Minor rants from your past, redux

The BBQ Pit
1

As in the previous thread on this topic, this is for explaining some event in your past that, even though it was long ago, still makes you want to punch a nun. Maybe you haven’t gotten it out of your system yet. Or maybe you didn’t fully appreciate the injustice of it at the time. Or maybe you’re looking for an excuse to finally ascend that clock tower and cleanse the world.

I’ll start.

Drew, if I ever see you again, I will take the butt-end of my guitar (solid-body electric, natch) and smash it into your nose until it bleeds like some mangled, smooshed, bleeding thing. You may well lose consciousness, in which case I will kick you with my blue suede shoes until you convulse in death throes*. And then I’ll get mean.

Perhaps some backstory will help.

Back in the day, I was a pretty hot guitarist. In fact, it was my major. But as I found other interests (such as conducting and composition), my chops have deteriorated a bit. Quite a bit. If it ever comes to pass that I get a gig of any sort, I’ll need a good 2 weeks of shedding just to bring myself up to a minimum level of incompetency.

So a few years back, the company I worked for had a Christmas party. It had been suggested (I can’t remember by whom) that I sit in with the band. So I practiced for 2 weeks, then at the party sat in for one song. I sucked. But I was, for some reason, the office hero after that. Apparently, I was the only one who knew I sucked. Everyone else thought I was some sort of guitar god. Tone deaf, I guess.

So anyway, a couple of years later, I got a call from Drew. Dipshit was contracted to a company we were partnered with. (The company Cal Meacham works for, as it turns out.) It happened that the contract was over, and some three years of work had come to an end. The next day, there was to be a party to celebrate the partnership. And they wanted entertainment. Some amateur drummer there really wanted to jam, but had no one to jam with. Drew the Hero stepped up to the plate and offered my services. Everyone was excited. Posters went up. Everyone was informed.

Almost everyone.

Everyone but me. Drew the Dumbass finally informed me of the gig at around 4pm the day before. Naturally I refused. Drew whined “But I promised everyone. I can’t go back on my promise. Why would you want to break my promise?” Uh, because you didn’t even fucking ask me first? Because I’ll make an ass of myself, and you, and the entire company?

I don’t know why I finally caved. Perhaps it was because on the bench already and had nothing better to do. Perhaps I wanted to preserve the goodwill of the partner company. Or perhaps it was because Drew the Dingleberry threatened to have me fired otherwise. So I played. Horribly. On a makeshift stage fashioned from a coffee station. It was humiliating. It was degrading. It did not rock.

Drew, I hope you never find yourself in a situation where your nuts are in the jaws of the pliers I’m holding. Because, you know, squeezy twisty thing.

*No, I’m not actually wishing death on the hump. Just prolonged physical suffering. And mental anguish. Lots of it. Oh, and halitosis.

2

Sister Mary Edith, if I ever see you again I will beat you across your back and shoulders with a wooden pointer until it snaps in two. Then I will scream at you like a maniac because the pointer is broken. Yes, this was 35 years ago and you were a Novice of, perhaps, 20 years of age. The fact remains, though, you rotten horrid bitch, that I wasn’t talking during music class and I didn’t lie to you by denying it. If nuns really are the Brides of Christ, then poor Jesus has some really abusive spouses. I still hate you, Sister.

3

tdn, that’s a very sad story. But you could have turned tragedy into comedy just by printing up a sheet of stickers declaring,

[quote]
WITH SPECIAL GUEST YODELER: DREW!**

and suddenly those posters would be all good.

Daniel

4

That’s evil. Pure evil.

Wish I’d thought of it. :mad:

5

My former boss, Ron. Verbally abusive, chauvanist, condescending yuppie pigfucker who alternated between heaping me with so much praise it made me uncomfortable and berating me in front of coworkers and customers. This is the man who, when I told him my grandmother had had a stroke and was braindead and would be taken off life support in two days and could I have the day off tomorrow to go see her before then, wrote me back a dismissive e-mail saying “Find a temp to work for you tomorrow. I hope your grandmother feels better.” NO, she is NOT going to feel better, she’s fucking BRAIN DEAD and if you’d read my e-mail you’d KNOW that. This is the man who rigged my e-mail so that a copy of every mail I received was immediately sent to his Inbox, and didn’t tell me about it for the first six months I worked there. This is the man who regularly told his employees to go fuck themselves when they had done something wrong. This is the man who hired my boyfriend at the time under the table to assemble kits before they went out, and after finding out we’d broken up let me work the entire day and then FUCKING FIRED ME AT 4:50 PM for no good reason that he could give me except for that, after working there for a year and 1/2 and receiving employee of the month and training all other employees in the office, he just didn’t feel I was taking enough initiative with my duties. This is the man who, on that same day, called me at home after I’d cleaned out my desk and left - no, I take that back, who had the Office Manager call me at home because he was too chicken shit to talk to me himself - to inform me that they needed me to drive BACK across town for 20 minutes to give them my key to the office. When I told them that I was crying so hard I did not feel comfortable driving, he shouted in the background that if I did not return the key within the next half an hour they would stop payment on my last check they’d handed me when they fired me.

Ron, you evil, viscious, backstabbing, detestable cocksucking pissant, to this day I still hope that you inexplicably start bleeding from the eyes and anus every time you cross my mind.

Wow, that DOES feel better! :smiley:

6

I pit my parents. Yeah, I know, a teenager not liking their parents. Shocking, eh.

When I was about 10, my parents made me join the cub scouts, because ( to be honest) I was pretty cowardly and bad at talking to people. So, off I went, and it was pretty unfun for a couple of weeks.

Then, one week, we were doing cooking. I can’t remember what it is we were cooking, but it was being done on many hot plates, spread around the hall ( the scouts and girl scouts and whatever all shared a big shed/hut type thing slightly into some woods). One of the things that was being cooked needed a pan. So, oil was poured into the pan by one of the other kids, and left for a while. The Akela came along and oh dear! There was too much oil. Go and pour some of that (boiling) oil away in the sink, random scout. Off went random scout, merry on his way, until whoops - in the hustle and bustle, he was jostled, and the pan tipped out the oil.

Enter me. Or, more specifically, my hands, which were right under the tipped oil.

Actually, it didn’t hurt all that much. I suspect I was in shock, or something. Anyway, the Akela got me to stick my hands under the cold tap, and phoned my parents. My dad came to pick me up, and the Akela gave me a moist handtowel thing to keep my hands in on the way to the hospital.
Except…we didn’t go to the hospital. We went home. It was, according to my parents, too late to go to the hospital. They both had work in the morning, and didn’t want to be up all night. And it was around about this time that my hands started *really * hurting.

I spent half that night with my hands in a bucket of cold water, as that was the only thing that could deaden the pain. The other half was spent with my hands out of the water, trying to sleep and trying to ignore the pain.
The next morning, I said my hands still hurt. My mother decided she would take me to the hospital, thank god. We went. The doctors smeared incredibly stinky cream on my hands, stuck plastic bag things over them, and sent me home.

The next day, we went back. They took off my bags, and <Warning, Squeamish Alert>:

…my hands looked like macaroni and cheese. The doctors picked out all of the melted skin, washed my hands, stuck more stinky cream on, bags back on, and I was sent home again.

Luckily, my left hand hadn’t been splashed as much, so that had healed up enough for the cream and bagging treatment to stop after about a week/two weeks. My right hand, however, needed re-creaming and re-bagging every two/three days, for about a month/two months or so. My parents decided that this would be too long for me to stay away from school, so as soon as my left hand was healed, I was sent back.

Did I mention i’m right handed?

I had to sit in lessons, and was expected to get on with my work, thanks to my parents who, in the meeting with my teacher to explain it, told them I wasn’t to miss out on doing any work. So. I’m sitting in lessons, holding a pencil badly because my hand was still quite sore despite the cream, plus my grip and been shot anyway, through the cream, which was slippery, and then the bag, which didn’t exactly help me hold things. And the cream stunk. And I wasn’t exactly popular to begin with. I imagine you can see where that led.

So, in conclusion, fuck you, parents. Fuck you for not taking me to the hospital straight away. Fuck you for sending me back to school and sending me into a bullying cycle for years. Fuck you for not being there when I needed you.

Ahh. Hooray for the catharticness.

7

Chris Carter, couldn’t you have put away the surfboard and the crackpipe and devoted yourself to my favorite show during it’s last few years.

What was once a great show became a poster child for loose ends and unfinished business.

8

Rev, I have a story almost like that too. I also burned myself on boiling oil…it hurt worse than anything in my life up to that. And when I called my mom at work, she didn’t believe it was that bad, and told me to go soak it in water. :rolleyes: I mean, I was screaming with the pain. After I called her three more times, crying, she finally came home, only to see that my arm had swollen into huge blisters. I still bear scars. Thankfully, most of the scars are colored almostto my skin tone, so it could be worse.

I also Pit my first boyfriend’s mom, you skanky whore.

And I was picked on a lot as a kid, because I was different. Especially in God-forsaken Tennessee. May they all be unhappy forever. :mad:

9

(((Anaamika))) We burn victims need to stick together :stuck_out_tongue:

10

Damn enter key. I was also going to say, I don’t really have scars - the skin on my hands is just thinner than normal, now. Ironically, I do have a tiny white scar from a glue gun, though.

11

I burned my entire arm, from the thumb to halfway up the upper arm. There are scars along my hand from the base of the thumb to the wrist, some faint ones along my arm, and even fainter ones on the upper arm.

Luckily, the scars are brown. I am brown. (hee - sounds funny for some reason) So unless I specifically point them out, no one notices them.

I had to keep it covered for three weeks and I used to wake up in nightmares that my arm would fall off, that the whole thing would be scarred black, or rot. :frowning: Yuck!

And like you, my most prominent scar is not from that. I’ve got two…one on my knee from barbed wire* and one on the inside of my arm from glass.

*Ok, when you’re with a bunch of friends, and you’re looking for something to do, do not go harass the neighbor’s cow. It may come after you, angry and pissed, causing you to leap over a barbed wire fence and tear yourself open and have a scar that’s still there 19 years later.

12

:eek: I thought your last post was figurative!
Daniel

13

Fuck you. Fuck you in the ass you decrepit old pus bags. Just because you’re old and you’ve been with the company in the same office for 27 and 18 years respectively, everybody thinks you speak gospel because of it. Take this personal problem you have with me and go wipe your dusty crust covered crab home of a previous fuckhole with it. Don’t go trying to get my NEW boss to think I’m incompetent, too with your lying. Just stay the fuck out, the one of you that retired, and you, who’s about to leave, I hope the door hits you with the force of gravity generated by a million black holes. Go fuck with someone else now. I’m tired of having to be nice to you.

urgh. Nope. That didn’t quite cover it. I’m pretty angry. And sick of being nice to people that hate me because if I don’t, they tell my boss I’VE got some weird attitude problem. He’s new, so he doesn’t really know better yet. Man, I’m sick of kissing their asses.

14

Hee, no, I don’t play with glue guns, so I can’t cooperate. I know better than to touch those filthy things. :stuck_out_tongue:

15

Well, so do I. Now. :stuck_out_tongue:

16

Fuck you Cheryl, for taking a troubled young teenage girl’s trust and shattering it into a million pieces. Fuck you for feeling so smug and superior that you couldn’t possibly doubt your diagnosis that you came up with after a single one-hour session. Fuck you for pulling me out of my home and my school, and forcing me into a rehabilitation center where I sat and rotted for six weeks. Fuck you for judging me. Fuck you for causing the delay of my actual diagnosis (bipolar disorder) for over 16 more years, years that were not easy. Fuck you for making me think that my brain was normal, and that I was a drug addict and a disciplinary problem rather than a young girl displaying symptoms of a mental disorder. Fuck you for making my sister cry. Fuck you for making my parents lie to me and trick me into getting locked up. Fuck you for never once looking to see if I was showing any symptoms of drug addiction rather than simply admitting I used them and saying I didn’t want to stop. I was a fourteen year old girl who was putting my trust in you! Did it never occur to you that there may have been issues causing me to want to take drugs? Did it never occur to you that maybe a fourteen year old girl exaggerates things? Fuck you for never once drug testing me before you sent me off so that you could feel smug about “helping” me. I never once, not even one time, tested positive for anything even when they admitted me into the “program.” Fuck you forever. I hope your child inflicts the kind of pain and damage on you that you so recklessly inflicted on me. Fuck you for causing me to lose whatever semblance of a normal relationship I had with my mother and father and brother. Fuck you for making me miss six weeks of school. Fuck you for being an incompetent bitch. I bet you’re still out there somewhere, ruining people’s lives. I hope you’re miserable. I hope you get sued. I hope you get hit by a car. I hope I’m the driver. Bitch.

17

ouch.

18

– Fuck you in the bloody rectum, Sir Wannabe Mafia person who hid the copy of MSDN that I was supposed to be protecting at work, a ~$30,000 piece of software, in an apparent attempt to get me fired. Fucko off also for all the other times you tried to bring me down by pretending to already have solved the problem when I brought a problem to your attention, which you quickly implemented behind my back. The only reason you have been in that job all those early years was that you and the Government Boss went to the same church and you went to lunch together and gobbled his…chicken with him.

– Crawl in a hole and die, everyone in high school who thought I had designs on the elementary school children we shared the school with. You’re a veritable reincarnation of Janet Reno, you are, saving Florida from Ritual Satanic Child Molesters.

– To my babysitter who thought I was crying when it was really just fluid backing up in my eyes due to a cold, and then made me lay the rest of the night on a baby blanket in the middle of the floor, I hope you gave all your money to the 700 club, then when you real sick, God somehow didn’t seem to hear your prayers any faster for all that cash. I don’t think God smiles upon blood diamonds.

– To my former online girlfriend, I hope you get a, errr, unfavorable condition from one of the men you take back to your room after a long night of partying. Oh, and I was never that naive to think you’d ever leave your HUSBAND and become my girlfriend: I was simply lying about how much I loved you as soon as I figured out you were lying too. I’m fucking mad though that I basically had to tell you I thought you were my soul mate in order to even get as close to you as you were to nearly EVERY OTHER GUY in our circle right off the bat. It worked, however, even if I had to stretch the truth to the breaking point.

But when you told me that since I was in love with you we had to call it off (what was “it”, exactly, besides you using me as your emotional drama entertainment center?), and then tried to blame it on me, I’m sorry, that’s not gonna fly. I know you were just using me and your real-life boyfriend to make your husband jealous as I saw you breaking up with him too right after you “broke up” with me.

I pit myself, too, for thinking that you’d actually go with me to the concert. Enough that I bought non-refunable plane tickets. I don’t mind so much the money as the fact that it made me look naive. I simply calculated the chance that it was a ploy to make your husband jealous versus the chance that it was legit and it was worth it. I did resist falling for your schemes for several years. In retrospect it was pretty ballsy of you to pretend to be put out when I was less than enthused that you planned on flying down here to meet ME, but I was certain nothing good could come of the plans. Then I do get halfway fooled in the end.

19

FUCK my in-laws.

When my wife (and she’s your daughter, dammit) found she was pregnant, the first words out of your mouth weren’t any words of kindness, compassion or understanding. You heartless bitch, you said, “Oh, I’ll get through this somehow!” Yeah, I’m sure you will, seeing as you’re not the one about to be a mother. “What will my friends think?” Well, I don’t know, bitch, and I’m too busy reeling from the fact that I’m going to be a father to care what you tell your church friends

As thoughtless and cruel as those words were, nothing could surpass your next tact. No, the two of you sat down and decided for your 21-year-old daughter that she was going to have an adoption “and that’s all there is to it”. You didn’t ask, you TOLD. I hate you. You wanted to give my daughter away and you thought you’d decide it for us. You’d rather send your granddaughter away to live with strangers than stop taking European trips every two months, you selfish fucks. It’s a damn good thing my parents loved both of us enough to help us get on our feet, or your grandaughter could be living with some sick bastard abusing her daily like both of my adopted cousins did.

And then there’s the wedding. Oh yes, you tried to convince her that I was worthless and that she’d be happier with someone else. You did pay for the wedding, but everything had to be how you wanted it. It HAD to be the same church you got married in. We HAD to have the same sceremony, the same vows you did. When she forgot something in the excitement, just one little thing that took 5 minutes to run to the store and get, you spent the next quarter hour bitching her out like she was 4. Fuck you. Oh, and her hair. You didn’t like her hair. We get it. Did you have to point out to EVERY SINGLE FUCKING ATTENDEE that you didn’t like the way her hair was done? You do know that she picked out the style herself, right? I mean, that was the only thing that she got to pick during the whole affair.

There’s so much more that I could talk about. Like the fact that your daughter didn’t have a single pair of non-ruined panties until she moved in with us. Or that time you tried to convince my parents not to help us raise their grandchild so that we would learn our lesson, or whatever. Or that time you told me that your daughter would probably never be able to be a proper mother because she didn’t keep her room clean. I can still feel anger over these things, years after the fact. But I can’t stay mad. Do you know why? I’d like to think that it’s because I have a beautiful wife and daughter that I will do a better job caring for than you ever did. But here’s the real reason: whenever I get angry at you, I remember that you both masturbate to dismemberment porn, and I can’t stop laughing. I picture the both of you, past retirement age, discussing calmly the latest flood to alt.binaries.pictures.erotica.dismemberment and whacking it. I laugh at the pictures that we’ve seen hanging above your bed and taped to your bathroom window. I laugh and laugh, and then I feel better.

This thread is the best idea ever.

20

Oh, Humanist, I feel your pain. :frowning: But man, what a great revenge.