Friction and Harmony

How do you say 'Zombie Apocalypse' in Spanish?

I don’t know why Mexico is being so pissy.  After all, the kid was already dead, according to the headline.  If the cop had desecrated an inanimate corpse, I could see their point.  But hey… the little dead fucker was throwing rocks – CLEARLY indicating he was a zombie.

Perhaps they’re pissed, because like all the other citizens it wants to see leave their country, Mexico wants to migrate their own Zombie Apocalypse to our soil as well.

I say bring it, fuckers…  They’ll make good practice until the blue helmets arrive.

Seriously, once Bill Maher said this, were you really surprised to see this coming from the Obamateur in such short order?

“You da gangsta prez, Barry!  Dey be shakin’ in dey boots now muthafucka!”

Yeah, not so much…

Mr. President, your white is showing: More »

So it’s 2010.  Now what?

Not sure where this year will take me.  So far as resolutions go, I’m setting the bar pretty low.  To borrow from an old classmate, my New Year Resolutions are:  “1.) to get another year older,  2.) to accumulate more gray hair, and 3.) to work out less.”

Okay, so that last one is impossible for me…  Divide by zero error: System halted.

Right now, my outlook for the year is grim.  I’m just out of an active “police action” (we won’t call it a war) with Mrs. Who, and now active fighting has broken out on the parent-kid front.  In the meantime, I still find myself living mostly alone in my late MamaBear’s house (blame the suck-ass weather) and getting more and more used to it.  Don’t know what that means.  But getting back to the active front…

My dumbass son “Goob” has chosen his path – one that doesn’t seem to have any room at all for stupid ass parents who lay “guilt trips” instead of pandering to his selfish whims  (i.e., enforce responsible behavior).  He’s determined he’s an adult, but acting like an overgrown four-year-old.  Had the gall (not to be confused in any way with testicular fortitude) to ask me to turn over the keys and alarm code for his late grandma’s house so he could play house with his wounded-bird girlfriend.

It frikkin’ hurts to be a parent when you want to see them do the right thing and they are so caught up in hedonism and rebellion…    I was rebellious, but I wasn’t THAT stupid.  Shit.  Okay, so maybe I was, but I was truly hoping to impart some of the wisdom I gained from my mistakes.  Not much success in that, however, least of all when parental wisdom clashes with rutting teenager.  Hell, in the few years since he discovered his “special purpose“, he’s already surpassed my own notch-count.  It’s disappointing, but not entirely unexpected, I guess.  Not that i can excuse his choices, however… since he’s choosing to be a little prick.

Case in point: he chooses to hook-up with a little tart that drops her panties on their first date – while he’s still in the process of “breaking up” with his previous g/f after providing her with a “morning after” abortion pill.  Oh – she was under the age of 18, so that’s a case of illegal dispensing – and her parents were more than furious, wanting to swipe a chunk of his ass for the piece that he got from their daughter.  He was more or less oblivious, leaving Mrs. Who and I to mop up while he went about his cavorting.  In the midst of it all, he tried to demand that I “meet” his new piece of tail with him.  Lacking a grain of respect for his little “Tragic Doll”, I declined.

Flash forward about eight or nine months, we get wind that Tragic Doll is claiming to have given birth to a baby boy – our grandson.  Right away, I’m skeptical, since just a month before, she claimed to have had an inoperable brain tumor and lay dying in the hospital, only wanting to talk to Goob one more time.  Dozens of times a day.  Oops, she died.  No, she didn’t.  Maybe the brain tumor made her forget she was dead.  Or that she was pregnant, since miraculously, she never had a brain tumor but suddenly she has a baby.  Who has “a lung disease”.  And some hell of an insurance plan, since he’s been in NICU for nearly three weeks and “all his bills are paid for and will be paid for until he’s 18.”  She just wanted him to come see her to take a paternity test, even though such tests can be done with oceans and continents between the subjects.  When we demanded to see proof of the child’s birth – of the certificate which bore my son’s name as the father, of the child’s illness…  OOPS!  He suddenly died.  Oh, and she didn’t really have a baby because she was in Coast Guard Boot Camp the whole time.  It must have been her cousin who was spoofing the whole ordeal because she wanted to make my son see how “special”  Tragic Doll has become since he left her, and that “he would take one look at her and want her, but she’s not available to him any more.”  Funny how Tragic Doll’s cousin sounds exactly like Tragic Doll in the telephone call recordings.

All the while we were uncovering Tragic Doll’s psychotic, hysterical claims and manipulative lies, Goob was getting on with Wounded Bird, who was evidently okay with the fact that his previous relationship was playing itself out with us in the middle, leaving him free to slip her some between the sheets.  All evidence points to her being totally willing to betray her own self-respect by letting him poke her.  But she’s learned sooo much from her life of hard knocks that all her decisions are intelligently and morally sound.  Because she’s…  you know…  An 18 year old “adult”.  And an admitted runaway.  Rumored to have been fired for blowing a guy in a back room at Wendy’s.  Pathetic and sad.  Tragic, really.  I feel so sorry for her.  But there’s not a damn thing I can do.

The two of them are feeding on their past histories of abuse and claiming it “makes them strong” against the world.  In reality, they’re indulging in that abuse, but they don’t see it that way.  Of course, how would WE or anybody else know their lives?  THEY are superior in their conjoined response to this terrible world – their tragedies having steeled them against the “false morality” of others…  especially parents!

Yes indeed, if there’s one thing that heals the wounds of sexual abuse, it’s a good, guilt-free fuck!

Of course, Wounded Bird has no parents to speak of.  She and Goob met in grade-school, and were trouble from the start.  The gravity of sexual abuse trapped them in a violent orbit – nearly causing them both to be expelled at one point or another.  Thank god for a tough little Irish nun who stood between them.  I admit I always felt sorry for the girl, of course for the tragedy of her abuse, the absence of loving parents, and all…  But also for the way my son had treated her back then.  She was a year behind him, and in front of classmates, he had accused her of “wanting to suck your stepdad’s cock.”  (Hence the near expulsion from parochial school.)  I was mortified and ashamed of his actions then, but I understood where he was coming from.  Then, she was a threat – she was a living totem of the abuse and the abused.  No doubt there was a physical attraction – she pursued him from the get-go, and she was a cute girl.  I know Goob isn’t blind…  So to Goob, she was no doubt a bundle of desire, guilt and shame -  and represented perhaps the part that “let the abuse happen”, and likely even the part that may have “felt good”.  He responded with venom then.

Now, having come to terms with many of those feelings, I’m not surprised to see the abuse continue to play itself out as lust and nurturing for that part that is “accepted” or even “forgiven”.  That part was evident in Goob’s indignant defense of his recent behavior, stating:

It is the past events in a person’s life that makes them who they are today, and honestly however FUBAR of a past, I am happy with who I am today, so I may not like the events, but I accept the past, I would not change a thing in it, even if that means getting abused by [ex-con felon scum].. it is something I have come to terms with and do not hide.

Jackpot!  Going through all that got me all this (i.e., laid + kindred understanding + acceptance) today!

What worries me most about this is not the acceptance, but the evident embracing of this past.  And I believe that has a lot everything to do with the sexual relationship he has cultivated with Wounded Bird.  They simply have no clue of the dangers they are flirting with.  Perhaps both are doing some rescuing, but WB is BAD needy – it’s written all over her.  Her posture, body language, facial expressions, submissive glances and clinginess.  (The unsettling way she hugged ME longer than necessary on two occasions screams her need for a “daddy” figure and goes that much further to my argument for her desperation for male attention and approval.)  Most telling of all was her defensiveness when I tweaked her by telling her I pitied her.  (And I truly do.)  But I knew, and I was right; she came out swinging at the very notion and wouldn’t let it drop.  They are both feeding on age-old hurts and new manipulations, and they’re too stupid-young to see any of it.  They “love” each other out of need and pity, but don’t recognize that, either.

It’s a Catch-22.  The more I say about it, the more Goob digs in his heels.  Yet if I bite my tongue, he infers my tacit approval.  Worse, it’s causing a rift between my son and myself that may never heal.  On FaceBook, he commented on a picture of us at his Army BCT graduation:

lol, back when he was proud… seems like those days are gone, and so is he. Fuck it. dont need family, as far as im concerned they are all dead now to me, because obviously to them I might as well just be KIA.

I don’t know what to feel but sadness at that statement.  Obviously it’s not true, but the alternative to him feeling this way is for me to accept the damage he’s doing to himself by allowing his stupid ass behavior to go un-reprimanded.  Further, doing so would be my sacrificing someone else for my own benefit; WB may or may not be a hopeless case, but allowing them to recklessly indulge their shattered pasts is a recipe for a lifetime of failed and abusive relationships for both of them.  It endangers not only them, but any children that might come about, as well as those who look up to them as role models for their own behavior (namely Buck).  Call it “Tough Love” , but it would be irresponsible of me as a parent to do otherwise.  Wouldn’t it?

I just don’t know anymore.  The thing that often scares me most is my own anger – something of which I have an abundant supply.  AT&T has “rollover minutes”, I have “rollover anger”.  It just keeps stacking up.  Of course I realize that my anger makes the things I say and do that much more difficult afterward.  But my pressure relief is faulty.  Plus, I seem to possess a flowing, predatory skill – of narrowing in almost effortlessly on the tenderest spot to land my blows.  I read body language naturally, and within minutes of observing someone can pick the two or three of the most self-consciously guarded physical or psychological aspects of an individual to launch my attack.  Heaven help you if I’ve known you longer.

I’ve had to check myself constantly in this battle of wills with Goob and his Wounded Bird mistress.  I let it slip briefly once, and the damage was instant.  It escalated into the position we find ourselves in now: after weeks of what can best be described as a “Cold War truce” since he left for Korea, we’ve recently broken-off negotiations and the hostility level has risen.

Where it goes from here, I have no idea.

Here’s a quick collection of Christmas images to “get in the spirit” and set the mood (okay, well… my mood anyway):

The next might offend some, so I’ll put it under the fold.  It’s the “religious” message that pop culture and retailers would have us believe:

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*** UPDATE 12/21 *** :  See comments.

First of all, I love you Sweetheart, and I am so, so, so sorry.

Wow.  Two and a half years.  That’s some well documented misery.

For days, I’ve been stuck with the stifling, chest-ripping sensation that this is the end for us.  After reading your “Lurker” posts, I now realize that it’s true.  Even if I thought I knew how I could fix this, I don’t feel I have the right to even try.  It’s clear I owe you your freedom.

I’m so sad.  And I am so very lonely.  I wish there was a damn soul I could talk to, but I’m lost.

And I know I have nobody at all to blame but myself.

So here I sit at “The Shrine”, just as you predicted over a year ago.  And you and the kids are relieved I’m gone.  Y’all can finally get on with your lives and breathe easy for the first time in years…  The chandelier has fallen and there’s nothing left for us – our injuries are too great to survive.

Ironically, I found your “Lurker” invitation in my spam filter after I had finished ordering something for your tree…  A trifling “peace offering” that I had hoped might be something to break this icy chill.  Maybe it will get there by Christmas.

Fuck My Life, indeed.

Our dear friend LemonStand called our house a few nights ago to talk to Mrs. Who.  Naturally, they spoke of Christmas plans and such, during which I’m sure my dear wife bemoaned my profound lack of Holiday Cheer­®. At some point, Mrs. Who handed me the phone, and LS proceeded to tell me to “pull up my big girl panties” and start some new Christmas traditions of my own, and leave the past behind.  Fair enough.  I’ll get to that in a few.  But first, here’s a Christmas Meme, similar to LemonStand’s, but received from my aunt via email several days before.  For obvious reasons, I didn’t deliver this to my cheery aunt, but here is my honest response:

Welcome to the Christmas edition of getting to know your friends. Okay, here’s what you’re supposed to do, and try not to be a SCROOGE!!!  Just copy (not forward) this entire email and paste into a new e-mail that you can send. Change all the answers so that they apply to you. Then send this to a whole bunch of people you know, INCLUDING the person that sent it to you…’Tis the Season to be NICE!

1. Wrapping paper or gift bags? Shipping box from Amazon.

2. Real tree or Artificial? Settle for a picture of a tree on Google Images?

3. When do you put up the tree? When I must.  We still don’t have one this year, and probably wont.

4. When do you take the tree down? Before sundown Christmas day too soon?

5. Do you like eggnog? Love it – used to drink it mixed with 7-up as a kid – yellow foamy gak.  Now it’s Southern Comfort or Myers Rum.

6. Favorite gift received as a child? Ruger 10/22 rifle, though I actually got it for my birthday on December 1st.  Got a scope for it for Christmas.  Never used it – I preferred shooting open sight.

7. Hardest person to buy for? Anyone – I totally suck at buying gifts for people.  Amazon wishlist is my yuletide friend.

8. Easiest person to buy for? Myself!  No, not really.  I usually suffer “buyers remorse”and it takes me forever to decide on something.  Don’t believe me?  Ask Mrs. Who why she won’t go shoe (boot) shopping with me.

9. Do you have a nativity scene? I have a Beartivity.  Probably sacrilegious, but I like to think Jesus wouldn’t mind being part of my bear family.

10. Mail or email Christmas cards? Neither.  However, I hate paper mail far, far more than I do spam.

11. Worst Christmas gift you ever received? Gee, I’d have to say the ones that were thrown at each other (there were a few of those) pretty much sucked, whatever they were.  But the first/worst I remember was when Santa walked into my bedroom and handed me a water-soaked, slobbery, chewed-up Spirograph set and a crushed candy cane…  I was maybe four or five years old, and I’m pretty sure I remember thinking ‘WTF!!  Who is this creepy fraud?!”  The destroyed gift had been left on the milkbox for “Santa” to collect before entering the house.  The dogs had gotten loose and dragged the toy into the yard, where along with dismembering a stuffed animal, they gnawed on to see if it contained any Christmas ham.  I waited a few minutes until I heard voices coming from the living room, then crept down the hallway to see my uncle Lynn (who looked a lot like Marty Feldman) wearing a santa suit, sitting on the couch drinking an eggnog.  I remember going to the front door and looking outside to see wrapping paper and stuffing strewn everywhere, and the gutted carcass of a stuffed animal staring at me from the porch with one dead glass eye.  That’s pretty much the indelible image of the first Christmas I can remember.

12. Favorite Christmas Movie? The Terminator.  Bah – I don’t know, I hate that sappy crap.  I think I have yet to be able to sit through the entirety of either “Christmas on 42nd Street” or “It’s a Wonderful Life” without falling asleep.  Those old stop-motion Christmas television specials with animated dolls were creepy as hell, and I remember thinking even as a kid that Frosty the Snowman was inane.  Charlie Brown was probably the best of the bunch, even though as I kid I recognized that Peppermint Patty was butch and lucy was a conniving chunt.  (Schroeder was cool – he kept to himself and his music and didn’t fuck with people.  I can respect that.)  I had a friend that used to do the Peanuts dance – that cracked me up.

13. When do you start shopping for Christmas? What time is it?

14. Have you ever recycled a Christmas present? HELL YES!

15. Favorite thing to eat at Christmas? MamaBear’s Christmas ham, ham gravy & mashed potatoes with yeast rolls.  I’m really, really missing her.

16. Lights on the tree? I guess, since it stops being a Christmas tree when you cut off the lights.

17. Favorite Christmas song? “I Wonder as I Wander” – sung in a rich, echoing baritone a cappella by Father Z at Midnight Mass.  But every year, it’s all that incense that makes my eyes water…  I swear.

18. Travel at Christmas or stay home? Stay home.  There’s drunk idiots on the street!  (recalling vividly how we feared for our lives as we drove home from the annual Christmas dinner with my drunk father behind the wheel – on ice-covered roads, no less.)

19. Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer’s? Unfortunately, yes.  Want me to prove it?  Tough.

20. Angel on the tree top or a star? Angel.  Or Star.  Depends on the tree.

21. Open the presents Christmas Eve or morning? Morning, I guess.  How many more of these?

22. Most annoying thing about this time of the year? Obligation to spend, spend, spend, and the implied notion that one’s love is measured by dollar value, quantity, or uniqueness of gifts given.  It’s one of the biggest reasons I hate Christmas.

23. Favorite ornament theme or color? One tree and one Christmas was special.  It was a “newborn” tree, a dedication to both the Christ child and His Blessed Mother, (in whose hands MamaBear placed me when she gave me up for adoption).  Pastel ornaments and white lights with a star.  It was my first Christmas with my birthmom.  We didn’t exchange gifts because we were both mid-divorce and broke as hell.   We just celebrated a new life.

25. What do you want to do for Christmas this year? Hadn’t thought about it.  Don’t really want anything, really.

26. Who is most likely to respond? Whomever hasn’t been pushed over the edge of holiday depression by my list?

Yeah, I know – I carry more baggage than American Airlines.  And yes, I do realize I need to let it go…

As for the new Christmas tradition LemonStand challenged me to start?  Well, I do recall the Advent Calendar activities from parochial grade school, and was inspired by a brilliant Scottish example I recently saw.   And while I’m a little late getting started, I think I may be able to catch up – I have no doubt that should put me in the Christmas Spirit!: More »

While browsing Facebook, I just noticed this on Sarah Palin’s page.  There – do you see it?  Go ahead, click for a better view:

OMG – REALLY??  Can I?  And can I do that without having Todd show up on my doorstep to kick my ass?  And how do I explain my “gift” to Mrs. Who?

Is it hot in here?  

Even the Von Trapps have fallen on hard times:

Mrs. Who called me at work this morning to do a telephone errand for her, since “something just isn’t right when I call from work, and I don’t want to try it again!”  I could hear the panic in her voice.  She was trying to call to purchase tickets for herself and PrincessNO to attend a special benefit performance of “The Sound of Music” at the local community theatre.  The telephone number for the tickets had been printed in our Sunday Church Bulletin.

“What do you mean?  What happens?” I asked.

“Well, when I call the number as it’s listed in our Bulletin, there’s a recording to call another number.  Then…  It gets really weird.  It’s another recording…”  Her voice dropped, and became completely unintelligible.

“What?”  I’m thinking, ‘damn cell phones…’

“…”  More garbled speech.  I could tell she was doing something to the phone, because I could hear children playing in the background, then the noises would muffle just as she began to speak.

“Honey, I can’t hear whatever it is you’re trying to say,” I complained.  “What do you want me to do…”

“I can’t say it loud!” she protested.   Then, she spoke again – and I immediately understood why she was trying to hide her voice…  “It says something about HOT, HORNY WOMEN! I can’t call numbers like that from my school!!”

Well, having been given permission a direct order to call a telephone sex chat line by my wife, I obliged.  Sure enough, our Church had somehow managed to give the congregation a ‘benefit’ telephone number to an adult chat line.

The kicker…  The production is to benefit a local unwed mothers’ home. 

I.  Kid.  You.  Not.

*Oh, and please pray for me, since Mrs. Who is going to kick my ass for posting this. 

UPDATE:  Moved below the fold, ’cause some people don’t like my crude sense of humor whapping them in the face…  Yeah, yeah, and I should have given a “NSFW” warning.  Whatever.

Most of my life is NSFW.  Deal.

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