Is it just me? Random thoughts & brain farts...

1. Is it just me, or did Asshole McSenile sound like THE WORLD'S CREEPIEST FUCKING CHILD-MOLESTER --- EVER?!?!?!?!? Seriously. If Hannibal Lector ate Mister Rogers and then shat-out a crazy homeless guy who thinks that he's a sex symbol, THAT'S WHAT IT WOULD SOUND LIKE, that patronizing, overly-"soft," creepier-than-fuck pseudo-stage-whisper, oughta-be-hanging-out-at-a-playground-in-a-trenchcoat, should-have-to-register-with-the-local-cops Megan's Law NASTY-OLD-MAN MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!! Absolutely fucking DISTURBING on about 17 different levels.
It's not just when he says, "MY FRIENDS" every other fucking breath, as he AVOIDS ANSWERING THE FUCKING DIRECT QUESTIONS, though the affected voice for tonight makes "My Friends" sound like an invitation to a cannibalistic orgy --- it was every fucking babbling, blathering word out of his dry, shriveled, lipless-crust of a mouth. Something NEW is very, very fucking wrong with that man. Somewhere along the lines of the domestic abuse on the trust-fund/trophy-wife, but far, far more insidious and disgusting. Pay attention, something big is about to surface on that nasty bastard, kids, and it's gonna make Shitty-Diaper Vitter look PALATABLE.
Yeah, I know, today's attack on Barry was that BARRY is "the angry one," to go along with all of their not-even-veiled racist hyperbole & fear-mongering, so McSenile might've been playing up the Mister-Rogers-On-Bad-X voice to that end, but somehow, I don't think that he's bright or concentrated enough to play a character to that depth. I think that it's far more than subconscious, it's conscious and it's gnawing its way to the surface. Just wait.

Annti's gut is never wrong.

2. I only managed to watch less than a third of tonight's debate, between trying to apprehend a crack-whore who was attempting a B&E on one of the old ladies' here apartment, and of course, by the time teh local piglets showed up, all they did was bitch about mud on their shoes and roll their eyes at me. Second time in three days that I've caught this crack whore in trying to pry-off the screen on that window, first time that I've called the cops, and didn't have my digital camera on me to get evidence. Yeah, I *could* have tried to run her down and beat the fuck out of her with the MagLite, but come on. This is ME we're talking about here. One of those rare moments when a cell phone would've been actually USEFUL, but such is life.

3. Y'know how bad things happen in threes, like deaths, clusterfuckatastrophes, etc.? Well, I figured that Biggus Dickus was #2 and what I'm about to describe would've been #3 (when it was SO a rank, steaming example of a NUMBER TWO), but nooooooo. Losing one of my nearest & dearest friends was #1, of course, 'cause I disappointed her by not turning into SOMEBODY FUCKING ELSE, then Biggus Dickus came to town, and after the OTHER number two was over, the recurring abscessed tooth kicked my ass all morning from 3A on, thereby becoming #3.
Well, it turns out that Unca Dick wasn't the #2 (which he so obviously is, that giant steaming pile of soulless, greed-whore SHIT), DULLARD MCDUMBASS WAS. No, I don't mean John Asshole McSenile, I mean DULLARD MCDUMBASS, my last and final ex. A closet-case cocksucker who caused me to RETIRE FROM SEX, because of the emotional scarring that he inflicted, and because of how I was such a BAD FEMINIST for taking his totally BULLSHIT excuses (the "voices" made him constantly lie his face off, destroy most of my belongings, and accuse me of FUCKING THE ENTIRE TRI-STATE AREA, right. Riiiiiight.) for all of the emotional/psychological abuse that he dumped on me for every fucking day FOR A YEAR.
The pathetic part is that THE SEX WASN'T EVEN EVER --- EVER --- FUCKING WORTH IT!!!!!! Not all of it was because of his inadequacies about his 1/4-Japanese penito, though that was a part of the problems. Most of it was BECAUSE HE'D HAVE PREFERRED TO HAVE A BIG DICK --- INSIDE OF HIM --- than to be the teeny dick inside of me. And when they never let you forget that YOU'RE NOT AS GOOD AS A GUY WOULD BE, that's kinda hell on the ego.
Unlike all of the other motherfuckers who've fucked me over, fucked me up, and just fucking fucked me and split, I didn't talk much about this one, while it was going on or when it was over. I have this 1970s social-worker-era guilt thing that you can't make fun of the "disabled," even when they use that "disability" (in his case, 300X diagnosed schizophrenia & borderline personality disorder, and he was about as reliable & trustworthy about taking his medicine as he was about EVERYFUCKINGTHING ELSE) --- not supposed to mock the "disabled" EVEN WHEN THEY USE THAT DISABILITY AS A FLAMINGLY FALSE EXCUSE TO ABUSE THE FUCK OUT OF YOU.

After that total steaming heap of horseshit that he fed through my phone last night, I'm over that now. I finally got the opportunity, without even raising my voice or my blood pressure, to tell him that I knew exactly what the fuck he was, why the fuck he did the things that he did, why he treated me like DOGSHIT and expected me to LIKE IT, why he hates women, and how much money he STILL FUCKING OWES ME, not to mention the many IRREPLACEABLE THINGS THAT HE COST ME, like 1950s black FiestaWare, things of my Nannie's, my unbelievably small/fragile ego, my femininity (yes, it's true, it did exist at one point, it's not just a myth or fairy tale), and my VERY hard-won sexual security. Oh, yeah, and the fact that he made me HATE MYSELF FOR TAKING HIS SHIT, WHEN I FUCKING ***KNEW BETTER*** and that I was ONE REALLY LOUSY FEMINIST whilst I was shacked-up with Dullard McDumbass. I even STOPPED READING (other than blogs) while I was with that moron, because 1. I never had the time or privacy, 2. He kept me too pissed-off to concentrate on a narrative, and 3. He never "read" anything aside from GAMBLING WEBSITES and MALE "FITNESS" MAGAZINES, so he had to CONSTANTLY INTERRUPT AND HARANGUE ME, EVERY FUCKING TIME THAT I TRIED TO READ.

Reading has always been my very best friend, my entire life. My escape, from whatever shitty circumstances, my defense, when I'm alone and want to be left the fuck alone, in a bar or restaurant, my way to travel the world that I still haven't seen, to meet people I'd never meet here in the 13th Century known as Louisiana, etc. And I gave that up so that HE wouldn't feel STUPID, being a functionally-illiterate high-school dropout, mental-hospital TRANNY HOOKER. Seriously. He wore makeup and grew his thick, silky Japanese hair long so that he'd look even MORE girly than he normally does, so that when the bigger boys plugged him in the barracks, at least he'd get to "consent," though he usually MADE A PROFIT off of it.

If it weren't for Terrible, Le Petite Fromage, Dan, Tammy & Andy (as much as he pisses me off, I still appreciate his snotty ass), I would never have regained my one true love, my love of books and losing myself in them. Joy, suspense, snark, brilliant imagery --- I gave all of that up, to make a fucking WASTE OF OXYGEN "feel better about himself."

Yes, I know, I was a fucking moron. Many of y'all know the PTSD that I went through, living with THEM for 18 months, way back when, and how fucked-up I was when they cattle-chuted me into L'Hotel du Fucktards, so of COURSE I was the IDEAL TARGET for a parasitic sociopath like him. I was hurt, wounded, and lonesome. I was an official welfare queen and would never see a "career" again. My life had no purpose and I hadn't even been able to escape the reach of my two biggest tormentors, BECAUSE THEY APPROPRIATED OVER HALF OF MY SOCIAL SECURITY SETTLEMENT, which was only ONE-TWELFTH OF WHAT IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN. And along comes a young, dumb, full-of-cum little pretty boy, perfectly willing to be my housepet. Stupid, stupid me.

I do feel better, finally getting some of the nightmares off of my chest. I've been holding this shit in for three and a half years, which is a land-speed record for me. And yet, somehow, I have not yet been netted & strapped-down, carted-off to the looney bin. Fucking imagine that. I'm just damned grateful to have the kind of blog when I can occasionally get this shit off of my chest, and to have the friends and readers who won't hold that against me. Yeah, I still miss my "spoken-word" days, but there were sexist pigs trying to pass for "artists" and "hippies" EVEN THERE, who LOATHED me for being so brutally fucking honest, especially when the ones who were supposed to be my "friends" treated me like shit, so nothing is perfect. Even my first radio station was rife with testosterone-poisoning, outright sexual discrimination, overt sexual harrassment (oft times, in front of THE ENTIRE FUCKING SALES STAFF, and my "BOSS" on the programming side told ME to "DEAL WITH IT LIKE A BIG GIRL"!!!!!! Y'know, rather than handling it like the FUCKING ***LAW*** SAYS THAT HE, AS MY FUCKING *BOSS* SHOULD'VE DONE.), very loud & violent threats against my personal safety, blackmail, guilt trips, fuckovers, liars, thieves, and whores. But even for all of that, what I wouldn't give to relive it, knowing what I know now.

I am the queen of 20/20 hindsight. But maybe it's a "good" thing, maybe Biggus Dickus really was #2, because it gave me not one, but TWO opportunities to get shit off of my chest, that has NEEDED SAYING (like some people who, as our beloved Molly said, NEED KILLING!!!) for far, far too long. So thank y'all for hanging in for the whole ride.

#4: If you haven't bought or rented "Bill Hicks: Satirist, Social Critic, Stand-Up Comedian," DO IT NOW. I don't mean, "someday" or "add it to your Netflix queue," I mean fucking TODAY. Even 14 years after the fact, the man is STILL a fucking genius and a vision of the future that we are fucked-with today. And yes, if I'd had the chance to hit on him, I'd have borne his little Randy-Pan The Goat-Boy spawn. He's the only one. That's why it never works out with lesser beings, my "perfect man" died in 1994, and "Prince Charming" was shot-down over DaNang in '69.