Annnnnd the Lawsuits Begin...

These are filled with flaming shit. I plan to dump both of them on the sorry-assed lawyer who just filed his frivolous lawsuit in Newtown, Connecticut. But wait…that’s kind of like pouring water on water. Huh.

 

Less than two weeks after the hideous mass-murder at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, an attorney has filed a lawsuit against the STATE OF CONNECTICUT for…wait for it…100 MILLION DOLLARS.

Now, I completely understand that most rational people feel outrage and befuddlement at the senseless slaughter of young children and the adults entrusted with their care and education. Most people, too, probably have an unreachable itch, a nagging desire that someone needs to pay. Sadly, the person responsible for the carnage isn’t available for a public stoning. The initial anger that boiled the collective heart of our nation—and possibly the civilized world—no doubt could have propelled even the sweetest of us to hurl a stone on the pile. The fact that the young man was clearly mentally ill tempered my ire enough for me to see that nothing that we could do to him would restore the broken families and the lost trust that his insane actions created. Unfortunately, blood lust still exists. And so does avarice. ALWAYS avarice. In abundance.

So. Huh. Why shouldn’t someone have to pay for the unimaginable wreck in Newtown? Shouldn’t someone carry the costs of burying the victims, of restoring or renovating the school, of creating a program or system of prevention, of continuing medical care for any injured parties? That’s where things go awry. WHO should foot those costs? And WHO should receive the benefits? The lawyer for the SIX-YEAR-OLD survivor of the Sandy Hook shootings said, “We all know it’s going to happen again. Society has to take action” (http://usnews.nbcnews.com/_news/2012/12/29/16233914-lawyer-for-newtown-shooting-survivor-seeks-to-file-100-million-lawsuit?lite).

Ahhhhh. I see now. The six-year-old’s receiving $60 million dollars—after the lawyer gets his 40—will keep this from happening again. The child is one of the hundreds in attendance at Sandy Hook that horrible morning who heard the screams and shots over the intercom. She has been traumatized, and $100 million will salve her wounds. Are you fucking kidding me?!? This kid’s parents are no better than the asshats who immediately started scamming for “funds to benefit the Sandy Hook victims” as soon as the news broke.

Can you imagine how the bereft parents of the children who died feel about this crap? Gee, we’re so sorry that your surviving, living, breathing daughter is so fucking traumatized. Maybe some millions of dollars will help. And the mother-fucking snake who has filed the lawsuit should be ashamed to death although there isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that he is. Gahhhhhhh. I hate it when greedy ballsacks behave like greedy ballsacks! The state of Connecticut is immune from being sued unless permission is granted by the state claims commission. Here’s hoping and praying that permission is swiftly denied and that any future offensive litigation is effectively quashed. At least NOW we all have a target for our incredible fury.

Dear Brooke...

Read the early blogs. Bloggurl's daughter doesn't know EVERYTHING.

Judgment, Smudgment

Obviously, the idiot on the far right wasn't even paying attention to the performance, and the asshat next to her has a painful hemorrhoid that makes him a dick.

So I was in Wal Mart today—which anyone who knows me will hardly believe because I spend such a small percentage of my time in Wal Mart (i.e., 99.3%)—and this husband and wife were waiting at the photo developing counter while I staggered up to return a wrong-size fitted sheet in the adjacent customer-service area. First, the wife scanned me from head to toe with a look on her face that clearly indicated she had recently soiled herself and was just now getting a whiff. Then she elbowed her husband and, still sneering my way, said something under her probably ass-scented breath that made him turn and look at me. And he was a real looker too. Lush, salt-and-pepper hair. All three of them. Tall and dark. In an ethnic Hobbit sort of way. She’s a very lucky bitc…woman.

Fortunately for him, he noticed that I noticed the two of them in their judgment, so he rapidly turned crimson and stopped in mid-comment. Both of them appeared momentarily flustered and then turned their backs, presumably to talk with the photo employee who wasn’t there yet. I was so shocked that I’d just been dissed by these two fellow Wal Marters that I laughed heartily and tsked in their general direction. Then I loudly recounted the incident to my husband and then to my daughter so that anyone in the vicinity of my voice (i.e., in Indiana) could experience vicariously the judgment to which I’d just been subjected.

And the whole sordid event got me thinking. What judgmental assholes! First of all, who even gets photos developed anymore? Haven't you fuckers heard of digital cameras? Join us in the 21st century, dick-suckers!

Second, who the fuck in Wal Mart has any business judging anyone else in the entire world? Wal Mart shoppers are poor and have visible ass-cracks. I should know because I have 27 dollars in the bank, and my jeans tend to inch down in the back when I ride on those motorized carts that I have to use since my unfortunate fall in a big box store that shall remain nameless.

Third, I have seen enough judgmental bullshit in connection with my mentally ill daughter whose medications have caused her to gain over 100 pounds in the past year to last until we work our way through the goddamned Mayan calendar again. Let me tell you, one of the most awesome things a person can ever do is to snigger condescendingly and sling personal insults at my challenged child. That’s because I have a fucking claw hammer I haven’t really broken in quite yet.

But you know, I just hate judgmental assholes because they don’t realize the obvious: they are fucking smears of wormy dogshit on a bathroom floor in a really scuzzy bar in some sleazy part of a drug-infested and lawless Mexican town. Judgmental assholes think that physical attractiveness or athletic prowess or a fat wallet and North Face ® fleece make them something. The truth is that NO ONE is anything. We are all just flawed, struggling pieces of a big puzzle trying to get back together. All of the pieces are necessary to complete the picture, and no piece is any more important than any other. Even you corner pieces, so shut the fuck up. As for you, you sorry-assed, sack-nuzzling, shit-licking mother fuckers at the Wal Mart photo developing stand, keep your fucking worthless judgment to yourselves.

 

The Christmas Situation

Ummmm. Is it just me, or does it look like the Holy Family ought to get the hell out of the barn?! Incoming!

So here it is, that season when people get all charitable (i.e., filled with guilt) and help their neighbors (whom they ignore 11 months out of 12) and spend quality time with their families (mostly by ignoring the heavy pall of butt-gas in the overcrowded room). Yes, it’s CHRISTMAS! The most wonderful time of the year!

I have always adored Christmas—especially the music. White Christmas, Winter Wonderland, Silver Bells, Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire…Ahhhhhhh. I could listen to velvety voices of Karen Carpenter, Bing Crosby, and Johnny Mathis all year long. And sometimes I do. Just to annoy other people in July.

Another element of Christmas that I love is the decorating. I own 23 plastic tubs full of things to make my season bright. In my defense, I forced myself to discard some items last year, and eliminated 3 whole tubs. So. Yeah.

My mother passed along in my DNA her innate design capabilities, and I can create a Christmas tree almost as spectacular as one of hers. She erected a stunning tree each year, and she ensured that it was elegant by not allowing my brother or me to touch a single needle. One year, I found an open package of silver tinsel—which looked like excessively long, shiny angel hair pasta—lying on the dining room table. I’d studied how Mother’d pinched a hank of tinsel in between two fingers and a thumb; how she’d stood back looking for the perfect spot that had needed more sparkle; how she’d flipped the silver strands onto the tree, all wrist action and precision.

So I gave it a go, and damned if my one, little addition didn’t make the whole tree look like shit. Unfortunately, once the tinsel is on the tree, it takes a degree in aerospace technology to remove it. Yeah. My mom came. She saw. She screeched. For a long, long time. So my bruised ego and new asshole and I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room.   

What sucks is that I have learned that my mother was right. If one wishes to have a lovely, HGTV-worthy Christmas tree, one must keep the children far, far away. My daughters—adults, really—should know how to decorate a tree properly. But should know is a freaking long way from know.

All through Thanksgiving week this year, the girls insisted that they be allowed to ornament our pre-lighted 7-footer. When they assembled the thing by inserting the middle section onto the stand first and then couldn’t figure out the difference between the much larger bottom third and the tapered top, I should’ve had that first whiff of understanding. This is what happens when parents don’t pay attention. One minute, you’re not looking, and the next minute, your child is on t.v. for an armed robbery that you never saw coming.

So, after I solved the enigmatic, three-piece puzzle, I provided a short tutorial on “fluffing” the tree branches. When a tree has been in storage for a year, its poor limbs have been smashed and folded in hideous ways. Each 7-pronged branch must have its arms straightened and then its ends slightly curled upwards so that anyone with blocked nasal passages would believe the tree had been freshly killed right in our own backyard.

My girls made some cursory fluffs here-and-there and then jumped on hanging the ornaments. We have everything from hand-painted Italian orbs to chunky stars of green-tinted rice made by one of the girls in pre-K. The overall design of a finished tree should be an eclectic and perfectly balanced mix of nostalgia and shimmer. But when the girls pronounced the tree “finished,” WTF?

My children are NEVER touching my tree again. Ever. The matted branches looked like homeless-people hair, and there were gaping holes, blank spots and then jumbles of ornaments in clusters. Students from a fucking blind academy could have done a better job. Limbless people flinging ornaments with their teeth could have done a better job. I could’ve dug up my mother, and her dead-self could have done a better job. Plus she could’ve shown me how to make that dressing for which she forgot to leave me a recipe.   

Damn. Kids today! They don’t know anything. They have no clue how to decorate a Christmas tree. They don’t understand Christmas music that doesn’t have a techno-beat or a caterwauling former Disney star. They think that Bing is just a freaking search-engine, for Christ’s sake! Christmas is supposed to be filled with joy and beauty and holiness. And that does not include the exclamation, “Holy shit!” upon viewing one’s Christmas tree.