The Rant’s “Snarky/Cynical blog post” appreciation display

I’m gonna start doing this….because it’s funny.

This one was from notthegirlyouwanttobewith:

http://notthegirlyouwanttobewith.wordpress.com/2012/02/22/just-call-me-deep/

and she followed it up quickly as well:

http://notthegirlyouwanttobewith.wordpress.com/2012/02/22/oh-wait-i-forgot-the-close-up-shot-of-random-flowers-arent-i-artsy/

ahhh…pure snark.

Have a flower…

Session 9 (part 1)

    People, there is great written comedy…and then there is the comedy of life.  I appreciate both, but, to me, nothing beats life coming at you in real-time and just dropping you to your knees with the cosmic backhand of humor.  Case in point: my probation group’s twice-monthly meetings with Dave at his office.   These little get-togethers are Dave’s pride and joy and where he most prominently shows his ugly scars of his two failed therapy practices.  His current employment at as a probation officer and these meetings are basically his “plan B”.  After a few sessions, a couple of us found out we are not required to attend these things under the conditions of any of our probation…but by that point we had just become hooked on the utterly fucked up train wrecks they always become.   And we didn’t want to tell the others cause we’re assholes.
Since Dave started having us write out these blogs, and since I’ve recently found that these blog entries are, in fact, public, I have been meaning to sneak a mini-tape recorder into one just so I could get a whole transcript written out and share it with the world.   Figured they were expensive and you had to get that shit out of some spy magazine mail-order thingy…but then I found one at Wal-Mart for like $10.  Who knew?

Quickly, just some background on the other four on my group beside me:

Arty – Short, angry, vulgar jersey-type guy.  He can put the word “fuck” into any sentence with the ease of a skilled poet. My mentor in that regard. He got arrested for punching the garbage man outside his house I think.  I love his guy.

Allison – Teenage shoplifter.  Typical seventeen-year-old bitch type.  Smokes like a tire fire.  Communicates primarily in snark and sarcasm. Got pinched for shoplifting.

Andre – Angry black dude. Huge.  Not trying to push a stereotype, but that’s him.  Mostly comes for the cookies and to laugh at white people.  I can respect that. Four traffic stops in one month, arrested for driving without a license.

Hillary – Fat, drunk, white trash hoarder.  Arrested for having 55 cats in her house with one liter box.

Thus, on the heels of last nights meeting, I bring to you…

Probation Group Therapy

– Session 9 (part 1) :

[Dave walks in with his skin-tight khaki slacks, a striped green sweater-vest over a short sleeve button down and sandals over socked feet.   His “film school” glasses floating on his nose and his nearly bald head glistening under the flickering halogen bulbs above us]

Dave:  Good evening people!  How are my chickadees tonight?

Andre: The donuts?

Dave: Excuse me, Andre?

Andre: You said you were bringing donuts.  Where are the damn donuts?

Dave: Sorry, no time today. My tai-chi class ran a tad late and the new barista at Cup o’ Joe was completely incapable of grasping the subtle flavor nuances between organic milk and… oh my, I digress…

Andre: I’m leaving…

Dave: Andre, Andre…please.  I think I have some whole wheat graham crackers in my fanny pack…

Me: If you open that thing I’m leaving too.

Artie: Can we fuckin’ move this along? The History Channel gots an Ice Road Truckers marathon starting at 8 and I ain’t missing that shit.

Dave: Yes, Artie we will move this along.  Just have some patience ple-…umm….Hillary, are you pouring alcohol into your coffee?

Hillary: Fuck off.

Me: Christ, what is that…Jack Daniels?

Hillary: Out of Jack.  Cheap Merlot.  You can fuck off too.

Allison: Okay, Dave…this is like the twentieth fucking session I’ve been to. I do not belong with these people.

Andre: “These people”?  The fuck you saying?

Allison: Not like that! Oh my god…he’s going to hit me…

Dave: People… people.  Let’s regroup.  Now repeat after me, “I am here, I am now, I am breathing as deeply as I can.”  Good, good.  Now let’s continue our exploration into the obviously flawed life maps that led you to today.

Artie: Oh fuck…there is something moving in Hillary’s purse.  Did you bring another cat in here?  I fucking told you I will kill the next cat you bring to these things!

Dave: Artie, as we have discussed, all living things have a soul and a purpose on this earth.  Killing Hillary’s cat companion would therefore prevent us from ever learning that purpose.  Hillary, is that a cat in your purse?

Hillary: I didn’t bring him from home. I found him on the way up here.

Dave: You found him on the street…is he a stray?

Hillary: No, I found him in the hall on the floor below.  He was hanging out in front of a door.  He looked lost.

Dave: *sigh*  Hillary, that’s Ms. Newton’s cat from apartment 2-B downstairs. Loving cats are one thing, cat-napping them is simply inappropriate and illegal.

Hillary: Whatever.  Mine now.

Me: Damn, Hillary is hardcore.

[Andre is laughing]

Dave: Hillary, you are bringing the cat back after this meeting.  Now…Allison, I would like you to start.  You were arrested at local 7-11 for stealing a large amount of GilletteLady razors?

Allison: Hygiene is important.

Dave: So is abiding the law, my dear.  And you shoved them down your stockings…all 15 packages?  Were you trying to get caught?

Allison: Well my jacket was full of 4-Loco, so…

Dave: I see.  And when the security officer asked for an explanation…

[Hillary has now put down the coffee and is swigging her Merlot straight from the mini-bottle]

Allison: That I had leg tumors and to stop staring.  He didn’t believe me, so I offered him a 4-Loco.

Artie: Okay, Can I just get my story out of the way here so I can go? I really don’t want to hear about some little slut’s quest to get drunk and shave her legs.  They have websites about that shit that I can see anytime I want…

Dave: Artie, patience is a virtue and taking turns allows us to exercise that virtue in a safe and….

Artie: Okay, real simple.  I see this garbage man taking what looked like a nice TV over to the garbage truck so I ran out to go grab it from him first.  Why waste a nice TV?  Well, he gets all fucking cranky and shit so I pop him in the jaw and take it.  Not really a big deal.

Dave: Now Artie, these sessions are all about getting honest with yourself and respecting the group enough to be honest with them.  This incident did not happen during regular trash pick-up hours did it?  This was more around 8pm at night?

Artie: I don’t pay attention to garbage truck schedules…the fuck difference does it make?

Allison: I need a smoke and I’m not going outside.  Feel free to bich accordingly…

Dave: Allison, there is no smoking in my office.  Now Artie, tell the group, where exactly this altercation occurred.  It was not in front of your house was it?

Artie: I dunno… like three blocks away.  I was in my car.

Dave: And the man you attacked…he wasn’t really a garbage man, was he?  He was just a regular guy taking his new plasma screen TV out to his car…not a garbage truck, right?

Me: My god, Dave.  It’s like watching CSI…

Artie: Ahh…it was dark.  Who can really be sure of these fucking things?  I saw something, I reacted.  Hey, I’m fucking human.

Dave: And when he reportedly screamed “This is my TV.  I’m not throwing it away.  Get away from me. I’m not a fucking garbage man.”  None of these things helped to clarify the situation for you?

[Andre is now laughing uncontrollably]

Artie: Look Dave, I ain’t gonna get into semantics with you!  Some things were said, some things happened.  I just wanna go home and watch fuckin’ Ice Road Truckers!

Hillary: Okay…now I’m good and drunk.  Finally…

[a knock on the office door and a woman walks in]

Woman: Hi, um…I’m looking for my cat?

[Andre falls out of chair]

(Part 2 coming soon…my fingers hurt)

The Night of the Chiroptera…and Why My Cat Gets a Pass

I don’t like cats.  I don’t like pets in general, but cats are probably the bottom of the fuckin’ barrel for me.  Don’t get me wrong, I like animals and have nothing but vile contempt for people who abuse them, I just hate the concept of bringing an animal into your home and catering to its every need while it sits on its hairy/slimy/feathery ass and contributes nothing back.  If I’m feeding you and literally cleaning up your shit for you, you better give me something in return. Sing me a fucking song…something, I dunno.  99% of all pets don’t do this (an animal sitting in you lap while you pet it is not giving back, its just more slavery on your part) and, while there may be some animals that contribute even less, none do it with such arrogant, “fuck-you-feed-me”, snobbishness as a cat.  There is not another animal on the planet that can puke (I theorize intentionally) on the rug and then perch itself on the couch and watch you clean it up while it licks its ass and then takes a nap without the slightest hint of remorse.

But of course, while I pretend otherwise, I am not the master of my castle…and thus, we have an assortment of domesticated animal life soaking up our resources against my better wishes thanks to my lovely wife.  One of them is, in fact, a cat.  But that little fur ball…he gets a pass…and my respect.  Because our cat is a motherfucking ninja.  And he gave back in the most dramatic of fashions and made herself a household legend.

It was about six years ago.  A rather hot and humid July night.  Sometime after midnight, I was awakened by what, at first, sounded like a jammed CD player stuck in “read-mode” outside my bedroom.  Like a high-pitch squeaking or chittering.  Our bedroom door was closed and I stood up and pressed my ear to it.  Again, it sounded like a portable CD player was rushing back and forth in our hallway.  Our dog was sleeping in our bedroom so I called her to my side.  I honestly had no idea what to expect.   Maybe one of those little robots from Batteries Not Included!?  Oh, that’d fucking rad!  I could make him fix stuff and he could cook me hamburgers just like the movie! I grabbed the door knob, opened it slowly, and peeped my head out…just in time to see a flying death-rodent flap by my head with wings of bare, grey flesh, squealing its demon song of madness as it continued down the hall.  I slammed the door shut as my wife jumped up.

“Rich, what the fuck?  What are you doing?”

I collapsed to my knees.  “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.”

Everyone has their phobias and mine was swooping through my hallway on what could only be a wet works operation ordered by Lucifer himself.  A bat was in my house. And I’m certain it was there to kill me.  Before you judge me harshly or think of me as a man without the proper set of genitals, let me tell you how this fear of mine began.

Growing up in the rural suburbs, bats were simply a fact of life.  Hell, growing up everywhere, bats are fact of life.  They’re like flying cockroaches.  They are everywhere and they will always be.  Physical manifestations of evil have that ability.  But because of two important variables, what could just been a normal aversion became a full-blown terror.  Those two variables were that, one, our second story deck seemed to attract bats beneath like it was the gateway to Hell itself.  And the second being that my step father decided it was always going to be MY responsibility to kill them or chase them away whenever they came to roost.   He gave me no support, no pointers, no cover fire.  He would just hand me a shovel and say, “Get to work.”

My first confirmed kill was the worse (aren’t they always?).  It was just one.  A rather plump ball of matted hair and thin grey skin sleeping in the underside corner of the deck.  I carried in my hand a can of Raid and a shovel, and possibly pants full of shit.  I remember my hand trembling as I raised the Raid into firing formation.  Once I pressed that button and sent that stream of burning poison into that things face…it would be ON.  I squeezed the shovel until my knuckles turned white, raised it over my head…and squeezed off the spray.  The moment it hit, the bat starting jiggling, moving, crawling for better purchase. It let out a high-pitched screech that I attempted to match with my own girlish cry (totally intentional, I was trying to confuse it).  NOW!  I had strike NOW!  I swung the shovel into the corner, severing a wing.  Another piercing squeal as it hit the ground and began crawling toward me, its snout raised to show its tiny little teeth.  I stepped back and sprayed it again and again.  It was screaming in rage and pain…again my own “Heidi of the Hills” screaming matched it in pitch.  I tried to bring the shovel down again but missed terribly.  I raised it again and it clanged on the underside of deck and fell from my hands.  God no.  I looked and saw an unused patio stone left under the deck by my foot.  I scrambled to pick it and slammed it down on the bats liquefying body as I yelled, “Die you satanic, death merchant!   Back to your small dark corner of Hell!”  Or maybe I just continued to scream unintelligibly like a little girl (that’s what my neighbors said, anyway).  But it was still alive.  It had squeezed its head out from under the stone and let out one last evil cry, perhaps a plea of mercy.  But I had none.  I slammed my foot down on the stone and snapped its neck…silencing the winged banshee forever.  I crawled into the far corner under the deck and sat down.  My hands were shaking so hard I could hardly light the cigarette I had boosted from my step-dad’s dresser.   War is hell, my friends, war is hell.

After that, I had to adopt a less hands-on game plan…as I feared my fragile psyche simply could not deal with another hand-to-wing combat incident.  This new technique basically involved me pounding the outside of the deck with a hammer until the bats woke up and flew out from underneath and back into the woods (that’s high strategy, people)…and me running away with arms flailing and screaming with tears in my eyes, “THEY’RE IN MY HAIR! THEY’RE IN MY HAIR! OH GOD OH GOD I GOT RABIES!” until I collapsed to the ground in a ball.  I was seventeen.

So you’re talking to a victim of PTSD here, people.  I went through some trauma.  Show some respect.  The numbers get jumbled but I probably made maybe a hundred, no…forty…no…probably like four bat-killing runs over a span of a few years until I left for college.  My memory is hazy.  War does that.  I know I killed or harassed more winged-rodent assassins than I care to remember.  And always I knew, somehow…I would pay for this.  Someday it would all come around.  When you slam a straight-back hammer onto the second story deck of the heart of darkness too may times, eventually it will hit back (that metaphor works just fine, fuck off).

I got my shit back together and stood up again.  My wife responed with a sarcastic “It’s a bat, isn’t it?  Jesus, Rick…do you want me to take care of it?”  (Yes!) But her acidic words were from pure ignorance.  She hadn’t been through what I had.  I had to handle this alone…after I made the dog attack it first.  I looked down at our lumbering black lab, barely visible in the dark bedroom and said “OK, fuckhead…earn your keep!”  I opened the door and shoved her out into the hall.  “Kill the bat!  Kill it!”  I slammed the door closed and listened.  I heard our dog walk around the hall for a moment, I heard the bat fly by again, and then I heard my dog slump to the floor and go back to sleep.  Dammit.  I opened up the door again and peaked out, “You are worthless.  You…oh I hate you…”  It was just then that the bat came flying back down the hall by my door again, but before letting out another shriek (again, just to confuse it) and slamming the door shut, I noticed something…it was being pursued.  Yes, that flying, hairy flesh bag was on the run…from our goddamn cat!  That stupid, lazy, arrogant little snob of a feline was in full fucking assault mode.  Moving at speeds I never thought it capable of.  Leaping in the air and bouncing off the walls like a scene from The Matrix.  The bat was in full evasive maneuvers and hit a hard left down the stairs to the living room with ninja cat in hot pursuit.  I grabbed a baseball bat from beside our bed and followed quickly.  I reached the bottom of the stairs and there was the cat sitting in the middle of the floor…directly on top of the bat.  Had that fucker pinned down.  She was gnawing at its ear, but the bat was giving no resistance.  It was dead.  I ran down into the basement and grabbed a bucket, something to scoop it up with and throw it outside.  I got back upstairs and the cat was standing next to the corpse, sniffing and purring.  A proud beast after the kill.  I bent down to scoop the vile creature with the bucket, turning my head to give praise to our furry murderer, when the bat suddenly came alive, flipping around the carpet like a winged fish then suddenly taking flight.  Stuck in a generic horror movie-the Jason Voorhees of bats!  I let out another shriek and accepted the fact that it was totally gonna fly in my hair and give me rabies and rub its nasty skin-wings against my face.  The piper was here, and it wanted payment.  But our cat never lost its cool.  I watched it track the bat with its eyes, made a flying leap onto the couch and leapt back in the air in a sideways arc, catching the winged demon in it claws and bringing it back down!  I had never seen anything like it.  Like some choreographed John Woo movie.  Insane.  I looked down at the cat again as it began to eat the winged vermin’s intestines and mouthed the words “I…love you…”

To this day, that cat has not done a single other fucking thing even slightly heroic or productive in our household.  Not one.  It still pukes on the rug when its bored.  Still jumps on the dining room table while we’re eating and starts licking its ass.  But…it gets a pass.  On that fateful evening years ago, the “Night of the Chiroptera”, it gave a fantastic show of violence and grace that one can usually only see in the halls of Hollywood.  And it totally kept that thing from flying into my hair.  Why do they always go for the hair?

Did You Hear That?

“Daddy, did you hear that?”
“What, honey? No, I didn’t.  What?”
“I heard a monster, Daddy.  Can I sleep with you?”
“No, got back to your bed.  You didn’t hear a monster.  Daddy needs to sleep.”
“Yeah, I did!  I heard it again…”
“Shit, I let you watch one ‘Hellraiser’ marathon and I pay for it for years…”

The above is a semi-common occurence in my house.  In fact I’m pretty sure the above is in no way unique.  That shit probably happens in like one million homes every night because kids are dumb and can talk themselves into anything and they know your mattress is waaaay softer than their Walmart special.

What blows my mind is the fact that there are groups of people, in fact entire cable networks, that make their living and profit off that shit…with ADULTS.  Yes, I speak of the retarded world of Ghost Hunters, Ghost Hunters International, Monster Quest, Finding Bigfoot, and about 500 other generic entries.  If you’ve never seen any of these kind of shows…you must not have cable.  If you don’t have cable, there something seriously wrong with you.  I mean, the fuck do you do with your time?  Take walks and read books?  Fuckin’ Commie.  Anyway, for those who have not suffered through one of these productions, let me sum it up for you:

“Hey John, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That tapping sound?”
“Oh, oh…yeah, I heard that.”
“That was a ghost.”
“Definitely a ghost.”
“We did it again, John.  We did it again.”

“And we use sciency electric stuff too. So fuck college!”

Sound familiar?  And they pretty much do five variations of that for the duration of the show.  And you can replace “ghost” with “bigfoot” or “chupacabra” and you’ve effectively got every other fucking “supernatural hunter” show out there.  But did you notice the main difference between their conversation and the one I have with my daughter ever other night?  No voice of reason.  No one interjecting some rationale into the debate.  It’s like two three-year-olds in thirty-year-old bodies running around playing “boo” with no parent to yell “Cut that fucking shit out and go outside!  You’re freaking out your Aunt Betty!”  And what’s worse is the majority of the public watching these shows are no better.  They are glued to the TV going “YEAH! YEAH…I HEARD THAT TOO! HOLY SHIT! IT’S A REAL GHOST!  WHY ISN’T THIS ON THE NEWS?!”  And the TV executive behind the show are going “Yeah, I heard it too!  It’s called revenue, motherfucker!  I love stupid people!”

How does this happen?  How do grown men and women actually elude the shackles of reason and common sense and start believing in ghosts and bigfoots?

“Alien Thought-Implantation?”

They don’t.  Not on any deep level anyway.   These morons on TV and their faithful viewers may outwardly express belief.  They may even have a shallow level of actual belief in that shit, just enough to keep their little hearts pattering.  Like the way you shallowly believe that that lottery ticket you just bought is “the one”.  But you know.  Just under that crusty layer of bullshit…you know.  They all know.  And you know what the real proof of that would be?  I bet, just like a lot of their faithful fans, a lot of these idiots on those shows have kids.   How do you think THEIR midnight conversations with their children go?

“Daddy, I heard a noise.  I think a ghost is in my room.”
“HOLY SHIT!  SHARRON…THERE’S A GHOST IN JIMMY’S ROOM!  WE GOTTA GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!  GET THE CAT!  Can you hear me, ghost? Can you?  WE MEAN YOU NO HARM!”

No. No fucking way.  It goes like this:

“Daddy, I heard a-”
“Jimmy, go to fucking bed!  I’m tired of this shit!
“But you said there were ghosts and monsters and-”
“YOU KNOW WHAT JIMMY?  YOU KNOW WHAT?  I HAVE TO SHOOT A GODDAMN BIGFOOT EPISODE TOMORROW AT 5AM AND IF I DON’T GET IT DONE, THE NETWORK WILL FIRE ME AND THEN THE BIG MEAN MORTGAGE MONSTER WILL COME AND TAKE OUR FUCKING HOUSE AWAY!  DO YOU WANT THAT JIMMY?!  DO YOU?!”

“Bill, you’re scarring him…”

“SHUT UP, SHARRON!  JUST SHUT UP.  IF YOU HADN’T RUN OUR FUCKING CREDIT CARDS THROUGH THE ROOF, YOUR HUSBAND WOULDN’T HAVE SIT ON TV LIKE A RETARDED MAN-CHILD PRETENDING TO TALK TO IMAGINARY FRIENDS!  FUCK! WHY DID I DROP OUT OF COLLEGE!?”

Nothing brings out the truth like a 3am wake-up call.  At least that’s how I imagine it.

Remember to follow The Rant on Twitter: @Rickranter

I say lots more vulgar and irresponsible stuff on there too….