This being an open letter to whoever it is that’s in charge of the cosmic deck this week:
Y’know what? I give. You fucking win. Just piss off and leave me alone, already.
The past seven or eight days have really, royally, sucked fermented Mongolian moose balls. If the asshole who has been dealing me these shit cards doesn’t lay the fuck off, pronto, I’m gonna find him, gut him, and eat his fucking brains with KFC honey-mustard dipping sauce.
I mean it.
A small boat-load of Mrs. Skeezix’s relatives arrived in town last Saturday. To be fair, I genuinely like most of this crew. But my brother and sister in law…
They treat their kids like shit. The only attention these kids get is negative. You’ll hear one or the other saying, “Mommy, mommy, mommy,” or “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” for a few minutes, getting no response, until whoever is being addressed gets fed up and yells either “Would you shut up!” or “What do you want now?” They just plain don’t converse with 'em. The four year old (soon to be five) still wears pull-up diapers, because potty-training is just too much trouble for them, and the eight year old throws herself to the floor in a pout anytime she’s mildly disagreed with.
That shit gets a bit hard to cope with after a day or two. Understand, we’re the parents of a two year old, and we were both ready to slap the snot out of the parents by Sunday lunchtime. You just don’t treat your kids that way. They’re spoiled little brats, because you two don’t have the foggiest fucking clue how to raise them, and you treat every little bit of offered advice as a personal affront to your sacred right to not be intelligent enough to know how to use a fucking rubber.
Here’s a hint: It goes on over his dick, you stupid shits. The birth control pills are the ones you swallow, you syphillitic ass-scratching cow.
I’ll skip a bunch of piddling details here, for the sake of brevity. Sherman, set the way-back machine to Monday night. Thank you.
We schlep the whole crew down to take a sunset cruise, which goes over with a minimum of fuss. Skeezix forgets to bring along his medication on this trip, so dinner is a bit of a problem. Namely, I couldn’t eat much, whist 45 minutes from home, with no meds. Dinner for me was basically a wash. But I can deal.
We get in the car to head home, with alla the young’uns. In my FIL’s vehicle are all the visiting adults, and, with no little ears to hear 'em, they apparently get to having some uproarious laughs. Jokes and yucks of an adult nature (specifically, some long involved joke about a blowjob) abound. My BIL gets himself in trouble with his wife for, well, laughing at the sexual humor. Even the stick up her ass is a tad prudish, it seems.
Cut to later that night:
Mrs. Skeezix, her step-mom, my BIL, and your humble narrator are sitting at the dining room table. All the chilluns is sleeping in the Skeezling’s room. My SIL is in the bathroom, which we learned that night was well within earshot of said table.
We’re talking about what was so funny during the ride home. Y’see, we could see them laughing and carryin’ on at a couple of red lights, in the rear view mirrors. My BIL tells us a brief story of how, when he and me SIL were dating, his parents tried to embarass him by talking about thier favorite “Parking Spots” around town.
SIL comes flying out of the bathroom, yelling loud enough that we’re still amazed that none of the kids woke up, at her hubby. She does nae much appreciate him talking about their sex life with us, and her mother.
Yeah, we were thinking “WTF?!?” ourselves. It could have been a Three’s Company moment. So, she’s pissed at him for the remainder of the visit, despite the fact that what she’s pissed about never actually happened; his dick, and any part of her body that could be used to excite said dick, were never discussed. Likewise widdershins for her various erogenous zones, and the parts of his body that could excite same.
Wednesday morning finds us having breakfast in that most American of institutions, Perkins. Yeah, I know. The Skeezling has blueberry pancakes, with chocolate milk. Yeah, again, I know. We head, from Perkins, to Daytona Beach. During a pit-stop in Hayne’s City, the Skeezling wangles her mother into the purchase of a candy necklace. She consumes the whole thing, and, about fifteen minutes from the hotel we’re staying in, barfs up the necklace, along with the blueberries from breakfast, the chocolate milk, and, at a guess, her shoes, a couple pounds of beach sand, and a few unidentifiable single-celled organisms. In her car seat, in the back seat.
Yeah, it gets better.
The dozen of us trek out that night to play mini-golf, and thence to consume some dinner at the third place we try, a pizza parlor. See, the restaurant we tried first was closing and the Chinese place we tried second stunk to high heaven.
The pizza joint was run by a bunch of mental defectives who couldn’t make a pizza. I shit you not. By the time the plain, cheese pizza we’d ordered for the three of us was ready (an hour and ten minutes later) was ready, the Skeezling had conked off to sleep in my lap. So we had to cart her and our pizza back to the hotel, wake her up at 10 o’clock, and feed her enough that she’d sleep through the night.
In the middle of alla this, I broke/sprained/dislocated my finger. It hurt like a bastard, and is still a bit sore, four nights later. The details are not sordid, so I’ll skip that bit for now. Just my own stupidity and frustration at work, is all I’ll say.
Jump cut to Thursday night. The whole gang o’ yankees is planning on heading out early Friday morning, so BIL and SIL try to send their kids to bed at 8 o’clock that night. This, after they’ve been staying up 'till eleven or midnight every night, since, y’know, it’s a vacation, and all. Needless to say, the kids weren’t tired enough to sleep, and their parents were highly pissed that they wouldn’t drop off at thier insistance.
Meanwhile, we’re trying to let the Skeezling spend every possible second with her grandparents, out in the hotel’s courtyard, as she won’t see them again for the better part of a year. Naturally, this is the point where the owners of said hotel make their appearance.
And they wanna chat.
This wouldn’t have been so bad, but for the facts that:
A) The Skeezling is incredibly shy around strange adults
B) It had taken her most of the visit to warm up to her grandfather, just like the year before
C) The hotel owners, a married couple, went to great lengths to display their stunningly racist view of “the Blacks” to us
(This included the observation that “thier pigments are different than ours” whilst discussing the mess one of “the Blacks” had made of a bathroom, in a suite, where he stayed with a a few other white guests. What skin pigmentation has to do with bathroom tidiness is left to the reader’s imagination, as I’ve not got a fucking clue. My best guess is that dark skin looks dirty, hence the dirty bathroom must have been used by “the Black.”)
By the time we’d gotten them to fuck off and let us actually talk privately, the Skeezling was ready to crash. So we all toddled off to our respective rooms.
4 o’clock that morning, the Skeezling woke up puking. This continued through breakfast, and the entire five hour ride home. And, just as a side note, this kid wouldn’t let you pour water on her if she was on fire.
In practical terms, what this means is that when she feels the need to heave-ho, she will not let you hold, oh say, a plastic shopping bag (of the Walmart variety, ferinstance) in front of her to catch said puke. So, by the time we got home, she was wearing the last set of non-regurgitational clothing available to us. And, as another side note, the drive home would have been three and a half hours, without all the changing of clothes, and the cleaning up of vomitus extremus by your humble narrator.
Ever tried giving liquid Drammamine to a puking two-year-old in the back seat of a moving car, when she refuses to take said medication? Don’t recommend it.
Of course, by the time we got home, this kid who had been at death’s door the whole way home, jumped out of the car, and decided it was time to play. She was fine.
I now understand why some animals eat their young.
I’ll skip a whole day of fun and games with Mrs. Skeezix’s mom and step-dad, and jump right to tonight.
Sunday night, 9 PM or so.
Skeezix, due to a recent thread in Cafe Society, re-installs Fallout, after getting both the Skeezling and Mrs. Skeezix to bed. (Mrs. Skeezix, it seems, has come down with the stomach bug that so plagued the Skeezling t’other day)
I goof off in the wasteland for a bit, then decide to shut down the PC, and get a bit of fresh air. A bit later, I decide it’s high time I start checking up on the various wonderful folk at the SDMB, and see what all they’ve been up to during my absence. (Well, I managed to read and post to a thread or two during alla this, but I gots me some heavy-duty reading to do.)
This is the point where I begin cursing the name of Bill Gates loud and long, for the fiftieth or so time this year.
See, the heinous act of shutting down the PC properly has caused the fucking FAT to explode all over the hard drive like a frog with a firecracker jammed up his ass. So I’ve gotta dig up my bloody WIN98 CD, just to get the fucking thing to boot up, so I can restore the motherfucking OS, and look forward, with gleeful joy and excitement, to re-installing all my Mirabilian Dragon’s Teeth blowing software, just so I can bloody excrementally get through to the SDMfuckingB, and post this vile, fart-juice licking rant.
And alla this, to keep me from ending all religion on this shit sifting, mother humping, cock smelling lump of dirt we call a planet, by finding the fucking goat creating, felch inducing scumwagon of a cosmic dealer who dealt these fucking cards out my way this week, and eating his fucking worthless brains with a putrid fast-food condiment of questionable parentage.
I swear, the shit I won’t do for you people.
To top it all off, I hit preview post, only to discover that I’d taken too long to write this fucking missive. It’s now 4:42AM, EDT, and I’ve gotta wait 45 minutes 'till I can actually rant for real.
[sub]Just for shits and giggles, I foolishly attempted to reinstall my anti-virus program, whilst the boards were backing up. The fucking thing locked up four re-boots in a row. So I gave Windows the F8 finger, and booted without the bootscan, uninstalled McAfee, and am now running tits to the wind, without protection. I hereby dare a virus of any stripe to fuck with me. I will track down its creator and sautee his useless, nausea inducing kidneys as a side dish, bathtub fulla ice or no.[/sub]
Also, judging by the sounds my cat just started making in the other room at this very second, he is experiencing his third urinary blockage, in as many months. This means it’s time for the expensive and painful surgery we’ve not wanted to subject him to, which results in him having, not only no balls, but mostly no penis, to match.
Dealer, I’m gonna fucking moiderize yer ass, and garnish it with a joker from my own deck.
[sub]I am feeling more than a little like Clark W. Griswold at the moment.[/sub]
