MY BEER, MY BEER! HIDE THEM! I'M A FUCKING WORTHLESS DOUCHE!
This is actually serving as Part II in a ranting series, apparently written once a year- the original rant about this individual was written on May 21, 2004- posted the 22nd. A fairly clear before and after is evident here as well. But for whatever it serves for a reader, it is a perfect outlet for the writer who currently is being restrained from serving the public good....
What a sick sad little man you are. Such a holy mess of shit. There unfortunately for you was a point in time when I thought better than this of you; a time where you actually appeared to be human. However, said time has come and gone all too quickly. There is really nothing redeeming about you, not an iota of a pleasant aspect of your being. Surely anything that could have been there was shamelessly murdered by your wretched persona; that lurking evil that is your overly annoying psyche. As you head towards textbook mental case, there could be reason to exonerate you not only for your ‘condition’ but the menacing plague your incessant sighing gives this household, but there were three years where you were normal. Sadly, by year three there was something that changed within you, and there since a looming black cloud called Charles has given the household a new, special kind of flare- Typically called Hell. Way to go, Fucker.
It’s bad enough that you’re a piss poor parent. This being something that makes me close to homicidal to begin with- and compound that with watching you do it to my siblings- Purely put- you’re a bastard who should feel God damned lucky that I have a weakness for the judicial system’s possible impact.
I have never seen you play with your boys. I have never seen a sincere hug. When they try, you say “Ok, ok.” real quick and pissy, like it’s some giant inconvenience to you. You don’t even know how to give your son’s medication properly. Left to you, and he’d probably fucking die. Never bathed the kids. Changed a diaper. Asked how their day was, what they did, how’s school. You buy them shit every now and again and suddenly you’ve earned the title ‘dad.’ You work at the damn toy store, hardly going out of your way. You buy it for them and then when they have a question or want to talk about it you get pissed, because you want to eat your dinner and have them in front of the TV where they can’t bother you. Matter of fact, after spending ample time thinking long and hard, I have never seen you do anything fun with your damn kids. Would never know they were yours.
I have watched the boys try to give you a hug, you give a half assed hug and say “Well, we don’t hardly have any time.” Fantastic sentence. Even better thought. You douche.
“Captain Obvious” takes on a whole new connotation when it’s your label: When a sentence is said, it then automatically becomes your job to reiterate it in the simplest language known to man. Then you’re a rude son of a bitch and speak over those who actually know what their talking about. When you happen to find something original to say, no one wants to hear it as you proceed to say it no less than ten times- each sentence. Perhaps, if your listener is lucky, then each will have a word or two variation. That’s if their lucky. But the displeasure of hearing your voice alone, is punishment for being in the room enough. It takes a special kind of douche bag to do that. Good going.
Life would be far better without your presence. Upon realising that you’re home immediately releases the flood of thoughts which include, and are not limited to: What the fuck. This douche is home? Why doesn’t he get a hobby outside of making people’s lives miserable. Can he do nothing right? Where’s that ax? We could bludgeon him to death. A good stoning and throw him in the river. A nice small package to Pango-Pango. I beg you to shut the hell up. If we just remove his larynx... Well good night’s gone. Go to work, you’re happy there, and we’re happy that you’re there. You’re not loved, leave. I’d appreciate it if you’d stop breathing for a while. For fucks sake, go away.
It is true, you’re oh so happy at work. I worked with your stupid ass, I know the deal. What a happy camper you are. As soon as those doors are behind you, then the true asshole emerges. We’d all be happy if you never came home. But- wait, this is really not the case. Ridiculously so, you are not happy unless you’re miserable. At home, you get to bask in the wonderful world of ears you have not bitched to in ten hours. We have it down to a science. Know each and ever move you’re going to make. It’s fucking sad. One night I played it out before hand to prove the point, for shits and giggles. I hate it when I’m right.
This little sighing problem we’re having here: I have resorted to several methods to deal with this haunting dilemma. How to tell you that you’re annoying as hell without saying it. In deference to mother, we get to enjoy a little game here. Saying it outright would cause a major fight that’s sure to be had- if not tremendously over due. Despite its woeful untimely factor, I at least have found some rather amusing ways to alleviate the wretched burning to run you over with a car each and every time you walk into the room and do that long, drawn out sigh which can be heard from upstairs sometimes. One magnificent game we play is Count the Ways. Perhaps every sigh is a different problem. Each morning we count them as they happen, like children learning to count, we count them out loud. I think it will also aid in the kids’ learning, if they were to play along with me. here’s how it works: You do one of those irritating sighs, and I count out loud. That’s when you look at me like I have thirty five heads, I smile at you like you’re stupid and walk out of the room. I come back again to get my water, you sigh, I reach nine in my count... and so on. It’s so much fun. The next game is Simon Says. You sigh, and I do it right back at ya, same as you did. My throat tends to get a bit dried out, but when I get my water, we can play some more. When this looses its novelty, then saying something annoyingly snappy like, “I know, I know Charles, I hear ya. Me too. I would love to sigh just like that.” And walk out of the room. That’s not too bad. It can be more satisfying at certain times. I also enjoy to say that and then unload a lot of shit on you, most of which is stupid banter that I barely even care about and then leave before you can respond. Heh. I really like to get the cat meowing and leave him in there with you, in order to piss you off. We all know just how much you love the sound of a screaming cat...
Little things are great. For instance- for the past several years, if I’m in the kitchen and you’re eating dinner with other, I’m not allowed to be in there talking with her, as you get all pissy. I just love being in there now, knowing that it’s getting you mad. Or picking at the food mother is making while she is making it. And giving you that fuck off look when you make a comment about it. And when you have the audacity to get pissed over me simply asking what is being made for dinner (since it‘s only for you and mother only-!) standing in the kitchen talking to mother and chain smoking. Sigh? Get it blown in your face.
Moreover, when will you figure out the times when I do to you exactly what you do to us, mimic you to a T? Talk like you, walk like you, sigh like you, bitch like you, give you famous lines an then laugh about them. Misery loves company, right?
Bloody hell, idiot, you can’t even write out a check.
There is nothing that your sorry ass contributes to this household on a positive note. O, you mow the lawn. Want a cookie? But only after four days worth of asking and reminding and bitching, and knocking down all of your amazing excuses. If only you could like to do work at home. Surely, if you had it your way, then home would be the place where you stand in the kitchen with one of the beers that you have hidden, and bitch whine and moan about friggin nothing for 16 hours a day. Only to get up early in the am to get an early start.
And speaking of beer: This is the most ludicrous thing ever. So I find out that you have spent the last what, year (yes, it‘s been a year) of you bitching about your beer, and my beer and beer beer beer. Oh Lord save my beer! Don’t let that nasty beer thief get her ugly paws on my beer! It’s mine! You fucking tool. And- the past several months have been spent you telling mother to hide your beer, because of unfounded fears of me taking one. I hear that it has gotten to the point where you reiterate your fears at least once a week, if not more... Wow, how sad is that. I suppose that you would have a right to be greedy about your beer if you were the one paying for it. You’re not. Mother is. Kinda funny, it is. But it’s MY beer! You can’t touch it!! I need it!! Ass. So then after you tell mother not to buy any, and for whatever reason she does, you come home to find me having one, and I watch your stupid ass stare at it. That’s downright unbelievable- You come home from work and stand on the other side of the kitchen and stare at my opened beer. Woo. Winner. As soon as I leave the room, you ask mother, “She has beer?”
And where the hell is my thank you for not letting your drunk ass drive off last Saturday night- as you attempted to leave with your keys in one hand and two beers in another saying, “I’m going for a drive to drink a couple of beers.” Listen to that- Why do I have to ask you to analyze this more carefully? It was nice, tho, being able to yell at you and call you a fucking douche bag and a stupid bastard and see that look on your face....
Do be aware that I was far more worried about the health of the community members. SIIIIGGGHHHH...
I have grown so sick even of the word- Hearing it and hearing those sighs, they’re getting to an equal plane of irritation. Quickly. One day, I’m going to hide it on you. Or I’ll stay up all night and drink it- Wait for you to wake up and say thanks... Heh... Anything to piss you off. You have made our lives miserable and I only want to return the favor.
Clearly, the Charles Problem has been an answer to my boredom problem. Now being out of school, I need many things to keep my mind occupied. This is like multitasking. No boredom, the you problem, and a myriad of different ways to gain self satisfaction. Makes home not so unbearable. Sounds childlike? I would suggest a bit of personal reflection. This is simply fun. And oh so productive.
Hate is a strong word. One that I do not feel is yet appropriate. But “Mommy, I hate when Daddy is mad and grumpy” does make it a lot easier to hate you.
Much more causing hell for Mother and the kids, then we’ll be there. For now, it is safe to say that every fiber of your being is loathed. You’re a nobody who will always be a nobody. A fucking speck on the sole of my shoe. And if I had it my way, fully exterminated from our lives. Worthless nothing. You have single handedly fucked up everything good in your life. Why not call it a day and be done with it? It has been seven years of fucking hell with you- I refuse to believe that you’re human any longer. You should be thankful that I can convince myself that saying hi to you sometimes is for the best, as it is for mother. The sound of your voice makes me irate. I want you gone. Surely, you do too. Do it. I’m enjoying the last three of your wonderful beers right now... 05212005
What a sick sad little man you are. Such a holy mess of shit. There unfortunately for you was a point in time when I thought better than this of you; a time where you actually appeared to be human. However, said time has come and gone all too quickly. There is really nothing redeeming about you, not an iota of a pleasant aspect of your being. Surely anything that could have been there was shamelessly murdered by your wretched persona; that lurking evil that is your overly annoying psyche. As you head towards textbook mental case, there could be reason to exonerate you not only for your ‘condition’ but the menacing plague your incessant sighing gives this household, but there were three years where you were normal. Sadly, by year three there was something that changed within you, and there since a looming black cloud called Charles has given the household a new, special kind of flare- Typically called Hell. Way to go, Fucker.
It’s bad enough that you’re a piss poor parent. This being something that makes me close to homicidal to begin with- and compound that with watching you do it to my siblings- Purely put- you’re a bastard who should feel God damned lucky that I have a weakness for the judicial system’s possible impact.
I have never seen you play with your boys. I have never seen a sincere hug. When they try, you say “Ok, ok.” real quick and pissy, like it’s some giant inconvenience to you. You don’t even know how to give your son’s medication properly. Left to you, and he’d probably fucking die. Never bathed the kids. Changed a diaper. Asked how their day was, what they did, how’s school. You buy them shit every now and again and suddenly you’ve earned the title ‘dad.’ You work at the damn toy store, hardly going out of your way. You buy it for them and then when they have a question or want to talk about it you get pissed, because you want to eat your dinner and have them in front of the TV where they can’t bother you. Matter of fact, after spending ample time thinking long and hard, I have never seen you do anything fun with your damn kids. Would never know they were yours.
I have watched the boys try to give you a hug, you give a half assed hug and say “Well, we don’t hardly have any time.” Fantastic sentence. Even better thought. You douche.
“Captain Obvious” takes on a whole new connotation when it’s your label: When a sentence is said, it then automatically becomes your job to reiterate it in the simplest language known to man. Then you’re a rude son of a bitch and speak over those who actually know what their talking about. When you happen to find something original to say, no one wants to hear it as you proceed to say it no less than ten times- each sentence. Perhaps, if your listener is lucky, then each will have a word or two variation. That’s if their lucky. But the displeasure of hearing your voice alone, is punishment for being in the room enough. It takes a special kind of douche bag to do that. Good going.
Life would be far better without your presence. Upon realising that you’re home immediately releases the flood of thoughts which include, and are not limited to: What the fuck. This douche is home? Why doesn’t he get a hobby outside of making people’s lives miserable. Can he do nothing right? Where’s that ax? We could bludgeon him to death. A good stoning and throw him in the river. A nice small package to Pango-Pango. I beg you to shut the hell up. If we just remove his larynx... Well good night’s gone. Go to work, you’re happy there, and we’re happy that you’re there. You’re not loved, leave. I’d appreciate it if you’d stop breathing for a while. For fucks sake, go away.
It is true, you’re oh so happy at work. I worked with your stupid ass, I know the deal. What a happy camper you are. As soon as those doors are behind you, then the true asshole emerges. We’d all be happy if you never came home. But- wait, this is really not the case. Ridiculously so, you are not happy unless you’re miserable. At home, you get to bask in the wonderful world of ears you have not bitched to in ten hours. We have it down to a science. Know each and ever move you’re going to make. It’s fucking sad. One night I played it out before hand to prove the point, for shits and giggles. I hate it when I’m right.
This little sighing problem we’re having here: I have resorted to several methods to deal with this haunting dilemma. How to tell you that you’re annoying as hell without saying it. In deference to mother, we get to enjoy a little game here. Saying it outright would cause a major fight that’s sure to be had- if not tremendously over due. Despite its woeful untimely factor, I at least have found some rather amusing ways to alleviate the wretched burning to run you over with a car each and every time you walk into the room and do that long, drawn out sigh which can be heard from upstairs sometimes. One magnificent game we play is Count the Ways. Perhaps every sigh is a different problem. Each morning we count them as they happen, like children learning to count, we count them out loud. I think it will also aid in the kids’ learning, if they were to play along with me. here’s how it works: You do one of those irritating sighs, and I count out loud. That’s when you look at me like I have thirty five heads, I smile at you like you’re stupid and walk out of the room. I come back again to get my water, you sigh, I reach nine in my count... and so on. It’s so much fun. The next game is Simon Says. You sigh, and I do it right back at ya, same as you did. My throat tends to get a bit dried out, but when I get my water, we can play some more. When this looses its novelty, then saying something annoyingly snappy like, “I know, I know Charles, I hear ya. Me too. I would love to sigh just like that.” And walk out of the room. That’s not too bad. It can be more satisfying at certain times. I also enjoy to say that and then unload a lot of shit on you, most of which is stupid banter that I barely even care about and then leave before you can respond. Heh. I really like to get the cat meowing and leave him in there with you, in order to piss you off. We all know just how much you love the sound of a screaming cat...
Little things are great. For instance- for the past several years, if I’m in the kitchen and you’re eating dinner with other, I’m not allowed to be in there talking with her, as you get all pissy. I just love being in there now, knowing that it’s getting you mad. Or picking at the food mother is making while she is making it. And giving you that fuck off look when you make a comment about it. And when you have the audacity to get pissed over me simply asking what is being made for dinner (since it‘s only for you and mother only-!) standing in the kitchen talking to mother and chain smoking. Sigh? Get it blown in your face.
Moreover, when will you figure out the times when I do to you exactly what you do to us, mimic you to a T? Talk like you, walk like you, sigh like you, bitch like you, give you famous lines an then laugh about them. Misery loves company, right?
Bloody hell, idiot, you can’t even write out a check.
There is nothing that your sorry ass contributes to this household on a positive note. O, you mow the lawn. Want a cookie? But only after four days worth of asking and reminding and bitching, and knocking down all of your amazing excuses. If only you could like to do work at home. Surely, if you had it your way, then home would be the place where you stand in the kitchen with one of the beers that you have hidden, and bitch whine and moan about friggin nothing for 16 hours a day. Only to get up early in the am to get an early start.
And speaking of beer: This is the most ludicrous thing ever. So I find out that you have spent the last what, year (yes, it‘s been a year) of you bitching about your beer, and my beer and beer beer beer. Oh Lord save my beer! Don’t let that nasty beer thief get her ugly paws on my beer! It’s mine! You fucking tool. And- the past several months have been spent you telling mother to hide your beer, because of unfounded fears of me taking one. I hear that it has gotten to the point where you reiterate your fears at least once a week, if not more... Wow, how sad is that. I suppose that you would have a right to be greedy about your beer if you were the one paying for it. You’re not. Mother is. Kinda funny, it is. But it’s MY beer! You can’t touch it!! I need it!! Ass. So then after you tell mother not to buy any, and for whatever reason she does, you come home to find me having one, and I watch your stupid ass stare at it. That’s downright unbelievable- You come home from work and stand on the other side of the kitchen and stare at my opened beer. Woo. Winner. As soon as I leave the room, you ask mother, “She has beer?”
And where the hell is my thank you for not letting your drunk ass drive off last Saturday night- as you attempted to leave with your keys in one hand and two beers in another saying, “I’m going for a drive to drink a couple of beers.” Listen to that- Why do I have to ask you to analyze this more carefully? It was nice, tho, being able to yell at you and call you a fucking douche bag and a stupid bastard and see that look on your face....
Do be aware that I was far more worried about the health of the community members. SIIIIGGGHHHH...
I have grown so sick even of the word- Hearing it and hearing those sighs, they’re getting to an equal plane of irritation. Quickly. One day, I’m going to hide it on you. Or I’ll stay up all night and drink it- Wait for you to wake up and say thanks... Heh... Anything to piss you off. You have made our lives miserable and I only want to return the favor.
Clearly, the Charles Problem has been an answer to my boredom problem. Now being out of school, I need many things to keep my mind occupied. This is like multitasking. No boredom, the you problem, and a myriad of different ways to gain self satisfaction. Makes home not so unbearable. Sounds childlike? I would suggest a bit of personal reflection. This is simply fun. And oh so productive.
Hate is a strong word. One that I do not feel is yet appropriate. But “Mommy, I hate when Daddy is mad and grumpy” does make it a lot easier to hate you.
Much more causing hell for Mother and the kids, then we’ll be there. For now, it is safe to say that every fiber of your being is loathed. You’re a nobody who will always be a nobody. A fucking speck on the sole of my shoe. And if I had it my way, fully exterminated from our lives. Worthless nothing. You have single handedly fucked up everything good in your life. Why not call it a day and be done with it? It has been seven years of fucking hell with you- I refuse to believe that you’re human any longer. You should be thankful that I can convince myself that saying hi to you sometimes is for the best, as it is for mother. The sound of your voice makes me irate. I want you gone. Surely, you do too. Do it. I’m enjoying the last three of your wonderful beers right now... 05212005