Sunday, August 29, 2010

In which Our Hero tries to shove an entire quart of Rita's Cherry Italian Ice into his mini-refrigerator's tiny little freezer section

So I'm doing my best to stay awake and actually complete the work I've got pending for tomorrow morning when I hear a knock on the door at the bottom of the stairs. To my surprise, it's Little Miss Tripping Balls holding a giant quart of Rita's fucking Cherry Italian Ices, gratis, for both myself and Third Party, who is sleeping off the fatigue of having to deal with a weekend visit from their vile troglodytic parents.

What the fuck am I supposed to do with 12 pounds of cherry-flavored shaved ice? Is this some sort of god damned joke? I've got a fucking mini fridge. The freezer compartment is about the size of a stick of butter; these things were designed for dorm rooms for the love of Zombie Hipster Jesus (he was nailed to a cross before it was cool).

I wanted to dump it on her god damned head and wipe that smug fucking look off her face. Does she think we can be bought by god damned crunchy water with some red food coloring thrown in? I need at least 2 pints of Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream to even consider any favors. Hell, if she really wanted to get on my good side, maybe she could clean out the fucking sink downstairs in the kitchen that's teeming with mother fucking fruit flies because
of the rotting corn cobs and tomatoes and Flying Spaghetti Monster-knows what else rotting in the bowels of their plumbing systems.

White-hot rage burns itself out quickly, however, and I find myself embracing the annoyed apathy expressed by our good friend the bubo virgianus here:

I need to find my fucking Xanax.

Saturday, August 28, 2010

In which things get really fucking petty and more than a little creepy.

The last twenty four hours have been filled with a ridiculous amount of horseshit, but two things stand out as particularly effulgent beacons of fuckery that just must be shared, both of which revolve around Signore Flailing Retard and his wonderful fiancée leaving for the weekend to go to another fucking LARP.

The two of them left last afternoon at around 2 o'clock or so; I remember the time pretty clearly because I was working upstairs in my little Anne Frank Apartment at 1 when that chucklehead stuck his head through the door and bellowed that they were getting ready to go, and I was still banging away on my work assignment when his cock holster girlfriend did the same thing approximately an hour later. Normally the event of them leaving for a weekend is met with much rejoicing, even though we have to watch their two coprophagic little flea buffets, but there's already so much shit going on with me thanks to relatives coming out of god damned nowhere that it was just one more thing to do.

Still, the two of them are gone, and everyone seems to breathe a little easier. My relative shows up at about 3 and I give him a quick tour of the filthy locale before heading out for some free food, and on the way out I notice the Benefactor (Who Simply Does Not Give a Shit) seated not at his usual computer station but at his daughter's. I file it away in the part of my brain that isn't salivating at the prospect of food I don't have to pay for and don't give it a thought until my return later that evening.

The house is empty; as usual on a weekend any time after 5 PM, the Great White Beast of a pickup truck is parked, probably across three spaces, at the nearest bar. Knowing that the dogs have been in their little crate for a few hours, preparations are made for releasing them and letting them careen down the stairs, probably shitting the whole way, and I pass by Little Miss Tripping Balls' computer screen.

There I find the web browser open to a hardcore porn site, complete with bare asses and tits and giant sloppy cunts.

Now I know that Little Miss Tripping Balls isn't getting her rocks off from Signore Flailing Retard, since they're about as passionate a couple as a pair of dead god damned squirrels, but I highly doubted that she would take the morning and schlick her way to happy times in the middle of the day with her father 10 feet away from him. This means that Daddy's probably been cutting his coke with Occam's razor and decided to plop himself down in the chair his daughter was sitting in only a few hours prior, pull out his fucking dongle, and rub one out while amidst the accumulated garbage on the desk in front of him, which I know for a fact includes several pieces of mail where his daughter's name is prominently displayed.

So yes. 58 year old man sitting at his daughter's desk and chair and masturbating while ostensibly looking at porn but also his daughter's full name.

I can think of only one possible reaction:

The other thing, well, it seems absolutely paltry in comparison. Maybe because it doesn't involve implied incest. It does involve some direct bullshit from both cuntwrangling douchenozzles, however, in that I got a call this morning from a mutual friend. It turns out that Signore Flailing Retard had called this friend, who I will code-name The Mexican, and bitched to him about inviting myself and Third Party to dinner without inviting himself and Little Miss Tripping Balls along.


The Mexican and his wife, two awesome people with something like 14 children each, have been trying to make tentative plans with both myself and Third Party for a few months now. They've come out to Chucklehead Estate many times over the summer, their brood in tow, to use the pool, hang out, and unfortunately be pressed into slave labor from time to time by Signore Flailing Retard (they were noticeably absent until the late evening at the recent party, most likely to avoid that fate). They're pleasant, down-to-earth people, excellent cooks, and in general just a blast to be around. It helps that the Mexican's wife has some nice god damned tits, too.

We all met this summer, and Third Party and myself hit it off with them pretty damn well, beginning to develop a friendship between the four of us. Recently they invited us out to where they live, just across the border in the wilds of New Jersey, for an overnight stay, and we've been either postponing or rescheduling for a few weeks now, between having no reliable transportation and no money and a myriad of things that just make life fucking complicated, like trying to keep two dogs in a bathtub. Or two testicles in an asshole.

Apparently Third Party mentioned these plans to Little Miss Tripping Balls in passing, stating that it would be rather difficult for us to watch their little bastard dogs overnight if we go out to Mr. and Mrs. Mexican's hacienda sometime in the future. It got back to Signore Flailing Retard, and he placed a call directly to the Mexican to complain that both he and his lovely "girl"friend weren't invited as well.

I was informed of this earlier today by a puzzled phone call placed to Chucklehead Estate, informing me of the new development. The Mexican related the news to me, and I could envision him scratching his head in wry confusion. I simply informed him that our mutual friends were jealous about missing the opportunity for a free meal.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

In which a massive amount of douchebaggery is distilled down to a few hundred words.

Once again it has been several days between now and my last update. Once again, I am thoroughly unapologetic; I've had other shit that needed dealing with. Some quick highlights from the past two weeks have been:
  • preparing for, attending, and then cleaning up from Little Miss Tripping Balls' birthday party
  • battling a flea infestation brought on by two neglected dogs and one neglected cat, neither of which belong to Our Hero
  • extended caring for said dogs and cat in light of the fact that Little Miss Tripping Balls, Signore Flailing Retard, and Our Glorious and Illustrious Benefactor (May His Blood Alcohol Level Never Exceed the Legal Limit) have all been out of the house for extended periods of time
Let's break these down, shall we? The day of my last post was the Monday after a middling-large social gathering to commemorate the eventful day when Little Miss Tripping Balls slid down her mother's vaginal chute into a pile of drugs and money, of which one or the other has she been steadily consuming since that date. There were several key players in attendance, along with several more who just couldn't be bothered to come all the way out to the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania for the privilege of having a shitty time. The farm was in relatively good shape, thanks to the ministrations of Our Hero and Third Party, who had been steadily maintaining the work done on the side patio in addition to the backyard pool and deck areas (despite the giant dogshit landmines everywhere).

Additionally there was a flurry of cleaning and preparation that had taken place that previous Friday when, after an indefinite amount of prompting and and encouragement from outside sources, both SFR and LMTB actually got off their fucking asses and cleaned their shit up and out of the first floor. Of course, their version of "clean" is rather laughable; all the loose pieces of personal property were trundled upstairs and deposited into their dumping ground on the second floor, a dog-shit encrusted room that used to also be their bedroom until they actually moved their bed to a smaller, adjoining room in some asinine bid for World's Most Stupid Couple. I think they're still in the running.

So the pool room was cleansed of all their ridiculous mess, and the shared living room and kitchen space was given a once-over as well. There was some work done outside in addition, such as the vile, reeking cooler hosed out and disinfected before being filled with cheap, evil-smelling beer and the pool cleaned within an inch of its life, but alas they cannot take credit for all of these things themselves; as people began arriving early for the party, they were actually put to work on these tasks. Can you fucking imagine? Later I discover this is why so many people arrived either later in the evening or not at all, as this kind of behavior has occurred several times in the past.

Another reason some people were reticent to come is because their two hosts would routinely, in addition to making their guests clean their filthy house and environs for them, also neglect to purchase adequate amounts of food and drink to actually entertain their guests. Well, in a stroke of altruism and goodwill that is surely forgotten by now, both Third Party and myself got together, pooled our resources in regards to food and drink easily purchased with government aided funds, and went food shopping for the party. We were determined to at least be able to offer some sort of recompense for all the poor assholes that got suckered into coming over for this noxious celebration, and since Signore Flailing Retard and Little Miss Tripping Balls now have no money since Il Benefattore (Lui Che Non Parla Italiano) took his credit card back from the clutches of his vapid little daughter. Hell, TP and I were even the ones who paid for her fucking birthday cake.

But that's neither here nor there; the actions weren't taken for her or her vile fiancé but for their guests, several of which are friends or at least people that don't deserve a slow, painful death. So we did a mitzvah, so what? No expectation of gratitude. Which was not really all that forthcoming.

Behavior displayed during the party was of the head-scratching variety, of course. The general demographics of the party broke down in two ways: close friends of approximately the same age, or newer, younger people known through some retarded LARP game both the Birthday Girl and her remora of a fiancé frequent once a month. The two of them spent the majority of their time with the teenagers over on one side of the house, while the adults were all gathered on the other side, as far away as possible from the kids. There was little to no overlap, save a frightened little boy or girl scurrying outside to grab something from the cooler (which was luckily placed in our demense). Occasionally our Host and Guest of Honor would grace us with their single or combined presence, but we were mostly left to our own devices. From all accounts, it was more preferable that way.

After the weekend was over and everyone had gone home, things went back to normal, of course; this means that the place was slightly rumpled and in need of being policed for empty cans, bottles, and cigarette butts. I personally had to rescue any perishable items from the cooler while there was still some ice left in there keeping it cold, as I wasn't about to let a full gallon of orange juice go bad. I knew that if I didn't pull it out of there and stick it in the fridge, we'd be buried in rot and filth by October when it's opened again for the next ridiculous party.

So as soon as that was done and taken care of, the next week and a half have been a constant struggle to contain and eliminate a massive flea infestation brought upon us by neglect: the decision was made to bring an absolutely wonderful indoor-outdoor cat upstairs and away from the dogs because both I and Third Party would continually find that he had terrible scratches and scabs from when the dogs would play with him much too roughly. As the cat weighs about 10 pounds and the dogs weigh around 35 pounds each, it was an easy decision on our part.

Unfortunately both he and the two dogs were teeming with fleas, which spread to not only any other animals in the area but also any human beings. This resulted in a massive expenditure of funds and effort in such things as two kinds of flea medication for cats, thoroughly vacuuming, cleaning, and linen-washing the contents the entire attic from top to bottom, and giving a bath to four cats.

Think about that. Four cats. Not all at once, thank God - that would have been absolute Bedlam - but one at a time, right after the other. It was a miserable experience, and not just for the cats. Only now have things started to show improvements; last night was the first time in two weeks where I hadn't woken up with my legs teeming with flea bites.

All of this effort could have been avoided by the owners of these God damned pets actually taking care of them, of course. The cat has unofficially been adopted by me and Third Party, so we're comfortable in seeing to his needs, even though he's not fixed yet and we'll have to figure out a way to pay for his neutering, but there's no way in Hell we can take responsibility for two very rambunctious growing dogs. We have been reassured time and again by their owners that the dogs have been given all sorts of preventative flea medications, and while that may be true, unless someone actively cleans the locations where the dogs frequently inhabit indoors, they can become re-infested and start the cycle all over again.

Guess who hasn't taken any efforts to clean the living room, where the dogs are constantly whenever they're not outside, looking for delicious chunks of their own shit to eat? That's right, Little Miss Tripping Balls and Signore Flailing Retard. I'm doubly sure that they haven't cleaned their living space on the second floor as well. This means that even sitting on the couch downstairs to watch television is an impossibility when you constantly feel fleas swarming out at you from the seat cushions.

The only solution would be to not go downstairs unless when absolutely necessary, of course, but not only does that make this little room up here into a prison, it's just not practical, especially since once again the dogs' "owners" have left for the weekend, leaving it to other people to care for the little abused bastards.

And I do mean abused; I had taken them outside Friday night so that they could urinate and defecate outside for a pleasant change when I noticed the fur had all been chewed and scratched off one dog's hindquarters, leaving large patches of exposed skin. Of course this was brought to my attention when he squatted down to expel his foul excrement all over the patio I had just scoured within an inch of its life, but I praised him for shitting outside, like a normal dog, and began to walk towards him to reach the long-handled shit scooper nearby.

He jumped up fearfully, his sphincter still clutching a half-deposited doggie log, and scrambled out of reach of me. He then squatted back down and released his putrescent load, all the while watching me warily, like I was going to rush him and beat him severely for shitting all over the place.

Like it had happened before or something.

It's times like these that make me wonder why I don't drink.

Monday, August 9, 2010

In which Our Hero is unapologetic for his ten day lack of updates.

The past week and a half has been laden with truly succulent fruits that, alas, have been ripe on the vine for much too long; the following shall be a recapitulation of the comings and goings of the beings that inhabit what I've just now decided to call Chucklead Estate.

What in the holy hand grenade have I been doing with myself recently? Well I encountered a truly heinous work assignment from a client last week that involved proofing thirty thousand lines of text, each consisting of an approximately 3 to 5 second audio file. It was about 30 hours of audio altogether. The less said about that, the better; suffice it to say that the client was a company that has one of those text message answering services. You send a text or leave a voicemail asking, "How many cocks can Dick Cheney take at once?" and some schmuck somewhere else has to come up with a witty answer before sending it back.

After perusing 30,000 audio files, the only god damned thing that stands out are the trends. Most often I saw questions about the fucking and/or sucking of cocks, asses, and vaginal orifices; the amount of tree cellulose a marmota monax could fling if such a creature had the ability; who Robert Pattinson was dating; whether Lady Gaga is a hermaphrodite; what Justin Beiber's phone number was; and how many god damned licks it takes to get to the center of some fucking hunk of crystallized candy on a stick.

This is what I did all week. Suddenly I found myself longing for the days when all I had to do was review the recorded inmate calls from Allegheny County Jail and listen to some fine upstanding citizen either constantly accuse his girlfriend of infidelity or beg for money from his 12 year old niece.

There were some bright spots of entertainment last week, however; one such shining example of how this place is a clearinghouse for the bizarre is how Signore Flailing Retard returned home one afternoon from the gun store with two new firearms in tow.

"But wait," you say, "what's so noteworthy about that?" What, indeed? I do after all live in a geographical location lovingly referred to as "Pennsyltucky" by those who are accustomed to an environment with less farmland and more teeth. Why would the purchase of a rifle and a handgun, both little .22 caliber peashooters, be so noteworthy?

Well first of all the firearms were procured in trade. SFR decided, in his infinite wisdom, to trade in the massive penis extender of an assault rifle he hitherto owned for the two smaller caliber weapons due to the fact that the AR-15 is not legal to own in the neighboring state of New Jersey.

For those who are mildly interested in its provenance, the AR-15 is the civilian version of the fucking instrument of death used by the U.S. military since that lovely 10-year police action in Southeast Asia, the M-16. It differs only from its military counterpart by lacking the ability to fire in a fully automatic setting, which means that you can only launch its massive ammunition one round at a time. Imagine your disappointment when being limited to throwing slugs the size of ballpoint pens downrange only as fast as you can pull the trigger. Quel dommage!

With that informational tangent now concluded, let us return to our regularly scheduled demonstration of towering intellect: Signore Flailing Retard traded in his giant bolt thrower for two little baby man guns because he plans to move with Little Miss Tripping Balls back to his home state of New Jersey sometime soon. Whether this is before or after living off the Federal and State government for a protracted period of time is not known to me, but The Plan is In Place.

The rifle is for him, of course; he simply loves the feel of its long, thick weight in his hands. He grasps it lovingly, caressing the barrel with the reverence of a convert. The handgun is for his lovely fiancée, however. This way he's not afraid to leave his house lest the wild Nigras of south Jersey break down the door and gang rape the lass at the slightest provocation, depositing their thick chocolate syrup betwixt her creamy vanilla thighs in an attempt to dilute the purity of the Master Race.

I will take this moment to relate some further information in regards to SFR: he was born and raised in a south Jersey trailer park. That statement is not hyperbolic; it is undisputed truth. His mother, in fact, still lives in the same trailer park, perhaps even the same trailer. From what I hear, it's quite lovely.

For some time before moving into Chucklehead Estate with Little Miss Tripping Balls (a day that will live in infamy), both he and she lived together in a separate trailer home, which they refer to in loving nostalgia as "their house." Now, go take a look in the mirror. Look at the incredulity on your face right now. You look that way because the idea of referring to a corrugated aluminum shipping container with cheap vinyl siding and a cable TV hookup as a "house" is about as logical as the thought of hammering yourself in the testicles with a ball-peen hammer until it starts to feel good.

This man has been riding a wave of bullshit for so long I honestly believe his wet suit is cutting off the circulation to his brain. Not only is he Grade-A 100% Shanty Irish trailer trash, complete with vociferous disdain for the Jews and the Nigras and Those God Damned Faggots (and don't let him get started on the Mexicans), he's got Little Miss Tripping Balls wrapped around his finger.

Well, he can pack up his shit and go trundling off to that horrible festering swamp of a state, and he can take his lovely fiancée with him. Undoubtedly he'll have her in the kitchen squirting out a new generation of prematurely balding potato-nosed IRA supporters in no time, despite their fervent claims to "not want to bring children into a world like this."

Do you know that moment when you hear something so stupid that you actually lose the ability to communicate in a reasonable manner? That moment when your medulla oblongata overrides your higher brain functions and makes your vocal cords seize up so that even if you were able to formulate a sentence in your head that could refute the immense willful ignorance of what you've just heard, out of self-preservation it won't let you?

Yeah, I spend most of my days just smiling and nodding.