Gangsta Rednecks & Other Ramblings
My building is the Reject Building. I know this because my sister-in-law is the manager. She doesn't necessarily think I'm a reject, but I got the last ground floor apartment available. There are inbreds on the first floor, gangsta thugs on the second floor and a migrating tribe of illegal immigrants on the third floor. Some days, I sit outside with a beer and a smile just to watch the outlandish shit that happens.
People have stolen my chairs, welcome mat, barbeque grill and an ugly little gnome. He was a test subject to see how far a kleptomaniac would go. It worked out for him, though. Now he's doing commercials and traveling the world. He never writes though, the ungrateful little fuck.
If I wasn't broke, I wouldn't live he—nevermind. Yes, I would. You can't buy entertainment like this.
A month ago, a new family moved in. They replaced the single mother of two who decided I was a Jezebel after she saw several men coming and going from my apartment (I went through a phase where I had four or five platonic male friends. Nothing seems to spark interest—albeit unwanted—in a man more quickly than a woman insisting on a platonic relationship. They would show up randomly and offer to kill bugs and plunge my non-clogged toilet, and one particularly sweet one brought me a tool set. I love my tool set. Once they realized I was serious, they sort of forgot who I was). The Building Committees were out, as expected, to watch the newcomers to our little family move in. I was merely curious as to whether I was going to have noise problems. They had one child who appeared to be about seven or eight. I was somewhat relieved, so I turned my attention to the goings-on of the Committees judging the new tenants. It goes like this:
First Floor: Rednecks who just want to catch a glimpse of a dreaded Tony Stewart logo so they can a right-quick beat down in the breezeway. I would love to see this. It would be a tangle of "sumbitchs, "gawdamm asshowulls," mullets and homemade tattoos. I'm sure the men would just stand back and smoke. They will also listen for snippets of conversation from new people and then expand on those snippets until the rumor is flying that the upstairs folks are fucking monkeys and having blood orgies.
Second Floor: Gangsta thugs who just want to see if you have anything good to steal. They also want to see what you drive. If it's more fly than their '97 Impala, they will not hesitate to sell a child or pimp their hos to buy more bling and bigger rims just to show you who's tite. The Mister of the people moving upstairs went to his normal, non blinged truck and extracted a large, slobbering Pit Bull. He moved slowly toward the building, attempting to control the beast. The Gangsta Committee adjourned in a goddamned hurry.
Third Floor: Fiesta Family. At any given time, you can hear the excited chatter of illegal aliens. They are migratory and will change out families every three months. Let me be clear: they have the whole third floor. They are content just to stand in the breezeway and watch you move in. If you are female and alone, God help you. They have their own special alerts for the rest of the males. One minute there will be one harmless looking Hispanic man standing there in a wife-beater, rubbing his goatee and estimating how many bambinos you can squeeze through your hips. The next thing you know, it's something straight out La Bamba. They magically appear from out of nowhere. There are a LOT of tired pussies on the third floor. Once they realized that the woman above me is mated, they vanished. Only the gaggle of dirty, unkempt children remained.
I wandered back inside and winced every time I heard Mister drop a piece of furniture. I thought it was furniture.
Since then, I have become more and more convinced that they are hiding another child up there. I figured there was no way a child that age can act so spastic. I have seriously called the police because I thought they were beating a toddler one morning. This kid shrieked, and I do mean shrieked, for an hour. I would hear him/her screaming and then hear various thumps and silence. It would be quiet for two to three minutes and then the running and shrieking would begin again. I thought one of two things was happening: someone was beating the poor kid to death or the pit bull had gone rabid, eaten the parents and was going for the baby. I sat on my hands until I couldn't stand it and then called the police. I found out later that he is not abused, he is simply possessed by every demon in the 7th Circle of Hell. His parents are seemingly a couple of pussies who don't believe in the age old tradition of "exorcising" the demons by beating the shit out of him and that this is his "normal" temper tantrum.
So, here sits my son, mouth open, gawking at the swaying ceiling fan. I stood in the living room for approximately thirty seconds before the tic in my cheek started. It sounded like someone was training Russian gymnasts up there. There was plaster all over my carpet. PLASTER. It was on my bar, as well. They have let him run pell mell, without any restraint, since the police incident. Oh, I'm sorry, are you angry at me for calling the police? Would you have preferred I let the dog eat your monster of a kid, you backwoods, hillbilly fucks? This is why it usually sucks to do the right thing. I do it, but it always finds a way to bite me in the ass.
Well, they can take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut. I reserve, for special occasions, a key to the power box behind my building. When nothing else was working with some of my noisy neighbors, I asked my sister in law for a key. She didn't question me...she knows that I will not do anything that gets her into trouble. She also knows that I'm somewhat creative when it comes to solving problems. I merely told her I was going to take care of my rude neighbors and we left it at that. Whenever they would get rowdy in the breezeway upstairs or the neighbors on the other side let their dog bark for an hour or two, I would pick up the TV guide, wait for an episode of "Walker, Texas Ranger" or "Pimp My Ride" and then go outside and cut the power off. The outrage was palpable sometimes. I would creep back into my apartment and grin until my cell phone rang. My sister in law would wearily ask me to turn the power back on and I would. It's a small pleasure, really, but it does the trick. "Yo Mommas" are taken inside and dogs are muzzled. I figured if it would work for them, it would work for Damien and his asshole parents.
I went outside, shut the power off and came back in. I was sitting there in the candlelit living room, giggling like a moron with my son, when I heard the demon start howling in outrage. I almost felt like this wasn't worth it until I heard him run full-tilt-boogie into something solid. It sounded like this: WAAAH! WAAAH! BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM THUNK! Then: blissful silence. My son and I giggled some more and then my phone rang. It had been precisely eight minutes. They were getting faster. I answered.
"Crystal. Go turn the power on."
"It wasn't me."
"Liar. One of the other residents told me that the kid above you was up to his crap again. They can hear him in their apartment. Besides, the resident that called has a rabbit loose in her apartment now."
"Peggy, I have plaster on my....wait. Did you just say she has a rabbit loose in her apartment?"
(Audible sigh) "Yes."
"Yes? That's all I get??! You have to elaborate."
"She was shaving him when the power went out. I guess she freaked out and the clippers were still going for a second or two, because she thinks she must have nicked him. He jumped "like 3 feet", in her words, and ran off. Now she has no power and a crazed rabbit in the dark with her."
I am writhing on the floor, gasping for air by now. My son is dancing around me demanding to know what is so funny. I can't speak. I can only exhale air. My sister in law is undeterred.
"Crystal. Turn it on within five minutes or I'll raise your rent, you bitch." Click.
I called her back to ask her why any sane person would shave a rabbit and she won't answer. That's what she gets for sticking me in the Reject Building.
I apologize to the 3 people who read this bullshit. I've been having funny constipation. Nothing is coming out.
For instance, my little girls father came to pick her up this morning. Now, he and I never had any sort of relationship; I just got knocked up the first time we had relations. I'm as fertile as the Napa Valley and I think I swallowed the pill the day before at 6:01 instead of 6:00, or something. He is a wonderful father, but chooses to treat me like I raped his dog. I'm an easy target since I hold no grudges and it takes a lot to piss me off.
He was quite cheery this morning as he stepped out of his car. I was on my way across the parking lot to meet him when I stopped dead in my tracks. He was grinning from ear to ear and looking quite spiffy in his Dale Earnhardt, Jr. or Sr. (whatever. I try not to look directly at him lest he turn me to stone) Limited Edition Collectors Series Minted Guilded Leather Jacket. It's bright fucking red and black.
That's not what stopped me in my tracks...the face splitting grin was what stopped me.
I mentally prepare myself for any encounter, no matter how harmless, with this man. He goes to great lengths to piss me off, humiliate me, irritate me - whatever reaction he can get. I do Zen techniques, practice my breathing and remind myself that he still lives with his mother at the tender age of thirty four. It's no wonder to me that he's always depressed. He never smiles or has anything nice to say to me. He was even a jackass during sex. Hence, no second audition.
I was morbidly curious.
"Why are you happy? You're never happy. Ever." I stepped out of arms reach. You can never be too careful with a NASCAR fan.
"I'm just in a good mood. I think Eve and I are really getting serious." At this point, he dislocated his own jaw and smiled even wider.
I stared at him for a full minute until the smile wavered a bit and he started to look uncomfortable. I kicked him in the shin to piss him off. Well, no, I didn't, but I seriously thought about it. I felt like I was in a Stanley Kubrick film and I wanted it to stop.
"Well, that's, uh.....good. Yeah. Good. I'm sure she's very menta - nice! I mean, nice!" I was still giving him the crazy eyes. We were slowly backing away from each other like two polite people when one has farted. The guilty party wants to take the cling-on farther away and the victim wants to get out of the stench of the ass cloud.
"Yeah. She bought me this jacket for Christmas." He plucked at the jacket just in case I didn't notice that a race car had thrown up on him.
"How old is she? Is she incarcerated or receiving treatment of any kind?" Sometimes my mental censor takes a pee break.
"What is that supposed to mean? You're just being jealous because you haven't had a fucking boyfriend in a decade." He snarled at me and walked away. I walked over, leaned into his car, kissed my daughter goodbye and hoped, for the millionth time, that all her brain chemistry would be a-ok. As I was retreating from the car, he flipped me the bird. I smiled and breathed a sigh of relief. Things were back on track.
As I was whistling and walking to my car, I realized something and I stopped again.
I had just encountered a grown man in a leather NASCAR jacket and hadn't made one redneck joke.
I definitely need some humor laxative. The funny is all blocked up, people.
Monday, January 24, 2005
I was in bed with my cell phone next to my head. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth and I was amazingly hung over, but I didn't bother to silence it. When my mother's family is in town, it's no use. If she can't reach me by phone, she has a key to my apartment and she's not afraid to use it. If your parents are aging, you'll understand. You become their thesaurus, dictionary, accountant and genealogist.
This week had been fairly tame and predictable. There were no family fights, no secrets revealed and no relatives disowned. I was disappointed. Then my phone rang. It's my mother.
"Chris! I need you at the house. Now."
"Mom. I need sleep. I drank too much last night and I'm pretty sure that I damaged something internal that I might need someday."
"Now! Please. Don't do this to me. Do you know how hard I worked giving birth to you? Do you know how big your goddamned head was? It was like pushing a medicine ball through a..."
I hung up on her. I dressed and went. I'm not stupid.
I got there and she explained to me what she needed. She had come to my house earlier and grabbed the digital camera. She wanted me to plug the "thingy" in so she could "download" the pics she had taken. She, my three aunts and my Dad are all standing around the computer and looking at it like a bunch of cavemen figuring out fire. I plug the cable in.
"Done. Just let the program do the rest."
I wander into the kitchen and make a Bloody Mary. God bless the South. I am drinking my Bloody Mary and minding my own business when my mother comes into the kitchen and starts rummaging through a drawer. I ask her what she's doing.
"Looking for my glasses. Something strange..."
(I should note here that no one in my family can see jack shit. We are all fucking blind. Most of us are legally blind.)
I ignore her and continue sipping. I notice my grandfather wandering aimlessly down the hallway. He hangs a right and heads into the computer room. My mother follows behind him with her ridiculously large glasses perched precariously on her nose. About 30 seconds later, the most embarrassing moments of my life begin.
"Chris! I have porn on my computer!"
I was puzzled but not alarmed. My mother thinks that wet t-shirt contests are pornographic.
I walked in. I looked at the computer screen and the events of the night before came flooding back. I drank. I took a bath, did some landscaping and got the camera out. I took pics of myself in compromising positions. The why and for whom is not important. What is important is that, at that moment, my mother, three aunts and 100-fucking-year-old grandfather are staring at my pussy.
I froze. They all turn to look at me. There is no accusation there, only puzzlement. I have very limited time to use this assumption of innocence to my advantage.
"Jesus Christ, Mom. Someone used your ISP to upload a Trojan into your hard drive and flood you with porn!"
As long as you use technical jargon around my mother, she will believe anything you tell her when it comes to computers. She is terrified of them. I wasn't sure if what I was saying was even possible, but it sounded good. She seemed convinced.
"Well, get if off of there!" She flapped her hands at the offending computer screen and walked out of the room. My grandfather followed her. I don't think he was quite sure where he was or who we were, much less what was going on. Two of my older aunts went along. Only my younger aunt hesitated. She is 10 years older than I and has always been more of a friend than a relative. She is eyeballing me. She whispers, "Crystal, for God's sake, next time get a disposable and just mail the damned things."
I erased the pics from both the camera and the computer and left. I went home, lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling for half an hour. I went back and helped my mother prepare the Thanksgiving meal. No one said a thing about it until my grandfather got on the phone with my Uncle Larry. "No, I didn't catch anything fishing today. No, we're not eating yet. We're gonna watch football. Oh, and Shirley found pussy on her computer."
Friday, January 21, 2005
I'm A Moron
1. I'm a mouth-breathing inbred (albeit a cute one—piss off) who can't figure out how to add links to a comment.
2. Links don't work in the comments section.
Knowing how completely and utterly flabbergasted I am by the simplest of things (I still can't figure out North, East, South and West. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I get so frustrated when I try to give directions and people ask me to do it like I'm Christopher Fucking Columbus. RIGHT OR LEFT. RIGHT OR LEFT, PEOPLE!), I would wager it's the former.
Anyway...this is my favorite blog. I actually have headache today from trying to speed read several of the entries in between my boss harassing me. Work schmurk. What does he think I am? A machine??? (Oh, and for anyone who gets confused...it's the same writer, two different forums. Go take your meds, now.)
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Employee of the Millennium
1. Bad wine - I drank last night with a friend of mine. We are both broke, so she bought some cheap ass bottle of wine. I don't know what it was, but it had a penguin on the label. That should have been my first warning. I don't think she was amused when I kept giggling and telling her to "pour me some more of that Ripple!"
2. Stress - my boss is determined to see how long he can bog me down under a thousand different projects before I go sniper and mow everyone here down with an Uzi. I've developed a tic in my face, for fuck's sake.
3. Anger - I had someone I care about do a really shitty thing to me today. I think this was the catalyst. I will be calling the relatives on the bayou to perform some gris-gris on the offender, mark my words.
Anyway, I started throwing up. My bowels were jealous of the attention that my esophagus was getting, so they decided to get in on the action. I felt wretched and everything that wasn't nailed down was coming out one end or the other. Now, I know this is more information than anyone truly needs, but you have to know how dismal my situation was to truly appreciate the fact THAT I'M STILL AT WORK.
I feel like that guy from goatse. You know the one (and if you don't, I won't link you. I wouldn't wish that image on ANYONE). I'm pretty sure that while I was on my knees hurling, I was anally raped by someone with a penis that was on fire. For the first time in my life, I'm considering buying Tucks Medicated Pads for my irritated no-no hole.
I probably won't get a raise out of this, or any glory at all, for that matter. I'm not here out of some sense of duty or loyalty. I'm here because every time I go home, my 2 kids have each grown three inches that day. I'm quite certain that Old Navy or Gap or somebody owns Sysco. Sysco delivers mystery meat and whatnot to the school cafeteria here. It is chock full of steroids in a sinister plot to force parents to spend a trillion dollars a month on clothes.
I need a raise and some ointment.
...I Went 2.7 Seconds On A Bull Named "Nokids Foryu"
Unfortunately, these women knew this about me and the bar, Denim & Diamonds (I shit you not), had a mechanical bull. I was watching some guy being thrown around like a rag doll and calling him a pansy when the night went terribly awry.
"Chris, you should get on the bull. I dare you."
This challenge was issued by one of the soulless sluts I was there with. She was positively glowing.
I growled at her and stole her drink. I downed it and went in search of the frightening man with the unfortunate teeth who was giving out waivers. I impatiently gave him my money and signed the form without reading it. Does anyone really read the disclaimers before drunkenly climbing onto a herky-jerky saddle in a country bar?
As I planted my ass and grabbed the handle, I gave the girls the bird. I was grinning from ear to ear and gyrating on the seat. Here I should mention one little factoid of which I wasn't aware at the time: the man who had been thrown around like a rag doll was a professional bullrider. He had paid extra to have the bull at maximum speed. Cowboy Dipshit threw the thing on without readjusting it to accommodate a 125-pound pile of drunken shit. I discovered all this about 10 minutes later when I was gasping for air and the operator was apologizing to me and chuckling as I cursed him and all his ugly, bastard heathens. I was thrown into the handle at roughly the speed of light. I felt and heard a crack and the world went gray. The operator saw the look on my face (which could be described only as, "Oh, fuck, that was not meant to be broken...EVER") and stopped the bull. I gave him a thumbs up and swallowed down the shot that had come back up. He shrugged and continued the ride at a fraction of the pace. I was more or less just weaving from side to side for the next 7 seconds, but I wanted my $25 worth and I was not about to go down in front of the cackling whores I was with.
When it stopped, I tried to swing my leg over. Nothing happened. I saw the guy coming toward me and decided I would rather hit the mat than have him groping my ass as he "helped" me off. I slid bonelessly to the mat and stayed there while asking for my mommy.
When the heartless shits I was with got me up, they led me directly to the bar. I had 6 shots waiting for me...one from each of them. That was our wager. I downed them and we left to go to another bar.
When we got there, I went to pee. I slowly peeled my jeans off and looked down. I had what appeared to be an athletic cup in my panties. No, wait, that's my pubic area. I pulled my pants up and went to Bitch #1. The conversation went as follows:
"April. April, I have to go to the hospital. My pussy is fuuuucked up, baby. Major issues."
"We just got here! The cover was $10! C'mon, I'll buy you a shot."
"April, I don't need another shot. I need a lance or something. I have a hump. Look..I'll show you."
"No! NO!!! Wait, let me find Kirsten and we'll go."
She left. I stood (I couldn't sit at this point) for approximately 20 minutes, cursed her for the vindictive trollop that she was and left.
I went to the nearest emergency room and announced to the nurse that my pussy was broken and I needed something that would put me in orbit. She placated me and had me stand in the corner, away from the other patients.
After an eternity, I got my paper gown. I gingerly undressed. I explained to the third nurse what had happened, pursed my lips disapprovingly as she hurriedly left the room (I knew they were laughing; I would have been, too) and I was off to X-Ray. I was still in the midst of a pretty good buzz, but it was wearing off. I needed drugs or death. I didn't care which at the time.
I had my feet in stirrups and was still waiting for relief when my doctor walked in. Did I get the grandfatherly old man? No. Did I get the balding, slightly distinguished doctor? Neh eh. This guy was smoking hot. I cursed my family name and turned an alarming shade of red as he lifted my gown to survey the damage.
"Sooooo....the bull, huh? I've seen a lot of injuries come in off of that bull, but this is a first. Would you like to see?"
Sure!! Why not?! While we're at it, why don't you invite the entire staff and all the families in the waiting room? I'm sure THEY would enjoy looking at my mangled privates, too!
I mumbled something about morphine and he brought a mirror over. I looked and the world went gray again. I was black. Everything was black. My labia, pubic area...even my taint. Solid black. I closed my eyes and fervently wished for death. He brought me Demerol, which was just as good at the time.
I had fractured my pubic bone. I got my prescription and he sagely advised me not to "have any enthusiastic sex..or really ANY sex for a couple of weeks." I doubted that the sight of my oddly colored girl parts would incite lust in anyone anytime soon. Especially after the bruising turned that delightful shade of green.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
What the fuck? WHAT. THE. FUCK? Does manic depression manifest itself in uncontrollable urges to have your face altered to look like a muppet?
He used to be dark, brooding and angry. Look at that after picture. LOOK AT IT. I don't know if his skin is stretched so tightly that he can't help but leer or what, but he looks like he's just been told that cocaine is legal and free.
I used to fantasize about this man. Now I can't get that nasty picture out of my head. I'll be in the shower with a brillo pad and some Lysol.
Oh, and a special thank you to the person that sent that link to me. I hope all your children have extra appendages, you fuck.
Thank you for the road map to "The Post"!
Post a Comment