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Monthly Archives: August 2012

Obsession is an ugly thing, and kind of fun.

I recently got an email critique from a family member, and despite my arrogant assumption that I am smarter than most, I really respect her opinion.

She mentioned that, while she loves the blog, it sometimes pisses her off that I bag on people so much.

My first reaction was bristling and denial.

How dare she? I am an artist, dammit! Hemmingway was never subject to this kind of shit! Why should I have to put up with it?

I have done denial before, I am good at this.

And then, once I thought about it, it led to more thought.

Now we’re in trouble.

I decided to look back over the last month of blogs, looking for instances that I might have unfairly bagged on someone who did not deserve.

Didn’t take long. Page two, the shit storm began.

Ok, so she’s right. (I don’t know why I think everyone else is always wrong. Call it a personality quirk.)

But this also led me to reviewing the way I view those around me.

The first thought is “Playthings for my amusement” and it doesn’t bode well.

Here is a good example:

I was in Starbucks one morning, cream and sugaring my coffee, when the guy next to me began cleaning off the cream and sugar kiosk.

And he didn’t work there.

As I watched, he cleaned up the area in front of himself, the space between us, and then I had to pick up my coffee as he started cleaning my area.

Interesting.

Once he finished with my section, he started to clean up the upper level with the creamers.

This is when the evil side of me began to rear its ugly head.

I decided to test his commitment to obsessive cleaning.

Call it blasphamy, but I knocked over my coffee.

Beautiful golden liquid spread out over the lower level of the kiosk and began to drip down the side, onto the floor.

And Obsession boy almost lost it.

First, the muttering under his breath began. It was low, indiscernible and a little creepy.

His hand was a blur, pulling napkins out for sopping up and cleaning.

This is just sick.

I almost feel bad for taking delight in his cleaning issue.

But this is the kind of guy that buys his cleaning supplies by the case, from industry warehouses, and his hands always smell faintly of ammonia.

I appears to help, by trying to throw my cup away and spilling what little was left on the newly cleaned section.

The muttering got worse.

For a moment, I thought of keeping this up, but cruelty is hard to sustain without feeling like an absolute shit.

Best to let it go.

So I went to the cashier to get another coffee.

And the cashier stared at me for a short moment and I realized that he knew exactly what I had been up to.

“That’s just wrong, dude.”

He’s right, you got me.

 

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Posted by on August 31, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

The pursuit of happiness.

I saw an item on the internet this morning that was funny, disturbing and just flat out sad.

Authorities in the UK have arrested a man for trespassing onto his neighbor’s farm in the dead of night, standing on a stepladder in the barn and sodomizing one of the horses.

This is the third time he was arrested for an unnatural act.

Third time?

What the hell is going on in the UK?

Usually, the US is the place for freaky crimes.

Now, if it was a consensual freaky sex thing, Japan would be the country for that.

But that is not the weird part.

The weird part is this.

(Those of a sensitive nature  might want to skip this next sentence.)

Turns out the first time he got arrested, it was for sneaking into the same barn, hassling the same horse, stimulating its genitals until aroused and then impaling his own ass on the massive horse dick.

I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

And that, weird as it is, is STILL not the weird part.

The weird part is this.

The last two times he has been arrested, its because he was sodomizing the horse.

In this guys head, in the sickest of ways, payback is a bitch.

Especially if you were once the bitch.

Or he could just be crazy.

Every time something truly heinous happens, everyone tries to find some sort of logical reason for it.

What ever happened to old school crazy.

Why’d he do it? He’s crazy, thats why.

Sometimes, its the easiest answer.

My father once told me that the problem is usually the least complicated thing that could go wrong, so check that first.

And that goes for more than car repair,

Picked up a lot of wisdom among the seemingly casual comments my dad made growing up.

And thats how it should be.

I grew up with what I think is the proper view of the world.

Mom was a force of nature that you didn’t mess with.

And my father was what a man should be.

Never really went thru that period that some kids do in their late teens of hating their parents.

So if thats what you’re looking for here, can’t help you.

I ran this next line past the therapist in the family and was told it was insensitive.

But, if you had a shitty childhood that haunts you as an adult, take it off like an old coat that no longer fits and move on.

Like the cops will tell you at a crime scene, the shows over, move along.

I happen to know of several people I knew as a kid that had shitty upbringings.

They reinvented themselves with a creativity that Madonna would envy and are a lot happier.

So be it.

Happiness is not a goal line that you cross and spike the ball.

It is an easily lost state of being that you chase like a meth head in need of a fix.

Searching for the happiness you had as a child.

That kind of happiness is easily found as a kid and highly addictive.

The older you get, the harder it is to get back to.

But there are exceptions.

Here is the secret.

Every now and then, you run into one of those truly happy people, someone tapping the source naturally, not chemically.

When you find these people, figure out a way to include them in your life.

Because when you hang out with happy people, some of it may rub off on you.

And that is a good thing.

 
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Posted by on August 30, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Motivation for the unmotivated.

The shortest point between two places is a straight line, in the opposite direction.

Thats a quote from the zen philosipher Basho.

Its also from one of my favorite films that quotes the zen master.

It is also horseshit.

Philosophy is, to a large extent, based on theory.

And drugs, lets not forget them.

First of all, I am a big believer in experience.

If you wasnt to be proficient in anything, just do it.

Its a lot like writing a blog.

You can find enough material on writing to spend the next decade reading.

But You will learn more about writing simply sitting down and belting out 500 words a day.

Doesn’t make you a great writer, but it does get you past the basics and on the road.

For instance, I am no longer sure that writer’s block is even a valid term.

I think it has more to do with not having written day in and day out and then, when you actually book the time to sit and write, you are trying to use a mental muscle that either hasn’t been developed enough to use or was once strong but atraphied.

Either way, I can sit and be cranking a few seconds after my ass hits the seat.

Good.

Because while I have yet to miss a workday post since August 1st 2011, I have been late a few days.

And the crappy emails are whiny things of beauty. True tributes to bitchy nonesense.

Call it what you like, I call it motivation.

Plus, bitching is warranted.

If you think about it, you are all here at my invitation, and it falls to me as host to make sure the party goes on.

And go on it shall.

I ended up writing about the goings on in Starbucks mainly because I couldn’t think of anything else to write a lot of posts about on a weekly basis.

But, Starbucks it turns out, is some pretty fertile ground.

Do you realize how many freaks are out there?

And they all love coffee.

Me too, so here I am.

I got outed the other day, I am not sure if I mentioned that.

For being a blogger.

The cashier at my favorite Starbucks asked me if he was going to read about something that had happened that morning.

It was like Lois Lane calling Clark Superman.

The facade was over.

And then reality set in.

This is a little bitty blog read by a VERY small population.

So the only one who it really matters to was me.

Thats a relief, actually.

I function better as an anonymous crude voice in the darkness.

Looking at the world with odd eyes that seem to see the stuff that others miss.

Not that it is a useful trait, but still.

That is a funny thought, my eyes.

All the better to see and blog about you with.

 

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Posted by on August 29, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

My love hate relationship with Insomnia.

I don’t sleep much, never have.

I think I was about 7 when my mother quit trying to make me go to bed.

I was always that really hyper kid that was up all night.

Writing is a great hobby to cultivate when you stay up for a few days in a row.

Insomnia just gives you more time to do shit.

Where do you think this blog comes from?

But, I can only go to Starbucks when they are open.

There are no 24 hour Starbucks near my house.

Hell, I would even drive to find one, but the only thing you can get in LA after hours is drunk and the crabs if you aren’t careful.

So wear a condom, for God’s sake.

This is a public service announcement.

I used to share a room with my brother.

If I had a nickle for everytime he yelled across the room for me to “GO TO SLEEP!”, I would have a lot of nickles.

My brother’s happiest day is when we got seperate rooms.

Now he got to sleep thru the night without risking attack at any moment, and he got to keep his room as obsessively clean as he liked.

I am kind of a slob.

There used to be a show on tv when I was little called the Odd Couple.

One guy was a really pent up clean freak and the other guy was a slob.

They had more laughs on the show.

But at least we get along now.

I have always wanted to be one of those really clean people, but it goes against my basic instinct.

Cluttered mind, cluttered room, go figure.

One of the better things about writing a daily blog is that, when its the wee hours and I seriously need something to do?

There is always tomorrows blog on the Things To Do list.

Plus you can only masturbate so much and then you chaff.

Ok, just kidding. You can NEVER masturbate too much.

The funny thing is, most of you chuckle and figure I’m kidding.

But all men are like this.

And if you just said, not my guy, yes him too.

But that is a whole other blog post.

If nothing else, Masturbation deserve the respect.

Back to insomnia, a much safer subject, wouldn’t you agree?

There are times that insomnia sucks.

When the writing dries up, and there is literally nothing to do, that is when it sucks the most.

Nothing to do, and your mind is at full speed.

ADHD is not just a catchy name.

and there is times that it takes over and makes everything impossible.

Nothing to do but knuckle down and weather the storm.

You’d think I would be used to it by now.

No such luck.

However, an odd thing I have noticed is that, since I started this blog, I have not had one of those nights.

So, if you think about it, these internet scribbles you are reading are a therapy of sorts.

My own little group therapy.

Hello, my name is Bittermac, and I have an issue.

(Everyone says-) Hello Bitter.

 

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Posted by on August 28, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Joe for Jesus, my new BFF.

The is a sort of mindless joy to wandering thru a casino fairly drunk on your butt.

Reno, Nevada is not Las Vegas, but it plays by the same rules.

And no, I am not talking about the whole “What happens in…” nonesense.

I am talking about drinking.

There is nothing a casino loves more than a drunk.

Because drunks gamble.

Even people who don’t gamble, will gamble when drunk.

Perfect example? Me.

I don’t gamble. Ever. Not a dime. Long story, but I don’t.

And I am down $50 bucks.

See what I mean?

But the drinks are so cheap!

You can go to any bar in one of the beach cities of Southern California and getting drunk can be near a hundred dollars.

In the casino? Less than $20 dollars.

Awesome.

But, not being a gambler despite my sidestep into the world of video poker, I don’t want to be in a casino.

So lets go out.

Some of the most viewed posts that were the most fun to write have been concerning the homeless.

So I decide to check out the local talent.

Now, the wisdom of loading up on WILDLY low priced Mexican beer prior to going out to observe the homeless, is a poorly thought out one at best.

But these things happen.

I head out with only a mild stagger going on, with a 64 ounce Sands Regency change cup filled with Pabst Blue Ribbon. A shitty beer, but the only one they will serve in a change cup.

A $20 tip is well respected in the bartending industry.

So that is the setting as I head out to find a new friend.

I head out of the hotel/casino complex and take a right, away from the strip and down the block that gets ugly once the casino property ends.

And it doesn’t take long.

“Pick up your CROSS and follow ME!”

Even with loud downtown Reno traffic, this man’s voice cuts thru the noice.

Let me paint you a picture.

The pants are made for a 500 pound man, but they were hemmed with a butcher knife and held up with that same 500 pound man’s belt, with a full foot of excess belt hanging off.

A grey Sun Devils hoodie, over a pendleton, over two tshirts, in hundred degree weather.

Its important not to be caught out in the cold.

And a 3 foot, dark lacquered wooden cross.

Marching down the middle of the street, cross held out in front of him like a standard bearer.

And maybe he is.

I got him out of the street and decided we needed some coffee.

It was a REALLY interesting walk 4 blocks to the Starbucks.

Joe for Jesus, as he only will refer to himself, often in the third person, is ALL ABOUT Jesus.

And Jesus HATES meth. (Direct quote)

Joe for Jesus has a serious obligation to spread the word.

Nice guy, but meth has just destroyed independent thought for him.

Religion is one of those things that can fill the void for a guy like this.

TOTALLY necessary in this case.

Joe for Jesus is fairly harmless, but like Hunter Thompson said, never turn your back on a drug.

Starbucks, however, is less than thrilled to see us.

I get us coffee and these delightful mini cherry pies, and take Joe for Jesus out to the patio in an attempt to tone it down.

The manager is looking jumpy as hell.

All hell broke loose when Joe for Jesus climbed up on his chair to preach loudly and flail about with his wooden cross.

Two police cars arrive soon after.

I have ditched the change cup of beer prior to this, but I am certainly in no condition to talk to the police.

The Reno police have no sense of humor in this kind of heat.

Joe for Jesus is apparently well known by the local cops.

They talk him talk down from the chair, into the back of the cop car and leave.

I have a somewhat awkward conversation with the remaining officers which does not go as well as I had hoped.

The back seat of a Crown Victoria is plush, as far as huge sedans go.

I begin to go over the financial who’s who of my friends and family in my head.

However, as I am without handcuffs and have not had my Miranda rights read to me, I am wondering if bail is different here as well.

And then we pull up at my hotel.

I am admonished not to leave the hotel.

I had forgotten the one cardinal rule of Reno/Vegas.

Reno loves a drunk.

I love Reno.

 

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Posted by on August 27, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Mamma said there’d be days like this.

Mamma said there’d be days like this…

Sorry, I wanted a mamma reference and couldn’t think of anything else.

This is part 2.

We are still in Starbucks, and sitting next to me is Mrs. Evil Couple, which in and of itself is a goddam party.

But Mamma Evil has joined her.

And she is a whole different kind of arrogant mean.

She just evicted the suit sitting next to me.

Mamma Evil is two feet from me.

And she smells slightly like…..Ben Gay.

Or soup.

Maybe like Ben Gay soup.

Cambell’s would never have the balls to make that. Maybe Progresso.

Mrs. Evil walks over with their coffee creations and sits.

Something is off here. Something about how she is acting.

After a moment, it comes to me.

If you have ever watched two alpha dogs that just met, if they are around each other for more than a minute without fighting, you finally see one of them ducking his head and tucking his tail.

Submissive. That is what I am seeing.

Mamma Evil is the Alpha female.

And submissive just looks so out of place on Mrs. Evil.

Mamma Evil raises an eyebrow.

“No cake?” Her voice is light, but has an edge.

“Oh, I thought you said-”

“Ah, the thinking again.” Her voice is tired.

At this point, I snort, loudly, while staring at my computer.

Both women turn to stare as I try to fade into the background.

I mumble an apology and gesture vaguely at my computer screen.

They ignore me.

Good.

The reason I snorted was that I thought about how to describe Mamma Evil’s attitude, and I came up with the same one I describe her daughter with.

She thinks you are a moron and she is SO sick of your shit.

Matching attitudes, like handbags.

I take a quiet moment to stop myself before I begin to giggle.

Mrs. Evil gets up and stomps over to the cashier.

Someone else was right in the middle of an order, but that doesn’t stop her.

She orders two pieces of coffee cake and just glares at the cashier, daring her to say “What your turn.”

I can’t actually see her face, but I have seen that glare.

The cashier is a bubbly 20 something that doesn’t have NEAR the experience in life to withstand this.

As expected, she breaks and serves up two pieces of coffee cake.

Mrs. Evil stomps back to the table. She is not nearly as good as her husband at swallowing this kind of arrogant shit.

It a developed skill that she lacks.

“I was talking to Renka, and we were discussing your car-” Mrs. Evil is gingerly working into a something that she is bracing for a fight on.

“Try not to speak, Tasha.” Mamma Evil sips her cup, not hesitating at stepping on someone elses sentence. She knew her daughter would stop talking.

“You are so much more intelligent when you don’t speak.” She puts her cup down.

“You and your sister are very busy. That is good.”

She pauses.

“You, you can hear fine?” He voice takes on an angry tinge.

She’s talking to me.

Oops.

I had stopped typing and was just staring at a point in between my table and theirs.

Its pretty obvious what I  was doing.

I have just been outed.

Mamma Evil is pissed. In short order she snatches up her purse and walks off.

Crap.

Mrs. Evil stands as well.

Just before she turns to follow her mother out, she turns to me, her mouth forming a single word, in total silence.

Sorry.

And off she goes.

 

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Posted by on August 24, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Evil runs in the family.

The Gods are kind.

I am sitting at my favorite table, in my favorite Starbucks, during my favorite time of the morning.

And the door opens and in she walks.

Mrs Evil Couple.

The first thing I notice is that she is dressed nicely. Hair attractively styled. Makeup on.

Nice.

This is a pretty woman that normally wears her hair in kind of a low rise blond afro. No makeup. Grey lifeless sweats and an xxl tshirt WITHOUT a bra.

Paints a picture, don’t it?

She is in line, waiting for her turn to order her soy latte, frowning slightly.

She turns and talks to the woman behind her.

I freeze in place as something in my head clicks into place. Holy shit!

Momma Evil.

OMG!

This is the Momma that Mrs. Evil told her sister that they HAD to put her into a home, but “Not so close that I feel bad that I don’t visit that often.”

I pause a moment to observe and take it all in.

She is blocky in that old school Russian way. Hair is a combination of grey and blonde.

Poofy in that “hottie at the old folks home” look without the blue tinge.

She is also scowling. But you can tell that it is a natural expression for her.

There is an aura of displeasure that emanates from her.

This is a woman that is not happy about a lot of things.

She is dressed in a little old lady version of hot.

Your standard, Soviet issue black purse tucked under one arm in defense of muggers.

They order and move over by the pick up window.

As Mrs. Evil looks around, I can tell what she sees.

Not a seat around. Even the big table is full.

Had I known, I would have saved the table next to mine. There was a late 20, early 30’s suit with a weak chin reading the Wall Street Journal.

Mrs. Evil leans over and says something to Momma Evil.

No doubt suggesting they take a walk with their coffees.

I could shit myself with disappointment.

And the Mamma Evil looks around.

There is something in her eye.

She looks right at me and slides her eyes to the suit sitting next to me.

Her face hardens and she walks over.

Something is afoot, but what?

“Excuse please.”

Mamma Evil’s voice is cultured and accented, and tinted with that type of arrogance that makes the “Excuse please” sound a lot like “Hey asshole”.

The suit is startled and lowers his paper.

“Y-yes?”

I can’t be sure, but the slight stutter in his voice made her eyes widen like a wolf scenting blood.

“I have had my foot operated on, and it hurts, my daughter and I need to sit. You will move please?”

She pulls out one of the chairs.

“Well, I-”

“Thank you, you are very kind.” She drops her purse in the middle of the table with a loud thunk.

The suit never had a chance.

He was mumbling an apology for some reason as he walked out.

You could not get a pin up my ass with a jackhammer.

My God, I have missed this.

TO BE CONTINUED

 

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Posted by on August 23, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

The spread of Communism during morning coffee.

Karl Marx in the hizzy.

It is not often I run into someone that I want to beat to death within seconds of meeting them, but I am there.

The Starbucks is not my usual one.

I am not used to the locals and I am not even sure he is a local.

I can’t imagine that anyone can stomach this asshole for long.

Young, which translates to stupid in his case. Worse than the usual “Young and dumb”.

Someone gave him just enough education to really be obnoxious. And not in that be rude and write a blog type. I happen to view that as valuable.

The little girl he is sitting with may as well be 8 years old. It would match the high pitched squeeky voice that comes out of her mouth in a constant barrage of “Poor me, I’m a victim, what will I do” statements.

I would normally hate her automatically.

But I can only feel sorry for her.

Heres why:

Top 3 statements from the Commie shit.

  • “How can you say that this is a good country? This is the worst society in the history of the world. Statistically!”
  • School is a waste of time. If you say that you want an education to get by in society, then you should become a faceless mind wrapped in tinfoil. Just a soulless corporate shell.”
  • If you waste your time going to school just to get a master’s degree, then what? There will eventually be a million useless master’s degrees out there, begging for change.”

I want to stab him in the eye with a coffee stir.

I am a firm believer that being happy is important, but so is hatred, it helps you appreciate true happiness.

Squeeky is lamenting the fact that she doesn’t have a job. However, she does admit that she has yet to apply anywhere.

Commie shit is not letting that one go by.

“There are no jobs! Are you even listening? You are not a man, caucasian, with the right genetics? Gone to the right school with the privileged elite? Those are who the jobs are for! Not for you.”

The head whip factor in the room has edged up a level.

There is a short haired guy, built like a pitbull, waiting for his coffee that I have pegged as an ex marine.

He whipped his head around earlier and has been listening.

He is not smiling. Shit gets real when the Marines stop smiling.

He has nonchalantly sauntered a step or two closer, and some would say he is wanting to listen in.

I see it differently.

I listen in. This man is judging the angle for an attack.

Kind of a java soaked grassy knoll.

And I am cheering for Oswald.

However, fate intervened and saved Commie shit from a solidly deserved beat down.

Because I don’t even think I am going out on a limb when I surmise that Commie shit does not have a martial background.

And the Marine left.

Thanks for your service, buddy. I wish there was one more service I could thank you for.

Oh, well.

Commie shit is still berating Squeeky.

“So what are you going to do? Work some lower class prole job until you have had enough of failure and decide to get married? I am sick of my life, so I may as well choose this asshole and make us both miserable.”

This guy is a swirling, sucking, black pit of despair, with no hope for the future, in an ever darkening universe.

This is the kind of guy that will break the law one day, go to jail, and when he is raped and killed behind bars, it is not going to shock anyone.

I hate him.

One of the absolute truths I have learned in life is that you have to be flexible.

If the plan you or your parents had when you were a kid doesn’t work out, move on. Reinvent yourself. I am not a big Madonna fan, but she understands this concept.

And that is where victory comes from.

On a side note, I hope Commie shit gets hit by a car.

With any luck, I will be driving.

 

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Posted by on August 22, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

If I am such a shit, why are you reading it?

*Disclaimer*

I will be making fun of someone during the course of this blog.

Those of a sensitive nature are encouraged to bite me.

Any attempt to chastise me will result in a vicious public vomiting of a most childish nature.

You have been warned.

I got a hate email from someone who has never written to me without telling me how hateful, rude, and bigoted I am.

I have named her before, so I may as well again.

Ms. X.

She is the email angel of death, a digital raven sitting on my shoulder and shouting “NEVERMORE” in my ear.

She shows up every now and then to put on her Mother Theresa outfit. climb on her soapbox and tell me what an evil fuck I am.

Bitch.

And it is always about missing the point with her.

Here’s a quote that I view as the epitome of the shit she spews at me.

“An addict is not responsible for his actions.”

I cannot tell you how much the I believe the opposite.

Everyone has to pay the fiddler at one time or another..

At the end of life, everyone has to settle up with whatever deity you believe in.

Unless of course you are an atheist, then your soul might just crumble to ash, like you never lived.

No one is above the basic laws of life.

So cram your knee jerk auto forgiveness up your ass, sideways.

Before I take off on even more of a wonton rant, let me tell what I am being pilloried for.

Fat vaginas.

You read that correctly.

First of all, I did not invent the phrase, I repeated it. There is a HUGE different.

I quoted two childish 20 somethings in Friday’s blog who were making fun of everyone and everything around them.

I will take the accusations of being a misogynist. Fine, whatever floats your boat.

The statement “Active promotion of hate” is offensive.

So is demanding someone to bite your ass, what’s your point?

People can be rude, that is a basic truth of life.

To deny that is to deny that we are all human.

And to even vaguely connect it to a rapist mentality is offensive.

It is the epitome of the modern mentality to take someone, twist it up, apply your own definitions and present it with outrage.

Happens in politics all the time.

But I am not running for office.

I am unimpeachable.

You can show up with photos of me in compromising positions with hookers and blow and I want some copies.

Wallet size prefered.

Back to my rebuttal.

Maybe its like having a black friend who uses the N-word, so you think its ok to use it yourself.

Maybe.

In the end it kind of comes down to that old adage of not being able to please all of the people all of the time?

So I may as well just please myself.

 

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Posted by on August 21, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

All in the family, Evil style

I am living the dream.

The weather is awesome.

The coffee is hot.

And Mrs Evil Couple is sitting next to me, arguing with her sister on her cell.

Life is good.

If you are not sure who Mrs Evil Couple is, lets take a stroll down memory lane. (Or read the whole Evil Couple saga – HERE)

She is one half, the worst half, of the most dysfunctional married couple I have ever seen.

She has said some of the most horrendous things and treated people so vilely its a wonder she hasn’t been shot.

If she lived in the Middle East, she would have been stoned to death.

That bad.

The last few times I saw her and her husband, a local doctor, they were reconciling from what looked like an imminent divorce.

But the absolute last time I saw them they looked like they had reconciled.

Good. I wish them well.

And now here she is.

From listening for a few minutes, I figure out that she is arguing with her sister.

Several months ago, she was talking with her sister about putting her mother in a “Home”.

My favorite quote from that exchange?

“Just make sure its not so close that I feel bad when I don’t go to see her.”

The last bit of catching up is my personal description of her.

She thinks you are a moron and she is sick of your shit.

Everyone all caught up?

Let’s proceed.

It seems that mom never went to a “Home”.

She has been living with the sister.

And the sister is done.

“Now is not a good time, I can’t have her at my house.”

“You have always been a selfish bitch, everyone knows this.”

“This is why the family hates you.”

Apparently the thought of it has unnerved her. She took a big sip of her coffee without checking it and almost spit out the scalding liquid.

I can only imagine what mom is like, I mean, her daughter is a twisted harridan.

Whatever her sister is saying, Mrs. Evil wants to blow it off. You can tell from the body language.

I can’t hear it, but someone calls her, she put her sister on hold and switched lines.

“My sister is on the other line, its about mama.”

Has to be her husband on the line.

The call is wildly anti-climatic.

She tells him that she is on her way to take care of the “thing”.

She hangs up on him and stares at her phone.

I know exactly what she is doing.

I have done this before.

You get someone on one line that you are not thrilled about talking to, then you get another call and switch over.

Once that call is over, you hesitate because you could totally hang up on the other person and just claim the phone did it.

It doesn’t shock me when she presses a button and puts the phone in her purse.

As she gets up to leave it occurs to me that I am forgetting the description.

Can’t leave this out.

I have seen this woman dressed for selling real estate. Dressed in a suit, blonde hair long and feathery, this 30 something woman is STUNNING.

But, when NOT dressed for real estate, the once feathered hair shoots out in a kind of blonde afro.

No make up, thick grey muscleman sweats with crocs.

An xl tee shirt with no bra. And when a woman that once birthed and, I assume, breast fed twins, does not wear a bra, it is something to see.

And, just like that, she is gone.

I spend the rest of the morning in an almost giddy state.

She’s back.

 

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Posted by on August 20, 2012 in Uncategorized