I get up the nerve to ask you if you’ll go with me, and you practically broke the sound barrier in replying, “No.”
And thanks for the little, “I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings” afterward. It made it all better.
Then I’m supposed to just continue on with the rest of the sixth-grade music class and square dance?
If there really is a such thing as karma, you now have an ass that’s two axe-handles wide, a terribly uninteresting husband with many bad qualities, and four or five very undisciplined, unappreciative children.
When you’re at Happy Hour with a few professional acquaintences, and a woman’s knee brushes yours once, it’s probably an accident. If it happens more than once, it probably isn’t. If after a couple more beers she’s pressing her knee against yours she’s definitely trying to tell you something.
Something she presumes you’re receptive to cuz YOU NEVER MOVED AWAY!!! If you’re not interested, before you slip away and call a ladyfriend to come rescue you, try MOVING YOUR FUCKING [sub]or not, in this case[/sub]** LEG OUT OF RANGE!!!**
It’s body language, you moron, not ancient Sumerian!!!
I feel better now … and my sig never seemed more appropriate.
Hey, Spanky, I know this might be a hard concept for you to grasp since you were born before cars were invented, but could you please at least go the fucking speed limit if you insist on driving in the fast lane? I need to go someplace. I am traveling in my car in an effort to arrive someplace on time. And frankly, Granpa, you are making me late. So get the fuck out of the left lane, already!
Hell is…getting stuck in the Harbor Tunnel for an hour with no radio transmission and no CD or cassette player. It really sucks when there is no music to drown out my awful singing voice.
And to all the morons who blatantly ignore the “M-TAG ONLY” members’ lane and wait until the last fucking minute to try and merge into a line of cars dwindling back for two miles…I don’t pay monthly dues so duckfuck’s like YOU can take advantage of MY privilige.
And you…you know who you are. I didn’t care for your pat fucking apology. How dare you insinuate that I wouldn’t know what it’s like to deal with a drunk. I’m sorry you were there that night. I’m sorry you had to deal with seeing your friend drunk and passed out. I’m sorry he attacked you and you had to put him in a headlock and call the cops. I’m glad it wasn’t me, that’s for sure. But YOU, YOU of all people, know about my past. You know that I spent the first twelve years of my life dealing with an alcoholic who was a hundred times worse. So don’t you dare take that fucking smarmy ass tone and tell me you were glad Jen was there because she’s “mature enough and had the presence of mind” to deal with the situation. I was calling the cops on my father before I was old enough to fucking count, you lame ass insensitive motherfucker. You know that. You also know that I was “mature enough and had the presence of mind” to deal with my father’s drunkenness for twelve fucking years. Oh, you’ve had nightmares for the past week? Try every fucking night of my life until I was 16. Oh, you had to do something that was “out of character”? Try having to tell you father to fuck himself and hang up on him every time he calls wanting to be bestest buddies, knowing that he is going to be dead of liver disease in a year and also knowing that if you let him into your life again, he will hurt you. How fucking dare you play victim when you, you of all people, know what I had to deal with. I wouldn’t want anyone, friend or not, to be in that situation. Why? Because I’ve been there more times that you can imagine. Your ignorance to my reality blindsided me, really. You don’t want to start a fucking fight? Well kiss my ass you lousy “friend.” Try being a little sensitive before you open your fucking mouth and let the bullshit dribble out next time, duckfuck. You blather to me about how I’ve taught you compassion. Well, great. Here’s lesson #389: Stop being an insensitive prick and trivializing my fucking existence with your blatant ingorance. I don’t know what it’s like? I wish I didn’t know what it’s like. I wish I could be so traumatized by one fucking incident with one fucking drunk. But my entire childhood, and all my memories too, are a patchwork quilt of those fucking incidents. So take that superior fucking look of your face and you can take that, “Oh, now you’re teaching me a lesson!” comment and shove it up your anus too. If you didn’t walk around thinking you were so fucking better than everyone than you might actually hear reality knocking on your fucking door, bozo.
And as for that lameass apology: gee thanks, friend. “Sorry.” Yeah you are sorry. You’re also not the man I thought you were.
So, every morning on the way to work, and every evening on the way home, it’s something different. But it’s always something…
There’s the guy who sits next to you and proceeds to squish you into the side of the bus with his shoulder. Different guy, he does the “macho man spreading legs” routine and squishes your legs in so that they’re all scrunched up. There’s the guy who turns every single page of his newspaper not quietly, so’s you could nap, no, he’s got to SNAP each page into position, so that every few seconds it sounds like a gun just went off right beside your right ear. Then there’s the cell phone users…may they all get cancer of the ear. (except of course, for me, when I’m calling my wife to pick me up at the bus stop. That’s an exception.)
There’s the guys who don’t bathe…and the ladies who plaster enough perfume on 'em so that you could never tell one way or the other…and the people who sit and put a package next to them, cross their legs, and turn away from the aisle so as to make it perfectly clear that yes, they paid for two seats and don’t you even THINK of taking the seat next to them. And the guy who, after he finishes reading his newspaper, casually drops it on the floor.
And finally, there’s that guy who gets on the cell phone while he’s waiting on line at the terminal, is still yapping away when he finally gets off, and doesn’t bother to even begin to prepare to get off until he rings the bell, thereby taking AT LEAST five minutes to get off, delaying all the rest of us AFTER he made us cranky by yapping away on the phone the entire trip and making too much noise for any of us to get a decent nap. For you, this curse: I curse the miner who mined the ore that turned into the iron that went into the axle of the carriage on which your grandmother and grandfather met.
Do you own a Bass Assassin? No? Then fuck you. They were the best soft lure ever created, and I can’t buy 'em now because–well, I don’t know why for sure, but I think it has something to do with the fact that nobody but me bought 'em.
And fuck you, sort-of-ex-woman, for taking the last of my Bass Assassins to the Shennandoah and losing them, and then buying the oh-so-chic light blue ones for me as a Christmas gift. Black and silver, bitch! Black and silver!!!
Yeah, I still have those pussy blue ones that couldn’t catch a cold in December, but I’ve also got twenty-four good ones left. That’s worth about five hundred fish. While the rest of you are busy wasting time with your Slug-Os and your fucking Pop-Rs, I’ll be catching fish, thank you very much.