WARNING: Those offended by raucous language are advised to close this window and find something nicer to focus your energy on.
I'm going to start walking around with that printed on a placard hung around my neck.
Instant karma’s gonna get you
Gonna look you right in the face
Better get yourself together darlin’
Join the human race
How in the world you gonna see
Laughin’ at fools like me
Who in the hell d’you think you are
A super star?
Well, right you are
Well we all shine on
Like the moon and the stars and the sun
Well we all shine on . . .
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I got really angry the other evening. I have been stewing for several days.
One of my friends said, "You ought to write about it," and while I agreed, I just couldn't.
You see . . . for me, writing is alot like taking a shit.
Follow my logic here: The art of defacation is partly involuntary action, followed by deliberate reaction. Just like writing. If you simply get it in your head that, "Hey, it's a convenient time for me! It would be great to go take a dump right now," and proceed into your bathroom, magazine in hand, you could end up sitting and straining for a very, very long time with nothing to show for it, except a bright red ring around your ass.
So it is with writing. I have to wait to feel the pressure of the "impending movement" and then prepare myself, pen (or keyboard) in hand to push the creation out.
So, like I was saying . . . I have been walking around ticked off for a couple of days, and I think I finally have cogitated long enough. The time is near. I feel the words pushing for release . . .
I don't get out much. I really don't. I work from home, and when I am not working, I am cleaning, or cooking, or doing laundry, or bathing kids, or playing with kids, and when I am not doing those things, I am either asleep or comatose on the couch.
Thursday night is the exception. On Thursday nights, I get out of the house, put on "grownup" clothes and makeup, and go play bar trivia with my husband and our friends. Thursday nights are fun, and they herald in the end of the workweek. They give me a chance to blow off a little steam, eat wings, laugh at funny things that my friends have to say, and just have a little fun.
It's a pretty longstanding tradition. Hub's friends have been playing trivia for several years. We joined in a couple of years ago, and rarely miss an evening, unless we have babysitter issues or sick kids or something. Trivia was something that I looked forward to during all of the craziness last year, and I still enjoy it.
One of my husband's best friends started seeing a girl recently. This girl had been on the peripheral of our circle of friends for several years, but she was very quiet, hard to get to know, and was more of a "friend of a friend of a friend". Evidently, she has had a "thing" for our friend for quite a long time, and after her drunken admission to me at a Halloween party last year, her fondest wish came true when I told him and he reciprocated.
So . . .fast forward a few months. They have been seeing each other now since October, and we have all had the chance to be around her a bit, get to know her a bit. There have been a few hiccups, and she has appeared to be a bit uncomfortable at times, but like I said, she is a shy person, and our group can be fairly raucous.
I invited them both over during the holidays. If she hadn't been madly making out on my couch, I would have never known she was there at all. Didn't bring anything, didn't speak to anyone really. Strike 1.
I did manage to comment on her shoes (they were cute, vintage saddle oxfords). I knew I hadn't really seen them in a store, and I thought my daughter would like a pair for Christmas, but when I asked her where she got them, she pretty much ignored me. She did send me an email the next day:
Here is the web site where I purchased my saddle shoes:
If you buy some, you are not allowed to wear them to functions which I might be attending (ie. Trivia)
Yep. Just like that.
No "Thanks for inviting me. I enjoyed the party . . ."
Strike 3 came last Thursday. It was a small crowd, just me and Hub and the two of them. She arrived first, we were running late, and so was our friend (her boyfriend). By the time we arrived, the game had started, and she was drinking a glass of wine, fuming. She hadn't bothered to get the scoresheet or anything. I could tell she was hacked off when we walked in.
It didn't get alot better. Our friend, who happens to be a renowned storyteller, was recounting his week. We were chuckling, as we always do (he's a funny man), when the look on her face said it all. He stopped, midstory, and rolled his eyes a bit in response to her mad face.
"I forgot . . . sorry . . . it looked like CRAP, how's that?" he offered, nuzzling up to her. I didn't quite catch what was going on, and must have looked puzzled, because he quickly explained that his new beloved "didn't approve of swearing."
She took the opportunity to jump in the converstation, bluntly stating "My family won't put up with his filthy mouth!"
I swear, I thought they were kidding. Still half-laughing, I looked at my friend and said, "Yeah, watch your mouth . . ." In a heartbeat, she turned on me and said, "That goes for you, too. I have heard YOUR filthy mouth many times!"
I was stunned. It was dawning on me that she wasn't kidding. Not only wasn't she kiddding, she was staring me down.
My husband knows me well. He saw the look in my eye. He settled in for the fireworks.
Strike 3. Game on. Game . . . . fucking . . . . . on.
Seizing the opportunity, I began to postulate on how the two of them could best come to a compromise. "How about a Sin Jar?" I suggested. "Everytime he curses, he puts in a dollar?" Picking up on the joke, our friend responded, "I'll just write you a check every week and say what I want to . . ." I was laughing, not because it was particularly funny, but because she was getting madder by the minute.
Addressing her again, I asked her plainly, "So, is this problem you have with cursing a religious one, or personal preference, or what?" She responded in a tone much haughtier than I was comfortable with, "I was just raised not to utter vulgarities. For my family, it's both religious and personal preference. It's just low class. I just don't understand what is so hard about not saying certain words. I have asked him several times not to speak that way in front of me. It just pisses me off . . ."
Jumping on that like a dog on a bone, I came back quickly, "It what? It "pisses" you off?" Watching her squirm was pretty delicious. I took my time, stroking my chin before continuing. "So . . . depending on the orifice of ORIGIN, you are either offended or not offended. Pissed off IS ok, looking like shit is NOT ok. I see . . ."
Her shy girl routine switched to outright uppity bitch really quickly. Unfazed, I continued. "Howzabout using the ol' pig latin? That might work!" Looking right at her, I offered, "See? I can look you right in the eye and say 'uckFay ouYay'. See? That didn't hurt a bit, did it?"
That was pretty much the line, I guess. She got up to leave, and of course he followed her out. When we walked out, he was hugging her, and she was whining, something stupid about "making fun of me . . ." Fake ass crying.
Listen up bitch. Don't ever fucking correct me again, because next time I will tear you to pieces. Trust me. I watch my language when it matters. I am always cautious around my kids, my parents out of respect (actually, MOST people's parents out of respect), coworkers, and in most of my dealings with the general public. I would venture to say that out of the approximately 112 hours of wakeful time per week, I have about 3 hours of time that I can relax, unfettered, and be in the company of friends that enjoy when I "let loose". The one place and time I never had to worry about what came out of my mouth has been 8:00 - 11:00 pm on Thursday nights, and you, my dear are taking a big shit all over it.
I know how to conduct myself. I know when the company I keep warrants discretion and propriety. You just don't rank high enough for me to bother watching my mouth around, you fucking moron. I don't need your pseudo-intellectual, "I have a college degree from Horseshit University", holier-than-thou attitude, ESPECIALLY when you have a job that takes the mental acuity of a trained chimp to perform. Not to mention you are attempting to push your ass-backward morality on me while you are drinking in a shitty sports bar, sitting by a guy you are cockteasing ad nauseum in front of the general public.
Bitch, you owe me. You would still be alone in your bed, fingering your dry-as-the-desert pussy and fantasizing about getting up the nerve to speak to this guy if it hadn't been for me telling him about your dumb ass to begin with, which I now sorely regret, trust me.
Don't forget - You drive out of that hillbilly podunk town you live in nearly 60 miles ONE WAY every week to come here. Nobody asked you to. This is my town - I live 5 minutes from here.
Don't like the things I say? Don't like hearing me snap off a bit about our overly-religious, too-reserved for-his-own-good, gonna-marry-the-first-piece-o-tail-that-comes-along friend getting his cherry popped and watching me standing up, humping dry air imitating him while he (probably) ends up crying "But Mommy told me that if I do this, Baby Jesus will cry!" Too fucking bad - we all laughed our asses off at that. Come to think of it . . . maybe you should date him. That would solve 2 problems, actually.
You know what else? I don't owe you any explanation about what I say or think, you fucking uppity cunt. If our buddy has ANY crazy girl radar AT ALL, this whole thing will be short-lived, and you can permanently go back up to that town full of sister-fucking inbreds you live around to "get away from the blacks."
If you DO come back, I am going to do my level best to make sure we are ALL wearing those fucking shoes, and I am going to try to make quick friends with someone with uncontrollable Tourette's Syndrome to keep you company at our table. Hope he likes trivia.
It's called Freedom of Speech, you stupid bitch.
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