Spaztardicus Wrecks

Please pardon the interruption. We here at Spaztardicus Wrecks Productions are busy trying to:

A) Figure out how to shoehorn an extra five people into a three-bedroom (one of which is the size of a saltine box) apartment for a three day stay.

(Giving us a grand total of eight persons sharing ONE frickin’ bathroom. Oh this will be a JOY!!)
 
B) Explain this to the landlord who gets annoyed when ONE person tromps in to spend an EVENING, nevermind five people for three days.

C) Erase all history on the puter and hide all files, as certain parties may wish to utilize said machine.

D) Debating on the best way to split up four beds and a rollie-bed amongst six adults and two adult-sized teenagers.

(And let us not forget the two cats and the dog)

If I make it through the weekend alive and/or without serving jailtime it will be a god damned miracle.

Oh RELAX. I can take my time with this, anyway. After all, Paddy and Sneezy are off on a cruise at this very moment. A cruise, might I add, that neither of them felt the need to invite myself, the Historian Familial. The selfishness!! I could have written about how Paddy (would possibly) play out the scene from Beetlejuice on the Lido deck with a shrimp cocktail. Or how Sneezy did the tango with Issac and Gofer. Or about how they had dinner with Captain Steubing and in the middle of the third course, Vicki went to pieces because the cute twenty-something loner from England turned out to be a Well Disguised Diamond Thief.  And, of course, gentlewoman that I am (read: Not From Kentucky and/or Tasmania), I would go and play shuffleboard with my fellow Poligripped  Brethren (read: Betty White, Phyllis Diller and the guy who played Bea Arthur’s husband on Maude. And Sid Ceasar!!) while they went off and did their husband-wifey stuff.

Honeymoon, schmoneymoon. I hope someone sneezes in their Ouzo.

Anyhoo!!

Back to me, getting ready at 1:26 in the afternoon, when we are scheduled to leave by 2 PM. SHARP!!

Yea. Like anyone believed that was going to happen??

Ma ambles (And, hello, ambling?? What about time schedules?!) in at around 1:45, and as luck would have it, the gas fellas have hooked us back up again. I attempt to put on the warpaint, look for my big-barreled curling iron, and pluck my eyebrows all at once.

I wander into the living room, warpaint haphazardly put on, one eye red from having poked myself with the tweezers, and a big-barreled curling iron in hand.

Oh, and did I mention already that it was nine million degrees out?? Well it WAS.I ran into the loo in order to sort out my hair (the giant mirror in there is near-ish to an outlet, unlike my room which has NO working outlets save for the power bar extension cord thingie, nor a mirror). I start to curl my hair and break into a sweat. Trash, you see, had just had his shower. Ma is busy ironing her blouse. Ironing?? NOW??

{Yes. Ma is DEFINITELY the reason we’re always late. There. I’ve said it. It would NOT be Babs, She Who is Curling Her Hair at 2:10. No ma’am.}

I’d had the perfect idea for my hair. A sort of 40s hairdo, pulled back from the front in two bits and held back with clips, big barrel curls in the back. Know what it’s like to try and curl very thick hair when you’re in a steaming hot bathroom and it’s ALSO nine million degrees out?? Impossible. I get through two chunks of hair and ultimately said fuck it.

Great. I look like a 40s drag queen who’s been socked in the eye. With very straight hair apart from two giant curls. Oh well.

Trash then inquires of us whether he should put his suit on NOW, or once we’re out there. WHAT SORT OF QUESTION IS THIS AND IS HE TRYING TO GIVE ME HEART FAILURE?!

Of course he decides that it’s too hot for his precious self, so he will find a place to change once he’s there. Maybe after he buys his shoes!!

Yes. BUYS. HIS. SHOES.

{You didn’t actually think he’d FIND his old ones, did you?? No. He didn’t even look and declared that ‘they hurt his feet anyway’ JACKASS}

We finally run out the door, myself decked out in my Wedding Finery. Ma also in Wedding Finery. And Trash in a t-shirt and basketball-type shorts. With sneakers!!

I ran/waddled for the front seat of the car. Trash had called shotgun whilst we were watching the movie, but you know what?? You can’t call shotgun before the car is even there. Besides. I am a girl. I need the front seat so I can see in the mirror so as to re-do make-up and hair. Screw him and his long legs. Make-up trumps comfort, people.

Trash and Ma are embroiled in an argument by the time we hit the Verazzano. I want to kill myself. But my hair looks decent now!! I will leave this earthly life an impeccably coiffed corpse, should the arguing cause a major traffic accident. Also, every ten minutes or so Trash regards himself in the rear-view mirror and declares himself a handsome bastard etc etc.

Still look like drag queen regardless of hair, though. I fear strappy sandals with 4 inch heels (I measured them, Commie!!) are doing nothing to help my cause. BUT I DO NOT CARE.  For I bought these sandals  back in Ye Olde City of Winde and had yet to wear them. I WAS WEARING THEM, DAMMIT!! They were my perfect Stand Still and Look Pretty Look Like a 40s drag queen who’s been socked in the eye. With very straight hair apart from two giant curls in Them shoes.

Traffic. Right as we get on the Belt Parkway. FUCK. This doesn’t help the arguing situation. Traffic starts to open up for a few miles. Then slows up again by the drawbridge. Then opens up again. Then slows up by Kennedy Airport. Each time the traffic slows the arguing reaches fever pitch. And when things are running smoothly we are all the best of pals. It’s like driving with a carful of wild chimpanzees afflicted with Bi-polar disorder and anger management issues.

GOD HATES ME.

And yet we get to their neighborhood on time–and head straight for the local Payless Shoes. I ran into the Duane Reade, having had a Wardrobe Malfunction. Said malfunction being, had not tried on new Mansion de Playtex WITH my new dress. And can see part of said Mansion peeking beyond dress. Trash comes out with his shoes. I come out armed with safety pins. They decide they’re hungry (none of us having eaten lunch because we were sooooooo busy. Ahem). So, of course we stop by McDonalds. IN OUR FINERY. Well, myself and Ma in Finery, anyway. They order food. I mortally wound myself several times, having poked 59,539 holes in The Girls in an attempt to get the safety pins through material which seems to be made of fucking kevlar or something. I am sure that, were I a Native American, my name would have been She Who Walks with Wounded Tits.

We finally, finally get to the church. We see Aunt Angela out front talking to someone. And it’s only 4:30. Huzzah!! Now we have to surreptitiously finish on-the-go lunch. And Trash has to get changed.

What better place for him to change than in the parking lot of the funeral home across from the church?! (Behind it, of course, and out of Aunt Angela’s–or anyone elses–view) while in the car. Trash is 6′2 and a bit. This is a compact car. But!! The seat pops down so you can reach in the trunk–a fact which Trash discovers at very last moment. He pulls the suit out of the trunk. Then angles one leg into the trunk. And manages to get dressed entirely, save for stepping out of the car to tuck in his shirt and adjust his belt.

‘God aren’t I just devilishly handsome??’ says he of the cheap-o shoes.

We walked over to the church, filled bellies, dressed properly, and–ON TIME!!

Yet in spite of this, Mickey, upon seeing us, still feels the need to express his shock at the fact that we’re there twenty minutes early.

Honestly. I’ve NO idea why he’d have ANY notions to the contrary.

I never had a doubt we’d get there on time. Ahem.

{Huzzah!!–have bullshitted my way through this so I can try to remember the actual wedding!!—to be continued. Yes. That is a threat}

And so the time drew near, and lo, Paddy and Sneezy’s Hitching Day arrived.

We had planned it all out meticulously.

To. The. Letter.

Almost. Kind of. I mean, we had it all together right??

Of COURSE we did.

We rented a CARfor chrissakes!!

Although, if I’m being honest, I thought the rent-a-car scenario would leave our (as-of-late) stellar record for arriving in the Isle of Long EARLY in tatters.

A vee-hickle, you see, renders we of La Casa victim of that heady parfum–Eau de Grand Delusion That We Have All The Time In The World To Get Ready. I’ve mentioned my own battles with the very same, if you’ll recall.

I even had a chat with Mickey about this. For years and YEARS we were always late to Uncle Pervo and Aunt Angela’s place. Mickey was of the opinion that most of the procrastinating shoe was firmly on Ma’s foot–which was most definitely part of the problem. However, I was privy to further information (having lived with my parents since, like, god was a boy ‘n stuff) which also pointed the finger at the Old Man (and hi Pop!! Happy Dead Day Anniversary for two days ago!!). So both were guilty and I now have a lifelong excuse for being late for anything and everything–child of the 80s that I am–I shall blame my parents!!

Anyway. Wedding. Paddy. Sneezy. Rent-a-car. Being prepared!!

We were prepared, oh yes. Like the good scouts that we are, a few weeks previous we had gone shopping with a Family Friend. A Family Friend who works at a lovely store. A lovely store with certain amenities for employees. So both Trash and myself, along with our Family Friend, toddled to the wilds of *undisclosed location* to purchase Wedding Finery!! Trash wielded his bank card with impunity and bought the lot. The lot being a rather nice suit that was marked down 60%. I found myself a dress. And all was set. Family Friend says to Trash, ‘Hang on a tic, have you shoes for your suit??’

‘But of course!!’ Trash said gleefully, ‘I just have to find them somewhere in the Room of Death. IT WILL BE EASY. Ahem’*

*Once again, this may, OR MAY NOT BE, that intentional foreshadowing business. Or whatever it’s called. BIG GIANT HINTis what I mean. Ok??

Paddy and Sneezy’s wedding day started early for us. No, not because we had to wake six days early because we were taking public transportation (see: rent-a-car). No. It started early because some BASTARD decided THATday was the best day to start work on some gas doo-hickeys rather near-ish to La Casa. With a jack-hammer. AT EIGHT FRICKIN’ AM!!

Why, god, WHY??

Fine. Not a problem. Sure, waking up extra early when one needn’t isn’t FUN. But it beats waking early to take a bus, a ferry, a train, yet ANOTHER train, and then a god-damned bus to Long Island. Me?? I wasn’t going to complain.

Ma had toddled off to the wilds of the Armpit of America (read: New Jersey) to pick up the rent-a-car. I woke to find Trash watching Lethal Weapon, and, since we had ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD TO GET READY, I sat down and watched said film, too (I mean, HELLO, it IS Mel Gibson, you know, and no, I don’t care what anyone says and yes, I admit that he is down ONE notch but only because, HELLO, Colin Firth?? Adorable!! Have you SEEN Pride and Prejudice?? Well–maybe they’re tied. Must google recent pics of Mel. Anyway, we understand each other now, yes?? YES!!).

Now where in the holy hell was I??

Ah yes!! Lethal Weapon, jackhammers, and having ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD TO GET READY. Ahem.

Ma returns around 11:30-ish. She then announces in a very grave voice, ‘They have to turn off the fucking gas for a while. BUT HE SWEARS IT WILL BE BACK ON IN AN HOUR OR SO!!’

What’s the problem, you say?? The problem arises when you have three people who need to get themselves sorted for a wedding. A wedding which, according to the itinerary, they’ve planned to leave for around 2 PM. Sharp. It is also 900 degrees out, so everyone is going to be needing a shower. A hot water heater that cannot work because SOME NUMPTY HAS SHUT DOWN THE GAS, is not good.

Ma leaves again to do some errand-running (and I can certainly see Mickey’s point of blaming Ma for tardiness when she chooses THIS moment to run and do some things) since she cannot have a shower right away. She declares, ‘Pah!! It takes me two minutes to shower and get ready. If worse comes to worse I’ll have to have a cold shower. I DO NOT CARE!! I WILL GET TO THIS WEDDING ON TIME!!’

I was making no such concession. I demanded hot water. Trash was, at the time, making no such concessions either, and was cursing the jackhammering bastards.

It was decided that I would take a shower first, using up the last reserves of hot water (notice that I do not mention that I didn’t bother to start getting myself ready til after 1, for this would shatter the illusion that i am ALWAYS on time. And always do things well ahead of time. Ahem). Trash would wait for the gas to be turned back on. 12:30. No gas. And the men seem to be sitting there not doing much of anything. 1:00. The men are gone. GONE!! Vamoosed!! Vanished!!

Veryfuckingdeadshouldthegasnotgetturnedbackon!!

1:30 the men are back, but are making no steps towards the house with cries of ‘Yes!! YES–you can HAVE your gas back!! Shower with impunity, time-weary bastards!!’

Ma, it should be noted, is not back as of yet.

THIS IS GOING TO FUCK WITH THE PROGRAM!!

{to be continued}

Coming to a blog near you!!

A Spaztardicus Wrecks Production

From the Directors of The Restaurant at the End of The Cerebellum and The Flying Zucchini Brothers Parts I - VI

Present

The Flying Zucchini Brothers: Return of the Jedi

aka

The Road to Paddy’s Wedding

Starring

Paddy Boombatz as The Groom

In her first major starring role:

Sneezy soon to be (in five hours, in fact) Boombatz as the Bride

Featuring

The Commie as Pervo the Second

Mickey Boombatz as The Best Man

Siobhan Boombatz as She Who Will Kill Mickey

Babs Geller as She Who Was Promised Single Firemen

Trash Babsfamilius as The Open Bar Magnate

Ma Babsfamilius as The Barf Whisperer

A cast of thousands

and introducing

The Rent-a-Car

This blog has not been rated yet and depends upon alcoholic intake.

Dear Annoying (but, apparently, quite patriotic) Neighborhood Fucktards,

You know, I can appreciate that you wish to celebrate the birth of this great nation of ours by, say, roasting weenies, buying electronics for half-off, and drinking three-quarters of the national output of AnheuserBusch. However your desire to blow three or more fingers off with a particularly exuberant (and illegal in all five of our merry boroughs) M-80 is somewhat less comprehensible–to me anyway, at least. I mean, why use sparklers* when one can show the world their undying love for king and country (ah yes, we stopped that business after that lovely tea party) mom, baseball, and apple pie with quarter stick of dynamite?? Yes!! Happy Birthday America, watch this Jumpin’ Jack wing itself off a car and right back into me because I’m so busy celebrating I cannot possibly recall the laws of physics!!

Bless.

*I mean, sure, sparklers are ALSO illegal here, but at least they’re fairly innocuous as fireworks go. And nowhere NEAR as showy or loud; but ones eardrums and most limbs are usually safe from harm if used correctly. Mostly. Just mind the sparks if you are wearing flip-flops at the time. This is the Voice of Experience speaking. Ahem.

I am also QUITE willing to forgive the fact that, apparently, not one of you own a calendar (and clearly STILL don’t) and started the Lose-a-Limb Fest on the 3rd, rather than waiting until the next day. You were excited!! You wanted to hear things go BOOM!!

Fine. That’s absolutely FINE.

In spite of all this, though, I am in a bit of a quandary. The Beast and Scourge of the Neighbor Round the Corner’s Lawn, you see, is petrified of firecrackers. And M-80s. Even your average regulation cap-gun type noises. And, heaven help us, a thunderstorm will render her apoplectic.

Now I am perfectly willing to sit at home with the Beast for the whole of the 4th of July when everyone else is out cooking hamburgers and drinking themselves into oblivion. Yes, I will deal with the discomfort of having a one-hundred pound dog trying to jump into my arms and/or squeeze herself into the four inches of free space between me, my chair and my desk. She has to go out to use the loo, however, and this, THIS, my fine fellows, is where I draw the line. She can hold it in for the entire evening of the 4th–it’s quite amazing. This is fine.

However, since YOU assclowns are unaware that the 4th, oddly enough, ends on the 4th, you keep continuing to light fucking firecrackers every five bloody minutes. I can only walk her in the morning when you lot are at work/playing your Nintendos/sleeping off your hang-overs. The minute I take her out in the afternoon, one of you nimrods inevitably light a firecracker and she refuses to leave the house. Or shoots right back for the door. And sometimes she CAN’T hold it in.

You can understand my problem here, yes??

What’s the deal, dearies?? What are you celebrating now?? Is Pathmark having a buy two get one free sale on Oscar Mayer wieners?? Toys ‘R Us giving away copies of War of Guitar Heroes Mario Brothers Grand Theft Call of Duty 17 and a half the Godfather Edition??

Ah!! Perhaps you intend on carrying on until Bastille Day in order to show solidarity with our baguette-wielding brethren in France??

Let me tell you something, my fine fellows. If this shit carries on for one more bloody day, you’re going to see the Beast taking care of business on your front porch every day for the next fucking CENTURY.

You will be billed for paper towels, Pine-sol, and any other cleaning materials necessitated for the duration of your idiocy.

And you will find yourself with the business end of a Roman Candle shoved up your arse–in what may possibly be the worlds first Gunpowder-induced enema.

Hugs ‘n kisses.

Love,

Babs

I knew I’d seen him creep back into the shadows, I was positive. I wasn’t losing my mind–of this I was sure.

It’s quite startling, too. Especially when you’re in what you always thought was a safe place. You can’t eat. You can’t sleep. You can’t breath without wondering whether or not the bastard is out there lurking somewhere. Sleepless nights. Caffeine-fueled days with the requisite jittery nerves. Always seeing things out of the corner of your eye. Jumping at the slightest noise.

I’d begged Trash to go out and have a look–he did, armed with a weapon, to boot. He saw nothing–not a thing, and looked at me with the infamous ‘God. She’s sooooooooooooooo paranoid’ Glare of Exasperation.

Then he laughed.

LAUGHED at me.

I knew I was on my own. Fear gnawed away at my soul every night. Soon, though, as always happens, you forget to be scared. You forget he’s out there somewhere.

You forget–and you drop your guard.

And that’s when he strikes. Maybe he wants your cash. Maybe he’s looking for jewelry and electronics to hock for The Habit.

Hell, he might be ready to kill, for all you know.

I knew, though. I KNEW. Somewhere in the back of my brain, at least.

I’d gone out to do something quickly–I wasn’t even dressed properly. Pajamas and bare feet. Hell, who needs to get all gussied up for mundane chores about the house?? Often is the time I’ve walked the dog in my (endearing, I swear to GOD endearing) Tinkerbell pj bottoms with a t-shirt and my fuzzy faux-leopard slippers. Ponytail/bun hybrid completing the *cough* endearing ensemble.

Quite the sexpot, oui??

Oh, oui oui.

I walked out and there he was–I saw him standing there, bold as anything.

His back was to me though, and he hadn’t heard me in my barefooted state.

I panicked. I wasn’t sure what to do.

Should I run??

Should I stay and defend myself??

Screaming would be useless. There was no one around to hear.

I was on my own.

Utterly alone.

I decided I had to take a stand.

I gritted my deeth, let out a war cry, and attacked.

I brought the glass ice cream bowl down on his head.

I kept bashing him and bashing him til I saw nothing but pulp and brains.

I don’t regret it. I have no remorse over my actions. I’d do it again if push came to shove. A girl has every right to defend herself, god dammit.

I will not, WILL NOT, allow my life to be endangered.

Especially not by a three inch long motherfucking beetle.

Ok. No piss-poor excuses for my not posting lately. No claims of semi-working for Birdie, EFL, and Annie; nor whinging about having to run errands forMaternal Unit What is Still Down Souf; nor Dim running away from his brand-spanking-new group home.

Nope!! None of it.

I plead procrastinating fucktard.

But an ENDEARING procrastinating fucktard. Ahem.

Anyhoo. I don’t recall if I’d mentioned this or not in passing, but quite a few months back Trash morphed from a Caveman into a Modern Technology Minion we all knew lurked beneath. To wit: he purchased a cell phone.

With this phone he can take pictures, send and receive texts, listen to music. And what’s that other thing cell phones are for??

Hang on, let me think.

Ah yes!! He can even make phone calls on it!!

Amazin’ this newfangled technology, innit??

So eventually word of his number got all around town. Including towns Down Souf. There is only one person Down Souf with a cell phone. Now I’ve been trying to NOT mention a Certain Party here on the blog for reasons which we all know. Reasons which I am also fairly sure make the lot of you think I’m the biggest paranoiac on the planet. I can justify my insanity quite well, thanks very much. Hey!! You all saw that happened back in 2006. Tell me I’m wrong!!

That’s what I thought.

Now, do not, for one tiny moment, think that just because Ma is down there again helping out with certain matters that this whittles a Certain Party’s fun-loving and completely ridiculous thought processes down to ‘Mildly Clinical’ from, say, ‘Completely Fucking Bizarre and in Need of Medication’ As we all know, such a thing cannot occur. It would be like asking Richard Simmons to act manly and wear shorts that are not A) sparkly B) far too short and C) vaguely reminiscent of something an 70’s roller derby girl would wear.

With me so far??

Yay!!

So. Certain Party eventually got wind of Trash’s number. Which is all well and good and fine because hey!! Um, well, there’s no big whoop about Certain Partyand Trash texting.

Or: SO ONE WOULD THINK!!

First Certain Party told Ma to stop making light of the fact that Certain Partywas texting Trash for one reason or another. Then informed Ma that she has NO idea what her son is like; certain person knows FAR more than Ma. Or something. I know Ma was told to Stop Mentioning It.

(also: Felix. If you are reading this and mention ONE FUCKING WORD to said party you will be pissing through your nostrils for the next 6.7 years. Capish??)

This is kind of like how Certain Party knew, and subsequently told me, that my epilepsy–the cause of which is unknown to any neuroin the Greater NYC Area beyond the phrase ‘Well, the clinical picture is that your frontal lobe is fooked, Babs, you spaz and we don’t know why’–that I am the way I am because my father dropped me on my head as a baby.

They know this, seemingly, in spite of the fact that not only were they born a year after me, but lived a good 2000 miles away at the time, too. Roight!! I wish *I* had these kinds of ESP-esque/Reverse Prognosticatory Powers.

Anyway.

{God. GOD, Babs, the point already, the fucking POINT!!}

Certain Party was speaking to me today. And posed the following query:

‘Say, Babs. What are you going to do if Trash decides to get his own place?? Where would you go?? He IS 28 you know. And he’s not going to want to take care of/help out his sister forever. What about when he gets a GF and wants to get married??’

Now let me preface this by saying myself and Trash have already discussed this issue (or similar). Ages back. I had thought of this very thing in this questionable time of upheaval and disarray. To wit: What if Ma actually decided to move Down Souf?? (Ma says this is still definitely Not Happening, but you know, best to be prepared in advance for a sudden change in events). Were Ma to do this I would DEFINITELY not join her unless I had NO OTHER CHOICE. I wanted Trash to know that, IN NO WAY SHAPE OR FORM, should he feel any need to say, stay here because he feels obliged to help me etc. Or feel guilty were he to get his own place. I was adamant, ADAMANT, that he let me know. And I told him of the many things I could do as an alternative while/after I get the Govn’t Leech Spazzy Disability Decision (also, Trash was one of the most ardent supporters of the ‘Invoke the Leech Disabilty Plan’). His reply to me, after my assuring him repeatedly that he was not to feel bad/guilty/like a fucktard in any way shape or form was: ‘Don’t be a dick, Babs. If I move, you move with me. It’ll be fine and I’m not about to chuck you on the street’

{Another thing, and I think I ought to point this out, Trash does not ‘take care of me’ per se. Sure he and Ma chip in the major portions with regards to groceries, bills and such. But anything I need I either get myself with Birdie/EFL/Annie earnings or I simply go without til I’ve saved enough. And any of MY money gets thrown into the kitty for groceries etc, too. In return I cook dinner, try to make the apartment halfway liveable, do the shopping etc. I don’t just sit around fucking loafing. And I do not for one moment assume or believe that I’ll need Ma/Manson/ or Trash to help me out forever. This is temporary. In caseanyone was thinking otherwise. Ahem}

Call me crazy, but I, for whatever reasons, trust BOTH of my brothers (and Ma) implicitly. Sure they have their faults, foibles and bouts of fucktardery. As do I. When push comes to shove, though, I pretty much think they have my back. And I have theirs and do my best to help. I think.

I explained all of the above to Certain Party. Who retorted ‘Well. I think you should be very worried about this. You can’t trust everything’ I volleyed back with an answer of ‘Even if Trash WERE contemplating striking out on his own (which, for the record, is near on impossible at the mo, thus a moot point) he would CERTAINLY let me know well in advance’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. I know a lot more about Trash than you think I do–I’ve been talking to him. And I wouldn’t be surprised if something was in the works already. I’m just letting you know’

(Something to that effect)

‘Well, I happen to think otherwise. Oog!! Knock at the door. I’m going to have to go now’

If Certain Party thinks I am stupid enough to believe this tripe in an attempt to (what I think is possibly) scare me into moving Down Souf and talking Ma into doing so they are SORELY mistaken.

For, when it comes right down to it, who do I trust more??

The person who has told me I’m fat in weird way/would be a bad, abusive mother so it’s better that I don’t have kids/my family is low-class white trash/that I’m an idiot for many and varied reasons/my father dropped me on my head as a baby and caused my every woe??

Or my brother who has NEVER accused me of any of the above and only steals my socks and conditioner??

I’m thinking trust the sock thief.

Just a hunch, mind.

Have finally, FINALLY written moronic mile-long post.

Am not happy with it, though really, it isn’t ALL that bad.

After all, it contains Certain Party Whingery!!

I am a fucking retard.

Discuss.

I have been slacking here because:

1) In the middle of major bloody heat wave and can barely lift arms to type, let alone think of anything to say.

2) I made the request for a Certain Sibling (who may or may not be Trash) to install the air conditioner. Given the events of last year, can anyone make a guess as to whether or not this request has been fulfilled?? Answers in essay form, please.

3) Am currently awaiting answer from Govn’t Leech Disability Branch (read: the much dreaded social security) as to whether or not I am spazzy enough to be a fucking ‘tard.

(They made me take an intelligence test, you know. I am pleased to inform you that I think I failed the math portion spectacularly. The trivia questions, however, were fucking ridiculous. Who wrote Hamlet?? Who was president during the Civil War?? Who was MLK jr?? The only question I got wrong was who wrote bloody Faust–which is really a trick question, to my way of thinking. I didn’t try to fake stupidity or anything on advice of a friend who is in a similar line of work, and said they are trained to spot Big Phat Trivia Phaking Phibbers)

4) Spent a good portion of last week diapering an elderly cat. You know you’re really a sad bastard when your friends are all flitting around the globe and you’re the go-to woman when it comes to dealing with incontinent felines.

5) At most recent neuro appointment the eminent Dr Pinky and the Brain noticed what I had always thought of as a sort of ‘brain fart’. She is of the opinion that said brain farts are ACTUALLY petit mal (absence) seizures. Bringing my grand total of types of fits up to three. THREE TYPES!! None of which have been sorted properly!!

*laughs in manner of the Count from Sesame street*

6) I have chosen not to believe #5.

7) My *other* recent problems medicular (read: edema, painters gone missing) may or may not be tied to the new fit drug. I suspect this because not only am I a paranoid fucktard, but I looked up the side effects and lo!! Both were listed. Under the ‘Severe–contact doctor immediately’portion. I am not sure if I believe this yet or not. It’s hard to decipher whether all of this stems from ’side effects’ or, rather, being a Fat Bastard with a Retardovary. All I know is that drinking tons of water is not helping the fucking matter.

8 ) Dammit!! I have just staved off a Killer Beetle Attack!! It was crawling on my bed and I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Gah!! Gah!! Gah!!

9) Oh yea, that last post?? Totally lost my train of thought and was shite anyway. I shall revisit said subjects, separately, at some time in the future.

10) My friends are now advising that I freeze my bloody eggs. And I do not mean the dozen in my fridge. This means they think I am a lost cause. Which, truthfully, I could have told them years ago. This is mildly depressing, though not unexpected; for the past few months they have been hatching all sorts of hare-brained schemes.

11) For some inexplicable reason I have been singing ‘Goodbye Mrs Durkin’ All. Bloody. Night. I am as good a Plastic Paddy as the next girl is, but this is driving me to the brink of insanity. I need a new earworm. NOW.

12) I have gained eight bloody pounds. Though for the past three weeks I have been, if anything, exercising more, not less. This vexes me mightily.

13) My stereo, the famed Piece of Shit Aiwa What Doesn’t Play CDs Anymore, is annoying me further. Now, when I go to turn the volume down, it goes up. When I turn the volume up, it goes up. I fear for my eardrums. And possible complaints from EFL, given my tendency to turn on said POSAWDPCA at 3 AM.

14) I want to go to Bimini. For a week. This will never happen. Soon-ish, at least.

If there is a Spinster’s Hell, I have discovered it.

It resides in a misogynistic-looking building and comes with torture devices ensconced within its sinister walls.

I speak of none other than the local mammogram clinic.

You may recall that, last October or so, Dr WhateverIpseudonymedhimandcantbearsedtolookinthearchivestojogmymemory gave me a lovely birthday present. That present being a Golden Ticket to the local Melon Squishing Emporium, so as to give the girls their first ever starring roles as x-ray 1 and x-ray 2.

Lurvely. Or not, as it turns out, for we of the fairer sex (and a few lads who are buxom boys themselves) know full well that it hurts like a motherfucker.

I could handle that, though. For I am Babs Geller!! I can leap grand mal seizures in a single bound!! Melon Squishery??–pah, it would be a cakewalk.

First of all, allow me a complaint. Before one traverses to said clinic in order to flatten the girls out into something resembling an oddly shaped crepe, they give you a warning: Do!! Not!! Wear!! Deodorant!! For this, apparently, can lead to false-positives in testing. And this is all well and good for Those Who Have Cars, as they can ride in quick air-conditioned and non-sweaty comfort. But for We Who Must Traverse an Hour and a Half to the Other Side of the Island for said test??

Not so much.

Especially when your bus has no working air conditioner. And you are a deodorant junkie to begin with. I do not walk out of my bedroom without having madesure that I’m Sure. So traversing to the other side of this godforsaken rock sans de-smellification power??

I was not a happy camper (though I am happy to say that, when I arrived I was not at all whiffy. Hear me world!! I can safely go two hours without a bit of Suave Powder Fresh Deodorant!! Can you believe I’m saying this?? Nor me. But hey!! You can all breathe a collective sigh of relief knowing that I now know I am semi-ok for at least two hours. Yes, you’re welcome).

Jesus. I’m digressing here and there too much. I’ve got main points I wish to discuss (oh god. really?? REALLY?? Are you THAT juvenile?? Read it properly, twit).

Thing 1: Anytime we of the female type are asked to take this sort of test (or similar) involving x-rays, radiation, and whatever other sort of voodoo that they do to acquire pictures of your inside bits they ask for your Last Date of Crankiness and Hurling of Pottery. I made a critical error in telling what is commonly known as Da Troof.The last time I flung a Correlle plate in a fit of Hormonal Hysteriawas roughly the second week of April. Ish. Which, to the trained eye who is NOT aware of Babs and her Retarded Ovonic Symphony Orchestra, would give them pause. And they will say, as the girl did, ‘Oi, Babs. Sure you’re not knocked up?? I may have to give you a pregnancy test’

{And, really. How funny is it now that the painters are nowhere to be seen, yet mere months ago they were in for two or three weeks at a go?? You’re damn skippy I’m going to be ringing Ye Olde Chick Quack soon. And how}

This question, for the single spinster, is akin to asking *someone who has some comedic, though tragic, disorder what I can’t think of* if they’ve *related question that will reduce the askee to tears*. I assured the girl that no, there was no conceivable way that I could be With Midget. And I’m quite sure that had she pressed me into taking said test I would have dissolved into a puddle of Lamenting Hormonal Tears. Especially when all my friends (read: two in particular) have been constantly reminding me that I’m nearly thirty-six. And forty is just around the corner. They cannot fathom that I’ve accepted that fact that Hey!!–it might not ever happen for me. And I can deal with it. Maybe. Nor are they happy with my adamant stance with regards to being married etc before I foist a horde of spazlets upon the earth. Annie, in particular, is vocal about this. First suggesting that I attack Bulldog when he allegedly visits in July in order to procure a Person of the Babs and Bulldog extraction. Then becoming cross with me when I flat out disregard her advice with mail-a-pop (read: frozen swimmers via mail?? Are they KIDDING??). Shirley, of course, semi-backs Annie. And tries to convince me to have a one-night stand with a redneck in any of the bars where she lives (though,to be fair, she thinks there’s husband material in them thar bars for me, too). Because THAT’S the kind of fella I wish to join forces in some warped Epileptical/Hillbilly Power Base.

Um. You know what?? Not so much.

Then of course it goes back to just ‘how picky I am’ and Annie cites the fact that the Weirdo Redneck who was staring at me in the bar years back, whom she claims *was* kind of cute. And that I was just being *snobby* and *picky*. Because, you know my kind of man, naturally, is some guy who stares at me for four hours, then approaches me and proceeds to stick his face an inch away from my tits. Yet *I*was being picky when I punched him and told him to go fuck himself (mind Annie claims I ignored him all night, which is evidence of my pickiness). Of course!! That’s it!!

{Warning: This is definitely going to end up to be continued because I’m totally off subject now–and hey!! We haven’t discussed what happened at the Melon Squishing Emporium}

Then we have the fact that I haven’t been on a date since the Pleistocene Era. In fact a month or so ago Annie talked me into putting a profile up on a dating site. Which I reluctantly did. And I fucked it off the next day when a majority of the messages I received were quite obviously fellows who not only wanted Stick Figures, but wanted to chat about nothing but Doing The Deed. The fuck?? I don’t think so, Chuckleheads!!

And that reminds me. Did I ever tell you about an event from a few months back?? When Mariel had a brainstorm?? Her cell rang whilst she was over here having dinner. She, myself, and Trash were playing Scrabble (Oh the life I lead!!). I was being a Smartass. And made a remark obviously intended for the fellow she was chatting to on her phone (Hey. I’m fun like that!!). Said fellow says ‘Hey!! Put her on the phone!!’ Conversation ensued and it was quite a bit of good fun, but I was interrupted when the landlord rang in the throes of a sugar attack. I made my apologies, handed back the cell and was downstairs for the better part of an hour and a half. That boy STAYED ON THE PHONE talking to Mariel and waited for me to come back.

Ok. Fine. Was a bit of fun. Then we had to leave the house for some reason or another. And though the fellow told Mariel to quit whinging about her minutes, she said No Bloody Wayand I finally got him to hang up ten minutes later. The next night Mariel calls me. Says said fellow doesn’t want to be pushy, but thinks I’m a smartass, dead funny etc etc (or something) and can he call me?? I give Mariel the green light. He calls and More Phone Silliness Ensues. The discussion turns to ‘looks’ and he’s already dropped a good many hints the he is interested in Nothing But Stick Figures. And also, he digs Spanish chicks, so he’s confounded by this chick on the phone, as I’m clearly not his type. So I say, ‘Ah, alas, then it isn’t to be so, for I am a half Viking. And built like a right tackle’ He inquires as to ‘Exactly how big is big?? Surely not, like, Mariel sized??’ I admit not only Mariel sized, but bigger than she. And I play the age old card of ‘Well surely looks aren’t everything, no??’ Which he counters with, ‘Why of course not, but I mean surely one must have PARAMETERS’

Oh!! Oh!! Oh!! I nearly forgot, I had also divulged during ‘Deep Dark Secret Time’ that ex-asshole number two had tried to off himself because I was a heifer. For he had first divulged one of HIS big deep dark secrets. And then went a bit depressive during same. And I told him this to illustrate that, no, junior, you’re not the ONLY one who has dealt with bullshit in the whole dating deal. And this dimwit actually says ‘Well surely you can understand why he did such a thing’

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The only reason I hadn’t hung up on him at that point was because A) He was a friend of Mariel’s B) I told him what an ass he was for saying such a thing and C)during the course of the conversation I discovered that he was a bloody manic-depressive, medicated to the HILT, between jobs and sleeping on his mother’s couch (Facts which Mariel had forgotten to mention previous. Which, hello!! I’ve got enough drama with the lunatics here!!-I don’t need a side order of THAT). I stayed on the phone out of politeness and in the hopes he wouldn’t off himself for he had gone even MORE depressive-y (likely because I was heifery).

Check this out: he starts whinging about how all the girls on this island won’t date a fellow unless he’s driving a mercedes and wearing a Rolex. And god forbid you have a bit of a potbelly and don’t make a ton of money, says he.

I answer back ‘Why I know EXACTLY what you mean. Honestly. Every man on this island will bitch and whine about what the gorgeous bitchy chicks want but they won’t date a decent chick if they’re the slightest bit overweight’

He answers ‘EXACTLY!! You know what I mean!!’

And I shout, ‘Aha!!’ at his obvious hypocrisy re: yours truly and her thunderous thighs. He then backpedals and tries to qualify his arguments with the whole ‘parameters’ thing and blaming all the OTHER men on the island while attempting to validate his own idiocy.

So yes, I was, in theory, turned down by a jobless manic depressive who lives on his mother’s couch because *I* am a heifer. Yet HE was such a bloody catch. Ahem.

{Let me be clear, once I found out about all his baggage [including a side-order of a half hour lament about his ex wherein it became patently clear he was still obsessed with her] I had no intention of going on a date with him AT ALL}

God, but I can get off the subject sometimes.

{to be continued}