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unjustifiablytactless · 8 years

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It’s Gettin’ Honest in Here/ So Put Back on Your Clothes (Especially You, Monica)

I recently shared a Huffington Post opinion piece written by a Service Professor of Law from the University of Chicago detailing the everlasting effects on the United States after the 1968 assassination of Senator Robert Kennedy and the Democratic Party’s subsequent inability to get it together afterwards. The Party’s refusal to fine tune their energies and unite under a common goal caused the election of Richard Nixon, and the election of Richard Nixon caused a shitstorm of mistakes and consequences our nation endured through the mid aughts. The author urged the current Democratic Party to come to an agreement and wholeheartedly support Hillary Clinton, as the very real threat of one nation under Trump will foster tremendous and irreconcilable setbacks for this country. Powerful stuff, all rooted in history and truth. Also, the first and only political post I’ve ever cared enough to share and it inspired a flood of Hilldawg detractor and millennial outrage still requiring disaster relief efforts.

At a point I expressed my shear revulsion towards the attitude of my generation during this election, a cohort of mine agreed with my social media critics and stressed the importance of not voting out of fear. That’s a fine opinion if you actually for whatever stupid reason believe it. The problem is if we don’t vote out of “fear”, we’ll live in it. Trump’s Dystopia is a veritable concern and we can’t pretend his rise to power will be thwarted by hoping he takes it upon himself to peace out or that perhaps Republicans will ignore all established rules and disqualify him. Part of me is truly convinced if those scenarios were going to transpire, they would’ve already. We can’t rely on futile hopes, the same way we can’t rely on futile actions or no action at all on the part of Democrats or independents to elect a decent POTUS.

My friends are all (kind of/ mostly) smart, inquisitive people and we’re going to dissent in our viewpoints from time to time. This is a welcome normality. However, we’ve got a big problem on our hands and my fervent belief that this problem will only proliferate with time shouldn’t be misconstrued as calling anybody ignorant or belittling others political views ̶ but I kind of have to-- so let’s dive right in:

I’ve participated in my own share of anti-establishment rhetoric. The word “insubordinate” comes up in my school files more times than “Grammy nom” appears throughout Beyonce’s Wikipedia page. Identifying when the people in charge are committing egregious wrongs and harboring resentment comes naturally to me. Vocalizing these concerns is an unfortunate symptom of this mania.

We need people like this in society. Whistle blowers: toot.

However, this inclination towards anarchism is only beneficial when the morally charged among us work tactfully with or within the system, rather than creating conflict by entirely disowning or attempting disembowelment of the Big Machine via outlandish words and actions. Nobody takes crazy seriously. If your lid flips too high in the air, you’re met with almost certain rejection and once you lose credibility, you’ve lost the war. That’s what millennials and the politically like-minded need to understand: change in this country is necessary, but when the right channels are employed, it’s actually realized.

Millennials: you can bitch and Twitter moan all you want in hopes that things work out your way, but functioning within the confines of the system is key. Working tirelessly to elect Bernie was a necessary step towards overhauling some of our country’s varied misfortunes. Realizing his nomination as hopeless is the next step. Getting him on Hilldawg’s ticket as VP is your ideal consolation prize. Sell her on that. Don’t scare her off with your own special entitled brand of immaturity and extremism. If you write Bernie in as POTUS come November, you’ve wasted your vote. If you’re not going to vote at all, I hope your name lands on the premier list for Trump’s Bomb Shelter Laborers (or T-Bombelz). Also, Trumpster, I’m coining that term. No stealin’. EL oh El oh El oh El. JK. Of course you’re going to take it. You’re devoid of ethics.

Had this been a normal election season, I wouldn’t be as concerned as I am about the divide haunting the Democrats. Bernie is laced with good intentions. He’s salt of the earth and his appeals are genuine. He’s just not it and nobody is facing the reality that agreeing on ANYBODY is better than the alternative party’s nominee, who is after all, a dubious, bone-chilling selection. If Hilldawg loses, the entire future of the United States will be left in the hands of a misogynistic, inexperienced, prejudiced loose cannon. I couldn’t imagine a better reason for us to get nuked than letting that guy in on a NATO brunch. What fools are you to ignore this reality? Do you not see how sticking to your idealist guns at this juncture is obligatorily selfish?

Weren’t the majority of you throwing every ounce of support Obama’s way for the last eight years? You know he’s on the Hillwagon now, his decision moderately influenced by recognizing the dire need to unite the Democratic Party? He sees the inherent danger of having Trump in the Oval. He knows it can’t be dismissed. He’s speaking to world leaders and absorbing their very real concerns about the potential nightmare the entire world may inevitably endure. Can we really negate the thoughts of a man for whom so many of you still exude extraordinary respect?

And, is Hilldawg really such a bad chick? Maybe some of you are latching on to the wrong notions. Even former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright sees no real danger in Hillary’s private email server, “She has said she made a mistake, and nobody is going to die as a result of anything that happened on emails.” Additionally, how many of you twentysomethings have ever been called upon as the deciding voice in matters of national security? It’s so easy to throw shade at a person’s choices when those choices consequently failed, but you must know more thought, agony, and preparation go into those decisions that any others facing this country. I’m sure Hilldawg didn’t come at anything lightly, or without every ounce of herself invested. Who the fuck runs for public office on this scale without veritable regard for the safety of their country?

Trump may not make it to the final round and what a welcome relief that would be. Moving past that potential upshot, no Democrat or independent nominee will prevail anyways, in spite of whatever Republican stands opposite them. There are too many microbrews in your garage, kids, to attain a voter majority. Let’s accept that as fact. You’re all throwing in the towel regardless. Why prolong the inevitable, but also, why make it this nation’s reality? I can’t pretend to have all the facts. I haven’t relentlessly investigated the United States political landscape. I can’t even tell you who’s running for my state’s Senate or House seats. But I’ve pieced it all together in arguably the most objective of ways. I’m not toting prejudice; only common sense.

This isn’t cute anymore. If Trump was going to run back to the beaches of Tahiti, he would’ve done so already. Don’t kid yourselves. There exists a track record of Americans giving up after their favorite candidate lost their bid. In those times, the truly devastating move is to either make decisions that clearly harbor no real impact, or to do nothing at all. These two options are ill-advised and destructive. Swallow your pride and save it for another four years. Do not screw this country over. It may be your right to do so, but don’t abuse that privilege.

#bernie sanders #hillary clinton #potus #election 2016 #donald trump

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unjustifiablytactless · 8 years

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Because Eric Church is Just Terrible

I get labeled a “hipster” for having narrow tastes. Not in the ‘Game of Thrones’ or Harry Potter vein. More like ‘Californication’ or ‘Boston Legal’. I like what’s real, or based in a variant of reality. It just so happens that the majority of what falls into that category at one point in time was moderately popular, yet the flame has since withered. I also gravitate towards the type of pop culture with an odd, under the radar, seminal type of pull. I can’t help it. ‘Valley of the Dolls’, Stephen Davis biographies, ‘Igby Goes Down’… the stuff most people can at best, attribute a fleeting memory of the title, but nothing going forward.

I almost never happen upon an interest when it’s current. And somehow, I owe shame for this, but since I refuse to apologize for harboring eclectic tastes, I’m forced to wear the title of “hipster”.

How? How is a term I myself use towards fools crying out for notoriety, somehow completing its metamorphosis as the go-to expression for lumping together all people with diverse interests in pop culture, and the world at large? I’ve always valued sundry music over Top 40. I’ve invested interest in films ranging from varied origins because they offered more to me; the acting sparking intrigue, the dialogue more arresting. It’s been my experience that “hipsters”, true hipsters, seek out paths less traveled for the sake of boasting originality. They haven’t really nailed down their own interests, but still fight voraciously against the idiom, “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” Bully for them. Perhaps consequently they’ll chuck enough rocks through enough windows to find what really speaks to their brains’ chemical makeup. That still doesn’t make them one in the same alongside any other person reveling in counterculture.

I want what’s innovative. I want what makes me alert. I want what opens my eyes and awakens my curiosity. I have such a natural aversion to the mundane and I hate apologizing for it. Every single mind operates at a different level and what peaks our respective interests should never be wholly in agreeance. Can you imagine such a wearisome world?

Rudimentary appeal is what movie studios, record labels, and clothing designers bank on. The hook in pop songs is there for a reason; to get everybody moving. Nobody can blame them and those who’re entertained can’t be held requisitely at fault. But there exists this urge for your table to become the proverbial Popular Table. If we establish common interests with our peers, we achieve reassurance and tranquility through those mutual feelings. Likewise, mocking and excluding those who lack common ground vindicates our own tastes as right on the money.

And this is an annoying fucking problem.

What you like might drive me up a wall. I don’t abhor Country music because the vocalists lack appreciable range or because the studio and touring musicians have no talent. They most often all hold their own melodiously. However, my ears take in what sounds like the same uninspired lyrics, the same twang, the same boot skootin’ boogie. I simply can’t hang. Yet, I have friends who can pinpoint their own grievances when it comes to the genres I like. To them it sounds like the same 50 cent words, the same bleak vocals, the same reverberations they can’t dance to, because music, to them, is all about motion response.

Lines are drawn by our brains. We can’t resist our body’s natural distastes or feel good pursuits. I will probably continue to bitch and moan about Marvel superheroes and MMA fighting and Eric Church because I’ve no natural inclination towards any of it. I’ll like what I like and you can all nerd out as you see fit. I can call you a nerd or white trash or a drunken, privileged hillbilly falling short of intellectual stimulation. And you can call me a hipster. But much like you, I will offer a foul rebuttal.

This is America, baby, and I will throw money and passionate tirades at what makes me smile.

*doesn’t drop mic because consistently replacing sound equipment is expensive; get a new hobby*

#hipsters #eric church #mic drops

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unjustifiablytactless · 10 years

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“YOU HAVE A BETTER DAY!”

I spent a little under 300 hundred days speaking to the most demanding and entitled individuals in the country (along with Mexico and Puerto Rico). Though collectively they control maybe 20% of the funds spent on product at any big-name retailer, they blow all of this loot at one lone classless hell pit (that shall remain nameless).

…

My God, Blank-Mart.

There’s a reason your customers have an entire website dedicated to their appearance and mannerisms. A certain breed of consumers stagger those aisles and, I’ll break it down to a topically applicable level, they’re dumb as shit.

Speaking to these beings on a daily basis and attempting to derive information or definitive thought forces one to the point of clinical insanity and there’s no excuse for driving somebody mad within the confines of a 345 second phone call. Not a one.

At first, the bad calls are a novelty; something to laugh at and roll one’s eyes but inevitably, newbie Customer Care Reps push through. They still want to do well. The desire to fight call center stereotypes tooth and nail with their optimism and can-do spirit has yet to diminish. And the training is actually great, leaving a solid feeling of preparation for what’s to come and a goal oriented state of mind; dedication to achieving metrics and hitting high marks which undoubtedly will pay off at the six month review. It doesn’t all seem nearly as bad as the stories having made their way around the fourth floor water fountain and back would make it seem. I mean, those people were obviously of a weaker work ethic… right?

BULLLLLLSHHHYYYTT.

No explanation or condolences of any particular weight could be “legally” provided by my superiors to ease the stress and mental anguish. The most I ever got was, “Well, this job isn’t for everybody.” With all due respect, that’s a cheap cop-out. Try empathizing because Lord knows one can’t even begin to sympathize until they’ve hit their 4,000th call.

That department is not for everybody.

More so it’s not for almost anybody once the aforementioned number is achieved. At that point, it’s time for the powers that be to present a chance for betterment; meaning migration. Trust me when I say nobody’s getting paid enough to deal with the psychological disintegration endured after four months of full-time call taking on behalf of the retailer in question. I’m batting at 100 in terms of individuals I’ve spoken to who’ve managed escape from Blank-Mart’s brutal clutches and only speak highly of the light at the end of the tunnel. Results may vary but include some or all of the following:

- Happiness

- Hordes of bright, colorful butterflies at the beginning of every shift

- leprechauns with pots of gold

- Less muting of one’s phone in order to verbalize a tapestry of creative obscenities and adjectives that undoubtedly risk appearing on fellow co-workers’ calls, but are however essential to one’s mental stability

- A general decrease in frenzied and anxious mentalities during lunch breaks, directly after shifts, during days off and/ or during nocturnal states (I believe these instances are categorized as nightmares)

- Chocolate

- Back massages by internationally certified masseuses

and most importantly

- Ryan Phillippe in your home preparing medium rare steak dinners nightly.

Ahem.

Although it may seem like a most solid business decision when one factors in call volume and service levels, trapping experienced and talented representatives in a department which permanently impairs brain function, in turn, slowly kills their ambition. A business could and inevitably will lose these star players relying on such practices.

Personally I could deal with the unrealistically demanding. I always found the humor to help me through an alcoholic's loss of inside voice as he carries on about his need for an overnight reimbursement because his children have nothing to sleep on after a seam ruptured in their off brand air mattress and he’s not man enough to sober up, get a job, and buy his kids a real bed. Sir, your substance fueled irresponsibility affecting your children’s welfare will never result in my sympathies played, at least for your personal benefit. DFS will catch up to you soon enough and then you won’t have to worry about the absence of that $39.97 plus tax. It will spend the same at any liquor store on any given day of the week. Even after your incarceration.

Bright spots = Melissa.

But wait, there’s more:

(Mini-rant) How hard is it to read a damn receipt? You really can’t detect a date of purchase? One of several fundamental purposes of that paper since the dawn of time has been to answer the age old question of “when”. In addition, if you’re directed to look at the top of your receipt next to the big, fat Blank-Mart sign for a list of numbers separated by letters, don’t turn the request into a scavenger hunt for commonsense and then decide the ST at the bottom or in the middle must be it. If you’re an adult confusing top with bottom or, my personal favorite, left with right, then this five minute phone call isn’t the biggest red flag of your day. Not even of the hour.

Perhaps my all-time favorite call was one I diluted myself into thinking would be my last. To all my practically DOA DTV training class colleagues, ya’ll feel me. I’d heard of customers literally taking the time to read their pamphlet’s terms and conditions word for word in ill-fated approaches to benefit themselves but this chick, she was totes my favie:

Dina Dumbass (I’ve changed her name to protect her identity and ‘Dina’ just flows well with ‘dumbass’) had a 5-year-old son who broke the $130 tablet she stupidly bought him for Christmas (my choice of adjective, not Dina’s). Her first grievance was that she wasn't being reimbursed what she paid for her protection plan. It made absolutely no sense that her money was the missing link to the plan’s carry through and as the CONSUMER, once currency has been exchanged for a service, that money typically doesn’t reappear once said service has come to pass. Nobody consumes for free. Unless you’re dumpster diving. Well, I think there’s a tradeoff of dignity, but whatever.

That was Dina’s first problem. Her second catastrophe was that she bought her kid’s tablet for a discounted price on Black Friday and the reimbursement for what she paid was not going to cover a new tablet, as it had gone off its ONE TIME ONLY SALE PRICE. She wanted off the phone with a promise of the product’s retail value (although she hadn’t spent near that amount) and the protection plan, should her barely out diapers child bust the screen of his next $130 electronic device.

Color me crazy but when I was 5, the highest grade of technological anything my mother trusted me with was a Tamagotchi. This was an off brand Giga Pet. Mine was the crab from ‘The Little Mermaid’ and that device still works with perfect graphical and operational clarity to this day. I say this as proof that not all things kept in my hot little hands die, but also to drive a point home, relative to my rant: If 5-year-olds couldn’t be trusted with expensive crap in the mid-nineties, what has prompted parents of today to believe times have changed? Kids are clumsy. They break things. Granted we’ve come a long way with shiny rechargeable whatnots but these expensive advancements should instantly trigger discretion. If you know your kid has trouble keeping their ice cream cone off the carpeted floor of your Escape then maybe buying the spendy toy with the 7” GLASS screen is a bad fucking option.

And on that note, an OtterBox or any other type of case won't turn handheld piece of machinery indestructible. $40 doesn’t buy you a force field.

Roughly eight minutes in, Dina decides she’s going to read me the small print on her protection plan pamphlet, thinking she’ll do a bang-up job of corroborating her insanity. Every time she comes across a state specific stipulation, she kindly goes through the trouble of remarking, “I don’t even live there”. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. Now, her demographics appear in front of me. I’m fully aware which state she resides. Telling me multiple times that you don’t live in Georgia and articulating the sentiment in such a way that you come across disgusted at the idea that Blank-Mart has not removed this state from the pamphlet you store presented you specifically may bolster your own self-esteem, but it’s insufferable.

Personal question Dina: Are you divorced or perhaps on the verge of divorce?

Did you want in on my sure thing odds in Vegas?

Sorry. Too far. Alas, Dina battles on and as she repeats the same invalid points, I too persist, countering with my seemingly obvious ones. I even boldly go so far as to tell her it's not financially feasible for any business to give away thousands of dollars more than what their products sell for. That’s just stupid (the last part was implied).

We reach the fifteen minute mark and Dina caves. She starts to cry, telling me that it’s not fair for parents to buy their children toys and for their children to get attached and then break them and that the parents who could barely afford to buy said toys to begin with have to pay more money to replace them and it’s not her fault or her son’s and I’m punishing her and her kid. Then she plays the “You Obviously Don’t Have Children” card.

Good call Dina.

I’m twenty-one years old and although I don’t have a brood of my own gene pool to corral, I’ve encountered kids. I know how they act and I come fully equipped with commonsense.

Life lessons all around Dina. You should get a pen.

I was trained for moments like this; to turn around and relate to my customer in some sincere, believable tone, utilizing words which showed “empathy”. In theory, this is a noble idea. However, at a certain point, nobody has the emotional energy to feign concern. So I went with Plan B and attempted to tell Dina a true story about the time my then 7-year-old nephew decided to see what would happen to my cell phone if he put it in the sink. I even had a cute little punch line to put a stop to Dina’s tears (he told me two years later the phone took a swim in the toilet, not the sink). Alas, Ms. Dumbass wasn't game for hearing some anecdote loosely relating to her situation. If I wasn’t going to spit back kissass compassion and a big fat reimbursement, then my words were no good here.

Now, let’s slide back a moment to the part where I’m supposedly placing blame and being unfair. In life, one makes their own choices. One makes their own luck. One fucks themselves’ over. I just happen to be another precipitating factor that may nor may not keep something like this from going your way. But what’s really forward thinking is when a grown adult is denied something and then decides they’re being punished. Like I’m being vindictive because I can be; as if I’m not following the procedures and rules set forth for me by my place of employment. I will admit there were moments I took sick pleasure in denying a claim or a request. I’m only human. I have needs damn it! However, to be clear, I never purposely refused to process a claim to get my rocks off.

Now in between fits of self-aggrandizing tears and screaming, Dina is taking breaks to parent her son using a very rational and controlled voice. This bitch is Bi-Polar. I’ve hit the motherload of emotionally unstable matriarchs (pun intended) and if I could place a third bet I’d win big. This kid isn't emerging from his childhood unscathed. Not even close.

To make a needlessly long story short, Dina Dumbass FINALLY "escalated" after a half an hour of being painfully right.

I could go on and on about how crazy that job, no that department drove me. But what’s done is done and I’m finally free. I just find it only right to call attention to America’s greatest strength and weakness: Blank-Mart. Somebody had to do it and now that I’m close to three months in recovery, I figure I’m ripe for the task. If I could, I would save every last one of you struggling. I have felt your pain.

Granted if I hadn’t had somebody to sexually harass and assault me back, I don’t think I would’ve made it as long as I did. If those encounters had any worth, it was a guarantee of job security. Why miss work when your stalkee is just a couple cubicles down, constantly staring at you and panting with excitement. You can even hear it on the calls. I swear, always in heat that one.

I digress.

As a closing thought to an already endless spiel of absolutely nothing anybody cares about, here are some things I’ve learned in terms of ‘Murica:

-Pennsylvanians and Ohioans are rude and entitled all across the board.

-People from Alabama have never been appropriately shown how to speak English. It’s not something they teach in schools.

-People from Wisconsin totally sound like they’re from there; it’s a given and it’s great.

-The entire state of Massachusetts has decided if you ask them to repeat themselves once, you’re automatically beneath them, even if you can afford a cell phone that costs more than $59.88. That doesn’t matter to them. You couldn’t understand their accent. You are now road kill.

-Nebraska is the most clear and coherent state in terms of pronunciation and vernacular. They will forever be known as my “Unicorn State” as these calls are few and far in between.

-Most of the under 25 set believe it’s their duty to speak in a disinterested manner. It’s as if they live by some code that they’re doing a disservice to their generation if they articulate thought or speak with solid volume into their receivers.

Lastly, sweet old ladies are really sweet and you should feel like an asshole for getting upset with them when you have to ask them for the 40th time to read their Vizio television’s serial number. You will burn in hell. See ya there.

#wal-mart #call centers #protection plans

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unjustifiablytactless · 11 years

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AW, BUT THERE AIN'T MUCH THAT'S DUMBER, THERE AIN'T MUCH THAT'S DUMBER/ THAN PINNING YOUR HOPES ON A CHANGE IN ANOTHER.

I lost all lust for reality television the moment I caught wind that Intervention was cancelled and although my passion has been partially reignited by such gems as Amish Mafia and Breaking Amish, I continue to hold a torch in dedication to the second season of American Colony: Meet the Hutterites I and countless other judgmental bitches were so unjustly robbed of. My hope, my dream, my goal is for producers on any one network (cable or satellite) to once again dig deep into their budgets and purchase the dignity of my favorite perverted religious cult. Now I realize National Geographic never showed these German fuckheads in their complete demented glory, so familiar to many of us in the 406 (I’m talking the stud service and their ladies shimmying through Wal-Mart with multiple jumbo bags of Snickers and Reeses under the vast girth of their homemade skirts) but damn it, even without those telltale giveaways that was some quality television! And educational. PBS, how are you not getting behind this? I’m the public and I want access and I don’t care whose dignity foots the bill. If push comes to shove and my demands aren’t met, I’m not above bartering one of my male friends and many of them are not above waking up with a nasty Hootwine hangover, covered in hay and wondering how many of their 50+ female rapists will carry their seed to full term.

. . .

The other day I found out Bob Dole was never vice president and I felt as if the The Simpsons totally misinformed my four year old self.

Why does Facebook find it necessary to text me every time somebody sends me a game request? That shit’s not vital. How about a kaleidoscope of color blinks in the corner of my Droid every time the guy I’m stalking tags his girlfriend in a Youtube video of a song I adore? You’re not leaving much I can listen to on my own iPod, asshole. I feel violated and not in the way you will indeed one day make good on the intentions of.

Also, I completely realize it’s not very becoming to consistently speak callously about a girl to the face of the person that’s dating them but my patience on the matter has dwindled and I find myself at the corner of “No Balls” and "Screw It, Let’s See What Happens”

Next up: Misdemeanors.

Thank God the people who read these already know I’m a walking advertisement for generic Prozac and whatever the hipster drug of choice is for Multiple Personality Disorder this week. Maybe Obamacare will assist me in attaining the proper diagnoses and pay for the treatment. Electroshock therapy anybody?

But fo rilz. Keep in my mind, I’m going to read into every little thing: A frowny face on a FB status, any annoyingly desperate lovey-dovey meme you find yourself tagged in or posted for the sake of (and then ‘liked’ by you), and every single hour that passes where the end game hasn’t materialized. I can’t help it because all of these instances fight against what you’ve got me under the impression of is supposed to be happening and makes me reevaluate what is actually happening. Put yourself in my psycho bitch boots. We both know they fit.

Along these same lines (lyrically), “Sometimes” (lololololololol) I look at B. Spears and her full head of hair and think, “Dam, dat gurl got herr shyt togetha!” Then she releases a song like “Perfume” and I quickly calm that motherly pride down.

One of the reasons I’d like to get my higher edumacation back on is to once again learn and maintain big kid grammar. Is anybody taking these blogs seriously? I blame not a lack of creativity or genius but the inadequacies in punctuation and grammar. In addition, nobody likes to read w-o-r-d-s. Maybe if I broke everything down into memes and vines. . .

Perish the thought.

I see the Montana Meth Project is back up and running. Good. We needed some solid advertising. Prices were sky high for awhile there. Free publicity = more demand = lower cost.

Math: Maybe just this once.

What kind of dumbass attorney wastes his time suing a woman without a penny to her name? How exactly does he plan to evenly distribute the worth of a 2001 Bonneville and an extensive collection of Wal-Mart discount DVDs? Have at it homes. At least you’re keeping the postman and the summons guy employed.

I’ve texted four separate people “meow” today as a response.

My eldest brother’s birthday was a couple weeks ago. I wished him to stay classy. I’ve yet to hear back.

“I haven’t had my blood pressure pills for two days,” says my father as he’s drunk at 7:00 PM on a Monday.

This is my family.

You can really tell the quality of a $2 spicy chicken sandwich when you don’t have to reconstruct the entire thing every other bite.

And now, a story:

A month ago, my mother tried to win an argument between her and I by using my “higher education” and mouthiness in grade school and beyond as points for her side. I harbor serious doubts I caused her much in the way of humiliation versus my brother’s juvenile record or my other brother’s adult criminal record. I’m not even sure how my insinuating a homosexual affair between my 7th grade shop and social studies teachers in front of said social studies instructor’s fifth period class or calling another one of my teachers “incompetent” embarrasses her.

Furthermore, this woman has caused me more shame than she cares to remember. . .

Towards the end of my 8th grade year, I was sentenced to ISS for something. Probably for the “incompetence” incident but I could’ve sworn that happened in the 7th grade. Anyways, I woke up late one of these mornings and instead of taking my brother to school and then an hour later taking me to school and then going home for 15 minutes and then trekking across town to work yet another fulfilling shift at her dream job as one of Charles Marion Russell High School’s premier food service assistants, my mother decided to save the gas and time and make me two hours late for ISS. I do vaguely remember protesting and telling her I’d have to serve detention if I was that tardy, to which she replied in her abundant wisdom, “No you won’t. I’m your mother. They can’t fucking keep you there.” So when the final bell rang at 2:55, I booked it to her car because I always do what my mother says (unless it involves waking up early or respecting people to their faces when I'd much rather they be set on fire). This then led to a scene the next morning where she seemingly lost an argument between her and my two asshole vice principals on the subject of whether or not I was still expected to complete my detention, which had now doubled. Granted, one of these asshole principals was a little less of an asshole than the other but they were men and this according to my mother’s logic, meant they were both to be treated at equal fault.

To prove her point (and really because she didn’t want to pick me up later in the day and pushback her 5:30 P.M. bedtime but really also because these men were assholes), my mother kept me out of school for a whole month. My education was essentially put on hold as I lounged in my pajamas all day, eating Dingdongs and re-watching all nine seasons of Roseanne on DVD. Every day, or really whenever I felt like it, I called my teachers to get my assignments and almost all of them would ask me why my mother was crazy and when I was coming back to school. In retrospect, I’m surprised nobody sunk the truancy officer on this woman.

This anecdote poses three main questions, two were stated (but by no means addressed) above and the third undoubtedly on your minds is, “Why’d she do this?”

Was she really sticking it to the man (or all men)? Is my mother really that much of a political activist? Was she in fact deliberately proving a point for all single mothers through an extreme display of social defiance?

The answer is. . . hell no. She just didn’t want to spend the time and mileage driving me to school and thought the vice principals were dicks. That’s what this all boils down to. My mother hates wasting money and she hates almost all men as they are a waste of space on this mortal coil and there are few exceptions but even she’s thought they were total wastes from time to time, usually when they’re wasted and wasting money they owe her.

Again, this is my family.

Now did I learn anything from this fine example of petty insolence? Yes. I learned the go-to racial slur for a partly Mexican middle school vice principal. This is what my mother peppered her insults with as she left East Middle School the morning she decided it somehow made sense to disenroll me for a whole month. She might have said it to his face but I’m almost 100% she mumbled it in his presence under her breath. For all her talk, my mother has a hard time telling people off to their faces, especially when they really, truly deserve it. I however don’t suffer from such an illness.

But that’s really all I remember: watching Roseanne, learning a word that wouldn't have been taught inside of the classroom and being embarrassed by mother’s solid parenting style. Looking back, it’s a pretty badass story to tell but I still faintly recall the feeling of mortification I was struck with every time I got on the “Homework Hotline” and left messages for my teachers, or God forbid, spoke with one of them live. All in all, I still failed Algebra but I can tell you what season every single piece of Roseanne dialogue originated from and that’s all that really matters.

My final point is that my mother’s act of insubordination mirrors my million acts of insubordination, one of which landed me in ISS to begin with, so who is embarrassing who? If anything, she was the inspiration for my PARS and ISS stays and OSS holidays and she should take pride in all of my evil because as much of a strongly convicted, smart mouthed, mutinous bitch as I’ve always been, I’ve never become a junkie or a drunk and I’ve kept clear of throwing myself at every man who I know deep down I can never win the love of so as a result I abort their babies and take the antibiotics to kill the Herpes and keep trucking along as my daddy issues take the wheel. No. My poor personality successfully combated all of that. And she’s the one that let me watch Roseanne so was a team effort. Thank you and you’re welcome Wendy.

And thank you, Rosie.

#roseanne #iss #hutterites

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unjustifiablytactless · 11 years

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This woman. . . didn't raise pretentious, nasally voiced whores. She merely managed them.

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unjustifiablytactless · 11 years

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AN OPEN LETTER TO A SOUL IN NEED

(PLEASE FORGIVE GRAMMATICAL ERRORS. As a two-time college dropout, I no longer know the difference between a comma, a colon and a semicolon.)

I’m going to take things down just a notch, show some vulnerability, and share a little sum-sum…

When my friend Blank (her identity has been concealed so that her dignity can go unaffected) were merely 15 years old, we borrowed her younger sister’s Hannah Montana CD and took turns rolling on her living room couch as we screamed the lyrics to compositions far behind us in maturity yet far beyond us in futility. Looking back, I’m surprised we didn’t get shot through her living room window. Since that pathetic milestone in our friendship, every time we hear a Miley Cyrus song or read a news tidbit, our minds instantly flash back to the moment of Disney-esque innocence that talentless little skank inspired. I recall even then knowing an ill-fated relationship with one or more of the J-Bros would fuck Ms. Montana’s life up but alas, none of us would have any earthly idea just how far she’d fall down the rabbit hole. Ladies and gentlemen, after many other red flags in the ensuing years, we have the culmination, the essential product of perversion: It’s Miley, Bitch!

…

Dear Miley Bitch,

Gurl, why you grabbing on Robin Thicke? Correction, caressing his man parts with a giant foam finger? This is embarrassing for you and for him and for his milk chocolate bombshell of a wife who sat in the audience of the MTV Video Music Awards not even close to stewing with jealousy as she played witness to a girl with horns on the top of her head asserting her “arrival” at womanhood by publically molesting her husband on lackluster cable television (I went there MTV, I fucking went there). Now, it’s essential to note that you didn’t merely land at womanhood and you didn’t get there in a timely fashion. Like most Disney twats, not a moment’s time was wasted deciding all too prematurely the type of lady you wanted the world at large to take you for. You got loaded on Salvia and penis cake, passed the fuck out in Wiz Khalifa’s backyard and your ass was then subsequently dragged to the pinnacle whilst your psychological maturity plopped itself like a boulder at age 15; all of this within five years’ time. However, you aren’t all grown up and this “image” of yours’ has some fatal flaws.

Where to start, where to start? Let’s talk style, Miley Bitch: nothing matches and nothing looks human. Even Lady Gaga no longer takes fashion cues from Lady Gaga. Furthermore, any shade of artistic expression isn’t your color sweetie. Neither is red on those lips or nude on those hips. You want so badly to be taken seriously as an artist that you’ll try anything once but did you really think you could twerk your way into America’s hearts? Whoring around for attention doesn’t give you a shred of substance. Heed Sinead’s warnings and calm yourself Miley Bitch.

I did get a little misty eyed with pride when you broke free from that cheating slime ball Liam Hemsworth. Let’s face it. He wasn’t going to stop text banging/ totally for realz banging January Jones. The bitch has hair! Some would even argue you put your pride on the shelf just long enough to gather lyrical inspiration for the album you brag ad nauseam about putting your whole self into. Judging by the televised thrusts of your pelvis and shortness of hair, you’re not even sold on your abilities as a musician. Nothing gives away those insecurities more than a heavy reliance on shock value. Read Marilyn Manson.

Miley Bitch, what’s up with all these drug confessions? Oh, you smoked pot? Well welcome aboard the yacht sister. It’s a fucking exclusive club! Moreover, the only pop singer who should be bragging about doing Molly is Madonna. Or Cher. I’m all about Cher under the influence of every and all substances much like she’s all about having her face injected and implanted with any and all substances.

You swearz you keep away from the nose candy and that’s an accomplishment for any transitioning child star seeing as how it’s only proven to torpedo Lindsay Lohan and Amanda Bynes’ careers. I think they too had talent before they turned 18. All in all Miley Bitch, you get two “image” points but you’re far from breaking even.

The sad thing is you don’t even need to go on some full scale overhaul on public perception. The singles from your new album actually hold their own when detached from your previous fame. They’re still not earthshaking but neither is your booty in the strip club (oh gurrrrrrl). I can’t even detect the annoying twang in your vocals that made me want to throw things at my computer, iPod dock, and television every time I heard you; that one night sophomore year being the only exception until recently.

Here’s what it all boils down to: you gotta sober up, get your Nordstrom on and marry a hockey player from Canada (that last part’s VERY important). That’s what Hilary Duff did and she seems pretty solid. By “solid” I mean talentless but normal. Of course she hasn’t spent her entire life living down the legacy established by her Achy Breaky dad’s one hit wonder…

Maybe that’s the root of your problems. Maybe you’ve got the worst child star daddy issues of all. Billy Ray wasn’t abusive and he wasn’t a drunk or gas huffing junkie. He didn’t leave your momma high and dry without the means to support his biological brood. No, he had a top 10 hit that not only put food on the table but got you a show on the Disney channel. But because the song is so terrible, he must pay. Right Miley Bitch? Right Miley’s momma? He must endure the embarrassment of his daughter dry humping all poles and married men great and small and his wife gets to cheat on him with Bret Michaels. She does have a type, doesn’t she?

I could go into a massive diatribe about fame being a drug and you having not much of a prayer for sanity because your parents thought a half naked picture of you as a teenager on the cover of Vanity Fair was art and totally normal but I don’t much feel like analyzing you to that degree. So I will just justify your actions by dragging the lake and bringing to the surface the cause of this disaster you call your career, is it? I figured it out. We can blame ever last one of your problems on a mullet and a shitty country crossover hit.

JUST KIDDING.

…

I shall now leave you with some parting words…

Miley Bitch, you can’t stop. And THAT’S your fucking problem. Show some restraint. Show some class. And grow your hair back. You’re becoming nothing more than a spectacle, a punch line for every ‘Late Show’ and ‘Late, Late Show’ out there. Alas, you can only provide Dave Letterman and the like with enough material for another month or so and then they’ll have to move on.

Remember Paris Hilton? Exactly.

Love,

Melissa Bitch.

#miley cyrus

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unjustifiablytactless · 11 years

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YOU'LL HATE ME LATER.

(I started this blog three months ago. I’m just now writing the majority of it and laying the final touches.)

If you would all be so kind as to allow me to take you back to the evening of March 1, 2013. . .

Where to start, where to start? Well, every nightmare has a beginning and if you’re lucky, an ending. However this goddamn lineage is one big fat joint, burning eternal. I don’t like when people tell me things will be fine. That they’ll get better, especially when the person spewing those false words of comfort happens to be one of the only ones with the power to help. There’s no hope without action. At any point in the last 30 years he had the power to take action and chose to destructively self indulge . . .

But I’m not going to drown in my daddy issues. I find that my immediate family derives our silver linings from humor. Now that humor may include brow beating, public humiliation, and my callous tongue, but nonetheless. If your substance fueled dumbfuckery will forever impede my future, then I’ve every right to call you on the carpet.

So here’s what happens when I go to a funeral in Lewistown, Montana:

Twenty-four hours to myself in a cheap hotel room napping, feasting on cheeseburgers and watching basic cable edited ‘Austin Powers’ on a Magnavox tube older than Herpes sounded like a dream come true to me. And it was. For a fleeting five hours, I didn’t have to deal with a single member of my family. I avoided these and all other fuckers like the plague. Did I find it only a little bit ironic that the first Lewistownite I encountered was one of my father’s whores outside the village’s only grocery store? No. Did I want to stop her and say hello and introduce myself as Willy and Wendy’s daughter and ask how prison was and the meth lab that she no doubt still operates and inquire as to the state of her romantic relationship with my parent’s old slumlord Vicki? No. Because I had a Ruby’s burger and mint chocolate shake on my mind and I could tell that dyke was already tweaking. Priorities folks: every girl’s got ‘em.

I ventured out of my caloric stupor hours later only to buy birthday cards for my brother, Nick, and a friend. I actually drove past both of my brothers on my way back to the village grocery store. Shane (drunkard midget brother) pretended not to see me as he waited out the red light in his $500/ month brand new Ford Taurus. I would now like to take a quick detour and make known my amazement at his lack of height and as well as his sheer dumbassidness. How Shane could see over the steering wheel to catch and then evade my glare is truly beyond me. But who buys a car in Lewistown, Montana? I don’t even think they have real banks to finance through. I think you have to literally wait for the mailman and his wagon to retrieve the decisions from financers in Billings and that’s got to be at least a three day process. Also, Shane doesn’t even have a driver’s license but that’s beside all points. Who pays $500/ month for a Ford?

I got the cards and then went on a drive because I have an addiction and had lost hope in FX screening ‘Goldmember’. Awhile into my cruise, I realized I actually needed to have Shane and Bill (that’s the paternal) sign Nick’s card. So I tracked them down at my father’s mechanic shop where all three Horacek men and select others were already on their way to a successful Friday night. Because really, it’s not a funeral or a Saturday to these boys unless they’re hung over. Apparently a couple Bud Lights were enough to make Shane forget he was ignoring me and my utter presence was enough to make his Susan Boyle lookalike girlfriend forget she had relentlessly called me a cunt multiple times in single sentences the last time we spoke. Which was over text. Which is how the mentally ill like it. After the entire room of drunkards showered me with praise over my red hair (this was not expected), one my father’s best friends informed me that his little girl was pregnant. This wasn’t entirely unexpected but it killed me that he stole my thunder because after Shane stupidly asked if I was wearing a wedding ring that incidentally wasn’t on my ring finger and was actually our mother’s sham wedding ring, I had planned to drop the knocked-up-by-my-rapist bomb. But alas, foiled again.

Moments later there was talk of steak and shrimp at my dad’s house. Having already violated the rules I made of avoiding these men and recalling from memory that nobody grills a steak quite like my father, I agreed to meet up there. They could after all buy my love with red meat, if only for a few hours. In truth everything has its’ price. And that steak came with years of emotional therapy.

WARNING: THE EVENTS AND CONVERSATIONS I’M ABOUT TO SHARE ARE GRAPHIC IN NATURE. READER DISRETION IS PARAMOUNT.

Hearing one of my father’s best friends, who has known me since I was a toddler, comment on his “Crabs situation” and not knowing if he was kidding obviously forever alters my view of him. What a shame growing up has been. Susan Boyle taking a few moments following that declaration to practically fondle my brother in front of me and commenting on her own downstairs mix-up earns her an honorable mention for the evening. However, this isn’t Britain’s Got Talent and that bitch doesn’t go home with the night’s top prize.

I happen to judge how much I’m willing to tolerate my brother’s girlfriends on whether or not they mention his junk at family get-togethers. So far, two have done this and they’ve been the most bat shit crazy of the lot. I find it ironic that these exact instances keep popping up throughout the years and I’m starting to wonder if maybe in his perpetual drunken stupor this is all he can attract anymore. Fingers crossed he doesn’t knock a one of them up. According to Miss Boyle, she’s the one failing in the baby making department and this gives me hope. You’d think the wage garnishment from just the one son he’s neglected would be enough of a deterrent.

Moving on.

I was pleasantly surprised when my father broke out some old photos of my grandparents and recounted memories of his grandmother from the Ukraine who spoke only two words of English, “yes” and “no”. I can only assume “no” was utilized the most. Legend has it, she’d hangout in the bathroom for most of the day, gunning smokes and periodically venturing out to scream obscenities at the neighbor kids. Needless to say, I wish I had met this woman.

It was during this fleeting moment of family bonding that homemade alcohol was dispensed and I learned that I may or may not be a long lost bastard cousin of the Kennedys in New York. This is welcome news. However I doubt they have the same pill connections offered in that trailer. Speaking of which I’m no longer considered the worst driver in this long, proud line of heavily intoxicated beings, twisting every sort of metal to get home in one piece after an 18 hour stint at the Montana Tavern. Carol (my father’s Crack Whore) had broken her pinky finger earlier in the day as she stupidly fondled the steering wheel with one hand driving through slush. Now, I don’t know why I said she “stupidly” drove with one hand as 99.99% of people walking this Earth surface can single handedly drive a vehicle, Grand Am or no, in various types of weather without getting their fingers caught in the steering wheel. And I’m sure some of these people smoke rock, too. As this woman was drifting from room to room, howling in pain and quite unabashedly propositioning everybody with probable prescription pill connections, I realized that my father cares little for his Crack Whore’s anguish. The most Bill displayed in the way of sympathy was to humorously recant the story, exclaiming the punch line, "First rule (of driving) is hold on to that fucking wheel!" Then he laughed. This will be the best advice this man will ever inadvertently or intentionally offer me. On a lighter note, my father’s personal health couldn’t have been better that evening, taking into account the pounds of weed and lakes worth of Crown this man has put away in his lifetime. He sluggishly communicated that he was full, had a couple beers (among other items) and was (I quote), “comfortably numb”. We were listening to Pink Floyd but experience tells me he would have made the connection regardless of the fact he was blazed out of his mind. I should point out the steak was great.

Somehow it was made known that I have two incredibly gay uncles. I didn’t even know you could be gay in a family that boasts our level of White Trash. Shane found this assertion as an inappropriate in to publicly brush off Miss Boyle’s advances, "Don't touch me like that! You're not my priest!" I should point out we’re not a particularly religious family and this man’s only experience with a “priest” occurred in Deer Lodge. This is a prison, in which he was possibly the shortest inmate. By virtue of his height, Shane no doubt triggered some undue lovin’ and admiration from the larger “priests”. I assume they role play in prisons.

It was immediately following this portion of the evening that I ducked out as there was this funeral thing the next day that at least one of us (me) was going to show up sober and well-rested for. I’m not sure how late into the evening the festivities burned but when I showed up around 11 the next morning to survey damages, I came upon the wreckage that was Crack Whore’s mind. This woman has never claimed to be particularly intelligent and I long ago accepted this when every other word out of her mouth was “hoofta” or during the holiday season,“Merry ho-ho”. I really don’t think she should be making the birth of Christ all about her promiscuity, but I don’t judge. You guys know me. I keep it cute. Keep it classy. Keep it sacrilegious.

As I sat in a cat hair laden chair in my new black pants and black shirt, I played witness to possibly the saddest display of generational gap ever. My tech savvy brother Nick was attempting to help Crack Whore look up some decrepit junk books online that she regarded as “antique”. Nick, being the absent minded, carefree soul that he is, didn’t fully catch on to the absurdity of Crack Whore’s pleas for him to take a picture of the item before he Googled it. I myself lacked the will or patience to explain to the love of my father’s fraught life that it’s in fact NOT a requirement to take a picture of something before you Google it. The search engine in question isn’t going to respond, "Damn bitch, I can't see that!" My father did however work to score his generation a few points of redemption when he flipped through the channels and landed on ‘Portlandia’. He understood the humor even a little more than I did. Tragically, the score was tipped back into the 90’s kids’ favor as soon as Crack Whore forced my father to change the channel as she regarded the show as “weird”. So close this one, yet so fucking far gone.

As a means to maintaining my own sanity, I excused myself for a cup of coffee. . . in another fucking building. The next hour of my existence was spent driving to an unknown destination, marveling at the masterful way in which two butch lesbian twins from Canada can write songs universally appealing to straight gurl heartbreak and how although Patrick Stump can still sing, Pete Wentz can no longer write. I guess that’s what happens when you fuck a chick out of vanity and not substance. Say whaaaaaaaat?

Moving on.

I returned to Bill remarking to me that it must have been “a helluva cup of coffee”. I neglected to return with any sort of roasted bean in hand as I no longer care what type of white lies or whoppers I tell my father. You’d have to still respect a person to care.

The funeral was to start within the hour. The minutes were ticking and it was becoming more apparent Crack Whore wasn't going to wear her teeth to this, her significant other’s sister’s funeral. Fuck lady. Make momma proud.

I also couldn’t bring myself to force my pops to change out of his Don Henley t-shirt. Granted it’s black and possibly the nicest shirt he owns but somehow a rock concert souvenir your daughter bought you on a high school trip to our nation’s capital isn’t classy enough to sport to morose event such as this. But it was a step-up from his “I’m Your Girlfriend’s Pimp” tee. He’s saving that for my wedding day.

My brothers’ would prove the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree as all three Horacek men staggeringly worked to avoid the “all black” rule of dress a funeral typically calls for. Well, Nick got the black slacks part right but the bright green imitation Underarmor polo cancelled out his achievement. Shane went with is go-to hangover best: blue jeans and a Griz t-shirt. Why he even owns any article of clothing advertising a college sports team remains a mystery. The only time this man ever stepped foot onto a campus of higher learning was to attend for a month, which was long enough to attain and then cash his student loan check. I take all financial cues from this smalltime criminal mastermind.

I choose to round out my fashion policing by saving the best for last. Crack Whore supposedly waited until the last minute to dress as she needed her daughter, Crack Whore Jr., to come over and help her ease into her clothes, as the pain of her goddamn pinky finger had rendered her more useless than ever. She finally emerged with minutes to spare, hair frizzy and resembling a reverse zebra. You know those shirts that chicks with tits wear that have a different colored undershirt paired with a sleeved topped? She somehow got a hold of one from the 1980’s. God bless Lewistown thrift shops. How else would this bitch keep in style? She topped it off with a faded pair of acid washed black jeans and I almost fainted from envy.

At this point I was getting a little nervous. We had roughly 15 minutes until the eulogy was to begin and though there was admittedly not much preparation done on their part, these people were taking a outrageously longtime to “load up” as they say. No really. This is what THEY say. As Crack Whore ignored Bill’s half assed pleas to hurry, he ignored my anxious pleas to at least tell me where this thing was so I could go against the grain and practice punctuality. Bill insisted I follow him. So I did. This is the last time I will ever listen to this man instructing me to do anything. The bit about holding onto the steering wheel will have to fill that fatherly advice void.

With seven minutes to spare, we were on our way to the whole reason for me being in town, at all, ever fucking again. I sat behind my father and waited about two minutes for him to cross main street. Within those 120 seconds I believe no more than seven vehicles past, both ways. But it could have been eight. When Bill finally made it to the other side of the street, I somehow managed to lose the man as it was then my turn to wait for Lewistownites to clear a path for a fellow motorist. It’s to be noted with much frustration that the speed limit in Lewistown, Montana is “Mosey”. They don’t go by miles per hour or kilometers. There exists no imperial or metric system. Just “Mosey”. You’re all very welcome for the heads-up.

I ended up missing my Aunt’s funeral. My father showed up late and I in turn, showed up later. No member of my party waited for me to walk with them. It’s also to be noted that the Lewistown Funeral Home does not have sidewalks, just grass and dirt that turns into mud when it has been snowing and raining for the past three days. Therefore, the classy heels I wore were of no practical use to me as I attempted to trudge through the disaster that is this poorly landscaped location. I then proceeded to sit in Baby “Blitzz” Dynaite (RIP) for 22 minutes, screaming to my mother on the other end of the line how horrible her sons and ex are and how I feel so sorry for her to have dealt with any of them. Within the confusion of my rant, this woman became perplexed and then angry as she believed that I’d communicated to her that I too drank along with the dumbfucks the night before. I didn’t but she did capitalize on this moment and asked if I’d ever drank before. In my state of heightened emotion and sheer stupidity, I said yes. I was then disowned for an entire 12 hours.

Midway through the eulogy I saw Crack Whore make her way to the Grand Am. Standing at that point had become too much for her pinky finger. Bless that woman’s tenacity. When it was over and everybody else either dispersed or conversed, it was up to me to motion my father to my vehicle. He asked where I’d been. My jaw dropped at this unadulterated display of idiocy. He said he thought he was going to the reception and I felt as if it was my duty to tell him that yes, it was his sister’s funeral and he was going to show some fucking respect and pretend as if he hasn’t spent the last 40 years slowly drifting apart from his family as he steadfastly ran into the arms of alcoholism, adultery and irresponsible drug use. Oh yeah. He told me that night before that he used to do heroin. And told me about the time he thought he had the Clap and worked in the medical terminology “shaft”, in reference to himself. I also possibly, maybe have a half sibling as young as three running around the 59457 zip code. I should have touched on all of that earlier. I was just kind of hoping those tidbits would be wiped from memory but no, three months later and it takes a blog to bring it all back. I won’t sleep tonight or any other night for that matter.

I made my way to the reception and surprise, surprise, was the first one out of my party to make it there. Bill did an excellent job of alienating himself. Apparently when Crack Whore sits something out, he follows suit in spirit. This is a love for the ages folks. Shane and Miss Boyle showed up a half an hour after the eulogy. See it was a Saturday morning. Shane had been drinking the night before and his doctor has advised him that it’s in fact critical for the morning after a long night of boozing to remedy his ills with a Mountain Dew bottle full of beer. He doesn’t like to attract attention. He’s conscious of other’s feelings. He’s also oblivious to the fact that people have fucking eyes. Those criminal thinking classes really weren’t necessary Judge.

This is all followed by a short screaming match outside of the reception between Shane’s anger that I wouldn’t say goodbye to him and my personal belief that if you’re over 30 and owe your mother hundreds of dollars, you just fucking pay her so your little sister doesn’t cover your debt. Fucker. I did however let him know I’d text him when our mom finally has her coronary. I’ve still got a soul.

Well there you go. I did my best to withhold my appropriate rage for the sake of entertainment. In doing so, writing this blog has proved no more therapeutic than threatening to call the Fergus County Sheriff’s Department and tip them off in regards to Crack Whore’s “stash”. One day. One day.

Did I mention my dad’s gf does crack?

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