used them as places to transmit information about where the party was this Saturday, what happened at the party last Saturday, and who was gonna kick whose ass in the homecoming game.  One of those should probably be “whom,” but we never discussed who and whom in those days.  What we did discuss was so and so’s butt, whether a dodge monaco with a police interceptor engine could beat a 900 kawasaki in the quarter mile (that day it couldn’t, but it saw 160mph), and whether burger kings fries were better than McDonalds.

    The ceremonies held there were generally funerals.  I’m not sure why we had to have our own, but something not in a church, and with no parents just always seemed appropriate.  Oh wait, beer and pot were the reasons.  The four year totals were the three diving deaths, one guy gored to death by a bull, 6 car accidents resulting in 11 deaths (one was a late night chicken event that nobody was chicken in…they never turned on their lights), and two suicides, both female.  Yes, teen pregnancy was an issue even then.  Grief, booze, and weed, don’t really mic so its a wonder that the death toll wasn’t higher as a result of all the impromptu funerals.  17 dead in 4 years.  That seems so unbearable looking back, but at the time maybe because of our youth it was just another fact of daily life.  In order to do anything fun you had to do something stupid, dangerous, or sexual.  Sometimes all three.   

    Most of us were devirginized, experienced our first drunken stupor, and hadfights there.  There was no such thing as that much testosterone, that many girls, and a fight free afternoon.  Sooner or later two shirtless teen gladiators would be slugging it out for the favor of which ever of the young ladies present ws the object of their affections.  These fights often ended with broken bones and blood, but never with gunfire or a knife.  It was a simpler time.

    I think probably the most important thing that happened their on those summer days so long ago were the discussions about what was “out there.”  Many of us had never left the state, but we all intended to.  We talked about far away places and how we would get out.  Most of us that left took the military route.  A few went to college, and the rest may or may not have left.  That part of my life was left behind when I hopped on the plane to go to Marine Corps recruit Depot San Diego.  When I returned from that 4 month trip the quantum leap in the maturity process that had occurred made picking up old friendships impossible, and by the time I returned again the people were lost except for the memories.  the world was rapidly changing everywhere else, but with the exception of the behaviours of the kids, there wasn’t much to be afraid of there.


when you die, can I have your stuff?

June 28, 2007

I was awakened this morning by my sorry excuse for a menagerie; Roscoe the wonder bunny, and Mollie the mooch. Roscoe is of course a rabbit, and Mollie is part cocker spaniel part poodle bag of fur representing as a dog. I let them wander at night because something about the sound of my possessions being destroyed helps me sleep better. They were standing side by side with their front feet on my blankets. I’m not sure if they were contemplating my demise, but if Roscoe wants me dead Mollie is to big a chicken not to be a co-conspirator.

Have you ever seen a rabbit glaring balefully at you? Its not a pleasant experience. Particularly upon awakening from what can only be described as a persistent vegetative state. Mollie of course was smiling. Its the only expression she has. Whether she is sitting in a mud puddle (her favorite torment), or lying sprawled in overheated misery on the carpet, she smiles. This was even more disconcerting. It was like a mafia hit man grinning as he puts two in your forehead. I’m not sure what was bothering them, but it started my day all wrong.

I spent the day preoccupied with death. My preoccupation was interrupted intermittently by thoughts of rabbit stew, and poodle on a stick. I’ve done it before, but this is the first time it was brought on by two quadrupedal fluff merchants that depend on me for their existence. Man, they get no food tonight.

I’m like, really old, so I have some experience with the tender ministrations of Ms. Death. I know death is female because a male can’t carry a grudge like that. I’ ve lost a sibling, a parent, and oodles of other relatives, to say nothing of the multitudes of friends, workmates, and every other sort of ilk. You never become inured to it, but you learn to cope, and assimilate the lessons learned into how you view death.

I’m personally not looking forward to it. Not so much the death itself, but the manner thereof. I’m absolutely certain at this point that i don’t wish to be tender vittles for a mutt and an overgrown rodent. I can almost hear them discussing whether I was breathing or not. I also don’t wish to pull one of those long, drawn out, see what the doctors can do to keep the carcass among the living deaths. I think if I had my druthers I’d be run over by a fat Bulgarian driving a Snapple truck.

Maybe the next worst thing is the aftermath. You know. what happens after my soul leaves its dessicated, crusty, shrine to the fallibility of the lord our god, Theodore. I named god Theodore. I have the right. I call him Ted when I ask him to hold my coat. I figure since he can’t seem to do anything about famine, war, and genocide I should find a use for him.

So on to the aftermath. What happens after. Generally after we die one of our loved ones calls the mortuary, and our body is prepared for the great beyond. They suck all our fluids out, and pump us full of embalming fluids so that our corpse doesn’t rot and smell up the funeral.
The funeral is generally the next step. This is a get together of those who knew us, and depending on their feelings toward us they are wondering what they were left, if they look fat in this dress, or if the dearly departeds spouse is back on the market, or if a mourning period will ensue.
The next step is to send the remains to the great hereafter. All cultures approach this differently, but an almost universal part of this is wondering whats going to be for lunch after. Be it a flaming barge, cremation, burial, or some other form of interment, disposing of carcasses is hungry work. Also thirsty. I hope my funeral has a free bar.
Whilst all this hoo haa is going on, the dearly departed is faced with an important decision. The dead have a choice. They can either come back to earth in another form (without knowing what that form will be), or they can spend eternity Throwing darts at O’malleys Pub and Eatery. As for me, I’m throwing dartsI already know about the great supreme poobah’s sense of humor vis a vis yours truly, and have no intentions of spending a life time as a rat in a fertilizer factory. He doesn’t care for the hold my coat joke.

So why that title? I came home from golfing one afternoon, and my son was admiring my golf clubs. He was 5 at the time. He came over to me, and with a very serious look that reminds me of the one Roscoe was packing this morning asked me “If you die, do I get your stuff?” Sure kid. Everything but the darts. I’ll be needing those.

this was previously published, but was burned in a purge…i had a request, so bear with me