Poisoned pomegranates, work in progress

Just finished consuming one of those beautiful jewels of fruit, and found the process and the product of that labor to be an apt metaphor for the shit that this year hath wrought upon me. For those of you who find me afflicted with "Terminal Victimhood," scroll down 'til you see something that you LIKE. Y'know, some of that "Life Is Good (TM)" yuppie horseshit that ignores the starving, the sick, the robbed, the fucked-over, the injustice, the agony that's going on RIGHT THE FUCK IN FRONT OF THEIR FACES, 'cause they don't wanna trouble their "beautiful minds" with realities like me.

Just also finished wrapping presents for a fake holiday that I don't celebrate, for children who haven't loved me or given a flying rat's ass about me in 10 years; most of 'em "grown" now, think that they're thinking for themselves, but all they do is parrot the lies of their progenitors. And yesterday, when I took my cats over to THEIR house for their monthly (if we're lucky) "Field Trip," so that they can take their obese, elderly asses OUTSIDE and get some fresh air, graze, exercise, or just lie in the grass and watch fat, arrogant squirrels go by with their tongues sticking out... anyway, as I was leaving THEIR house, something on THEIR xmas tree caught my eye, because it was in my own handwriting, and it was something that I had given Tater over 15 years ago. He'd have been 22 this year, if he hadn't been murdered by white-trash-with-money drug dealers whose grandmothers had already bribed the white-trash-alkie-klepto-klansman "sheriff" to ALWAYS look the other way, even to the point of destroying crime scenes and physical evidence.

I keep thinking that I am, after 39 tortured fucking years having to deal with these motherfuckers, that I am FINALLY callused enough, hardened and scarred enough, to where they can't fucking hurt me anymore, no matter what their next trick, ambush, or other deception may be. When Nannie died and they tried to illegally destroy her handwritten will, the first thing THEY did to torture ME was to cut me off from the kids. Only Tater, his now-a-junkie-whore-traitor-whom-I-have-long-since-disowned "sister," and their little sister --- they were the only ones with whom I could have contact, because THEIR scumbag skank junkie whore "mother" wanted a cut of what Nannie left me, and that skank STILL owes me TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS from what I loaned her for divorce #5 so that she could marry abusive alcoholic #6 (and she just split with alcoholic pentecostal moron #7, I might add). Anyway, the only good thing that came out of Nannie dying was that I never lost Tater or his sisters, even though the older one would later betray me for far less than Judas' thirty pieces of silver, but from the almighty Son-King, the object/penile-substitute that THEY still worship to this very fucking day. The other one, well, she's a mercenary. She goes where it's convenient and/or profitable for her to be, and as I'm broke as a motherfucking joke and have so little to share, I'm not amongst her priorities in any capacity. She didn't drive the knife in my back, but she doesn't seem to give a rat's ass that it's still there.

All of that backstory to say this: when I saw that fucking xmas tree, I saw a cheap little polyester stocking that I had hand-lettered with "Tater" on it, back around '94 or earlier, and filled with candy to attach to Tater's xmas present, my fucking heart STOPPED. And being the big tender-hearted sentimental fool that he was, a boy who spent his life adopting "strays," even the motherfuckers who killed him, because neither of his "parents" nor his "grandparents" cared enough about him to give him a fucking HOME or anything even remotely resembling a "family --- he was always out looking for other people to take care of, because he'd never gotten the love that he deserved, he'd never had the parents that he deserved, and his grandparents sent him back to the whore who spawned him, BECAUSE THEY WANTED TO BUY A BIGGER FUCKING R.V. He was a teenager and tall enough to stand-up to Teh Dick's bullying and threats and physical abuse, so he hadda go. When you're talking about two grade-school bullies who never matured PAST high school, THEY have to be the ones who "rule" the roost, and a boy who learned how to stand up for himself wasn't what they were looking for, in a pet boy. Materially, they'd spoiled him, up until he finished puberty and outgrew Teh Dick, at which point they handed him back to his "father," who put him in the street because of the crack-whore (#2) he'd married, who hated all 3 of "his" kids (when you abandon children a few hundred times over their short life spans, can you really CALL yourself a "father"??!?!) --- and Tater couldn't get along with the skank's hubby #7, so she put him in the street, too. She'd give him a hundred bucks for the month and tell him to "go find someplace to stay." And because he would not submit to Teh Dick again, his "place to stay" always wound-up being with the drug-dealing scum who would soon murder him. Tater, despite being raised in filth, poverty, hunger, no healthcare, the bottom of EVERY fucking food chain, no matter if he had a roof over his head or clothes on his back or not, he STILL was more worried about taking care of OTHERS. He "adopted" that loser as his "best friend" because nobody else wanted to be associated with the disgusting little felon, unless they needed to score some X or weed or what-the-fuck-ever. Tater saw "good" in that piece of shit, much like his Aunt Nanner tried too damned hard, too many damned times, to see "good" in parasitic critters, be they platonic or sexual, male or female, whom the rest of the world had already spat-out. Yes, I'm way the fuck off-track, but fuck it, with people abandoning this blog left and fucking right, and lately, just Miss Poppy & Terrible posting (and damned well, I might add!!!), I figure that I can spare the bandwidth.

Anyway: apparently, that sweet-hearted angel of a boy (not a "literal" "angel," he weren't no virgin, by a long shot, he had 3-5 girlfriends at any given moment, and it ain't like he could've passed a piss-test for weed or beer, that's for damned sure, so I'm forging a different definition for "angel" when it comes to Tater) had saved that stocking for over 10 years. I would imagine, before teh Fallen Uterus & Her Dick yard-saled and threw-out most of Tater's belongings when he was shunted over to Bumfuckville (where Teh Skank lived with #7, and unfortunately, where our baby boy is buried, even though #7 ditched Teh Skank back in January of this year) --- anyway, before all of the pieces of shit who were supposed to be "RAISING" that boy yard-saled and threw-away most of his belongings, I would imagine that he had saved every present I ever gave him, especially that lava lamp. We had a matched set of lava lamps, 'cause he saw mine and fell in love with it, so I got him one for his next birfday, back when I could get and/or hold a job.

When Tater was murdered, I got nothing of his. Teh fucking cunt Evil Bitch Fallen Uterus MADE DAMNED SURE that she GOT A HUGE HONKIN' HANK OF HIS HAIR from the fucking mortician before they sealed the coffin (nope, never got to SEE him THERE, either, as I wasn't ALLOWED to see him at either hospital that night, before they pulled the plug on him, I WAS NOT ALLOWED TO TELL THAT BOY GOODBYE, and I will never be able to. Kinda the same way that they pulled the plug on Nannie while I was driving 95 fucking miles per hour, from New Orleans to Zachary, LA, to that Roach Motel of a "hospital" --- THEY made damned fucking sure that she was DEAD ***LONG*** BEFORE I GOT THERE, no matter how fast I drove.), but did she ask me if *I* wanted anything?!?!? Fuck no. His skank whore of a "mother" got his clothes back from the state police crime lab (as futile an exercise as THAT was, since all of the REAL, relevant evidence HAD ALREADY BEEN DESTROYED before the state police ever SAW ANY), but do you think that I got my Ramones t-shirt, the one he was wearing that night --- y'all think that I'll ever see that shirt? That stupid whore probably burned it. And yes, I would have taken it back with his blood and brains on it, it would've been SOMETHING of Tater that I could've kept, and it was MY damned t-shirt anyfuckingway. I know how gross & morbid that this sounds to y'all, but since I never got to see him again, alive or dead, after our last phone conversation, 2 nights before he was murdered, I wanted SOMETHING of HIM, dammit.

And so, out of all of his possessions, none of which I will ever see again, especially the gifts that I'd given him all of his life (and, I might note, for several years, he was the ONLY one of all of the nieces & nephews who EVER gave me an xmas or birfday present. Oldest Niece started reciprocating after Tater died, but because she's the only one with whom I have an actual relationship with anymore, and even that is touch-and-go nowadays.) --- the only one upon which I have laid eyes in the 4.5 years since he was murdered, was something that I made just for him. A cheap trifle, but to see it again, for the first time in over 15 years, to see that he had SAVED that little stocking for so long, just ripped through me with THE very epitome of "bittersweet" agony. It was like he was reaching back to tell me that he still loved me, but I should've known that FIVE FUCKING YEARS AGO, dammit. That cold-hearted bitch has been hoarding/HIDING that stocking FROM ME, for ALL OF THIS FUCKING TIME, knowing DAMNED FUCKING WELL THAT ****I**** FUCKING MADE IT FOR AND GAVE IT TO TATER.

But now, she chooses to put it right at my eye-level on her fucking tree, just to rip my fucking guts out. NOW she claims that it's been on her various xmas trees "ALL ALONG," like she NEVER STOPPED hanging it on her fucking trees --- when I know damned well that it probably wasn't even IN that house until after Tater died. And she THINKS that she's going to get to "keep" that stocking. I'll cut her fucking throat over that stocking. I know, it sounds insane, trivial, unimportant to the rest of the world, but Tater wasn't just my nephew, he wasn't just the son that I would never have, he was MY FRIEND, and one of the best friends I've ever had. And when I lose a friend, you might as well cut off one of my fucking limbs, it hurts that fucking bad. I love that boy, to this day, with all of my fucking heart.

He was trying to get AWAY from those motherfuckers, those scumbag drug-dealing pieces of shit. He wanted to finish high school, not just get a GED, he wanted to FINISH, he wanted to go to trade school or college, he wanted to DO SOMETHING WITH HIS LIFE, instead of being a fucking patsy/drug mule/servant to those parasitic pieces of shit for whom HE felt pity, compassion, and acceptance, whereas they treated him like he was STOOOPID for caring about their scumbag asses. Sound familiar? I tried to teach those kids, at least to learn from my multitudinous and flaming fucking MISTAKES, but Tater was too ornery to see the parallels from my explosive fuck-ups to the fucktarded losers whom he felt the need to "mother," so to speak.

I've given the Fallen Uterus until she takes down her fake tree to give that stocking back to me. Not saying that I'm actually "threatening" anybody or that I'm actually going to "kill" anybody (that would pretty much clusterfuck my whole SURPRISE, wouldn't it?), not at all. But that stocking is the most valuable thing in the world to me right now. I still don't have a place to move to yet, I've lost the woman whom I thought was my very best friend not once, but TWICE this year, AND THEN she hadda go and QUIT THE FUCKING BLOG, like ditching me wasn't ENOUGH HURT. I wish that I had the $$$ that she's spent on me to give back, to give her the money that she & her dad spent on this computer, because I never wanted to owe her anything in the first place, but when we were, I thought, FRIENDS, it didn't make me wanna open a vein to have them do such an enormous favor for me. It made me feel like a completely useless pile of shit, but a grateful and honored pile of shit. Nobody had EVER done anything like that for me since my Nannie died. Yeah, a now-apparently-ALSO-former-friend helped me get my teefuses, after I wasted Redcane's and y'all's money on all of the WRONG dentists and two root canals that didn't quite hold the fuck up, but for somebody to just walk into a store and buy me a new machine --- that kinda shit don't happen in my life, and I'm pretty fucking sure that it'll never happen again. She will always have my gratitude, but since she could never be bothered to explain to me WHY I was no longer her friend, that wound will never heal. If you ask that third-party friend (going back to the teefuses), who likes to blow a lotta smoke up people's asses about what he THINKS he knows about my relationship with that best friend, I am the epitome of evil, 'cause HE SAYS SO, 'cause, y'know, he was in on every phone call, every e-mail, every conversation that she & I ever had.

Normally, I don't put my quarrels with loved ones out on the front page, because it's tacky and it's just bad karma. But since those two CHOSE to leave my life, I don't know what else to do with it. The hurting is still there, can't do shit to fix that, and apparently, can't talk to either one of them, so how the fuck do I "just get the fuck over it," as some would say.

I just can't take losing one more loved one, dammit, not just this year, but this fucking LIFETIME. Lost Al Hill last year, that damned near killed me. Another longstanding friend has HIV, and we don't know how far-progressed THAT is, because he's too fucking hard-headed to go to a fucking DOCTOR more than once a fucking DECADE. RenB's driving himself to an early grave, still taking care of everybody BUT himself, like THAT'S new... Poppy damned near died on us, with her brain trying to escape her head, but thankfully, she's still around and still kicking ass. Mentis will never talk about it, but he lost someone he loved VERY much not so long ago, and has had some serious health scares with someone else whom he loves just as much, which he also won't talk about. But it makes me worry FOR HIM, so that's why I blather it here. When people I love hurt, I HURT. And I'm not mentally-equipped to deal with this shit. Not because I'm "certifiable," I've beaten THAT rap about five or six times already; I just don't know how to FIX THIS SHIT. How to save people who matter from DYING ON US, how to keep people I love from LEAVING ME, how to fix all the shit that's wrong in so many of my friends' lives.

I don't know how to go back in time and cut the fucking throat of the Trinidadian PIECE OF SHIT who murdered Jada IN THE WOMB. Every four to six months, she's back in the hospital, and some fucking doctor is saying that she's "ABOUT TO" die again. But she's back out of the hospital again, and she's still kicking. Thanks to her sperm donor, that's about as much exercise or movement as she'll EVER GET: she's 2-1/2 years old, and she still can't hold-up her own head, sit up, crawl, or speak. If there were any justice in the universe whatsofuckingever, there wouldn't be a jury on the planet that would convict me of ANYTHING after I fed that motherfucker, all 6-foot-6 of him, into the woodchipper, FEET FIRST, with a ball-gag in his fucking mouth and close-up video of his FACE. I want to watch THAT PIECE OF SHIT SUFFER THE WAY THAT HE'S MADE THAT BEAUTIFUL BABY SUFFER, EVERY FUCKING DAY OF HER SHORT LITTLE LIFE. You beat a woman almost to death in the 3rd trimester, yeah, you've pretty much fucked that beautiful, brilliant baby out of her entire fucking life, the life that she DESERVED, the life that she SHOULD HAVE HAD.

If there were any justice in the universe, the PIGS in Livingston Parish, LA would've investigated the cut brakes on my first car, when I lost the left half of my brain in 1986, and Teh Dick and his penis-extension almighty fucking SON-KING would've been in Angola for attempted murder, even if NOBODY IN WILLIE GRAVES' OFFICE BELIEVES IN PROSECUTING CHILD-MOLESTERS, DESPITE THE EXTENDED STATUTE-OF-LIMITATIONS LAWS THAT GIVE THE VICTIM UP TO THIRTY YEARS AFTER THEY REACH THE AGE OF 18. No, I'll never be as bad-off as Jada, I can still, somewhat, walk, I can sure as hell talk, and I did somehow manage to graduate high school and to half-ass my way through college. But every day that I sit here in L'Hotel du Fucktards, I wonder WHAT I MIGHT HAVE BEEN. What they fucking STOLE FROM ME. And I'll never fucking know, because as soon as I stopped the sexual slavery and started my entire life over from SCRATCH, because everything I'd been "taught" all of my life had been BIG FAT PERVERTED, DISGUSTING FUCKING ***LIES*** --- as soon as I started my entire life over from scratch, and tried like all hell to catch-up with the rest of the REAL world --- they killed me. Well, they killed the IMPORTANT parts, put it that way.

What I did to deserve this life, I have no idea. I know that a lot of people think that I'm a "bad person" BECAUSE I USE ADULT FUCKING LANGUAGE and I don't suck-up to ANYBODY for ANY FUCKING "APPROVAL," nor do I hold any respect for ANYBODY'S FUCKING CULTS, etc. But just ME being ME still ain't enough to warrant this shit. Nannie sure as fuck didn't EVER do anything to deserve the horrific, slow and painful execution that SHE got. Tater sure as FUCK never deserved to have his glorious potential STOLEN by BIPEDAL PIECES OF SHIT.

Yes, I am fortunate in many ways: I do still have, for now anyway, several truly good friends, people whom I *know* truly love me, and not just 'cause I'm some charity/pity-project for them. People who consider me their equals, whether they bust their asses 50+ hours a week working or if they're on disability like me. People who don't care if I'm older than them or younger, if I'm more or less well-read or educated, who don't give a dust-mite up a bug's ass as to what I've achieved in my life or if the "big picture" shows that I'm a huge fucking failure at EVERYTHING I've ever tried to do. Some of 'em even know what I *have* achieved, and give me credit for it, even if I *am* a lowlife welfare queen. If I did not have my family of friends, there would be no point for me to continue wasting this planet's oxygen. I just can't take losing anybody else. Yes, it's the purely narcissistic way to look at my friends and what they mean to my life, but this is ME we're talking about here, right? All I know how to do or BE is "narcissism," right? Just ask ol' Third-Party boy up thar. He knows, 'cause he knows ALL. He was supposed to be my friend, but now he thinks that he's my JUDGE. Sorry, kiddo, but you ain't qualified for that position. Maybe if you actually, oh, I dunno, FUCKED women, as opposed to putting one of 'em up on a pedestal and then condemning the rest, you might get it one day. Whether or not you'll ever get ANY, well, that's between you, Rosy Palm and her Five Sisters. I daren't hazard a guess.

Yes, I know how useless and pointless and rambling this entire transcendental-masturbation session has been, and I'm sorry to have wasted y'all's time with it. I thought that there was a point in here somewhere, but apparently not. That's why I'm putting it in the Storage Unit... Teh sleeping pill has kicked-in, and I have lost my focus entirely.

The pomegranate was wonderful, but messy, tedious, and a pain in the ass to eat. But it was still worth it. Why aren't I? Nope, not asking for any fucking CULT cliche' quips to "console" me, not looking for ANY kind of cliche' to "console" me. Just throwing this shit out there because it's cathartic. I had this whole concept measured-out and outlined in my head, and the damned drugs got to me first. Will try again later, to make SOMETHING out of this clusterfuck.

Most of all, I want a time machine. I wanna go back and get my Nannie, my Papa, and my Tater. I wanna go back and save Mike Pierre from the drive-by crackheads who GOT THE WRONG FUCKING HOUSE, and go get Barry Cowsill and save most of Orleans Parish from Katrina, I wanna do radio over again, knowing what I know now. I want my Nannie to have never had to have sold her house and given up on her life. Even if it meant that I had to be stuck at LSU and weigh 300 pounds until I croak from a heart attack, I could go back and NEVER HAVE LEFT MY NANNIE ALONE AGAIN, and no matter what happened around Tater, HE WOULD ALWAYS HAVE HAD A HOME. I can't fix any of this shit. I can't go back in time and un-learn that Henry Rollins hates women, especially me. I can't go back in time and get the best friend that I thought of as the younger sister I always wanted BACK. I can't fix ANYTHING anymore, so why the fuck am I here? Nobody will give me straight answers, they just disappear from my fucking life. Well fuck, if you're not in it for the LONG HAUL, as said friend SWORE that she WAS, WHY EVEN FUCKING ***BOTHER*** TO ACT LIKE YOU'RE MY "FRIEND"?!??!?! I know that it's not because I'm even remotely "entertaining," so why did she waste all of that time and money on someone she obviously holds in no regard or respect?!?!?!?

When and if I ever hit the powerball, the first thing that I'm going to do is to send her twenty times what the computer cost, so that we might, at least, be even/equal in THAT sense.

None of this makes any sense, so I'm gonna shut the fuck up now.

And if it kills me, I'm getting Tater's stocking back, dammit.

FINALLY!!!

After all of these years of being THE first to lend a hand, to leap-in with both feet EVERY time that help is needed, Terrible has finally given me a chance to try and do something FOR HIM.

Like a lot of us, Terrible's driving a beater, and even though he does a helluva lot of the work himself, or has really good friends who help out, the Kia ain't lookin' so good. Not on the "terminal" list yet, but not far from it. And what gave ME a fuckin' heart attack is learning that he's got a broken belt in the sidewall of one of his two snow tires.

Vermont. Assloads of snow, steep drop-offs from narrow roads, ice everywhere, oh, and a teeny-tiny pimple in the sidewall of a tire can blow up and knock your ass into a fucking tree. No, I'm not even remotely exaggerating. Yes, I am a nagging yenta/professional worrier, so fucking sue me.

So here's the pitch: FUNDRAISER FOR TERRIBLE!!!!!! (< We can't be having our Terrible flying off the side of a fucking mountain or into a gawdlessdamned tree or stranded on the side of some ass-end-of-East-Fuckin'-Jeebus road in a fuckin' blizzard. I wish I could properly install a PayPal button in a fucking post, but I never *have* mastered that particular skill, for some fucking reason. Yeah, I know. Ironic. Huh huh huh. A semi-professional beggar who can't even do it right. Smoooooth. Well, when I hit the fucking powerball, none of us will need fundraisers anymore, and I can hire somebody to finally teach me how to do PayPal buttons PROPERLY, to pound it into my oft-dented skull with a 10-pound maul, so that it STAYS THERE. But then, we will only have to do fundraisers for good charities, like the ones who don't demand that children SHOW PROOF OF CITIZENSHIP in order to receive xmas toys. Don't get me started, I'll go all off-track, well, even worse than I have already.

Y'all all know & love Terrible, and he has never asked any of us for ANYTHING, he just gives and he gives and he gives. I've got about an ACRE of mosquito-netting, instant-stove chemical cookers, smart-assed MREs (ha ha fuckin' ha, Ted.), all KINDS of shit to prepare me for any kind of natural or Halliburton-made disaster (and yes, I went out and spent a WAD on hurricane supplies this year, and FOR WHAT?!?!?!?! Too late to return any of it, I can promise y'all THAT shit.) --- and the books! Terrible used to have a bookstore, and he is STILL de-stashing. Videos, oh and holy SHIT, that Vermont Smoke & Cure summer sausage!!!!! He got me thoroughly ADDICTED to that small-batch, family-farm-made stuff. In other words, Terrible is the cool older brother that I was SUPPOSED to have, who always watches out for me and makes damned sure that I never go hungry. If I had it, I'd send him a fortune my damned self, but y'all know me: doomed to perpetual brokeness. So that's why I'm asking Y'ALL. If anybody "deserves" a little help (or severe acreage and a huge wad of cash), its our Terrible, by damn. Yes, other people in the world have it hard, and it's charitable-contribution-demand time, they're ALL out in force, and they've all gone into the red this year, I know, I know, I know.

But this is something that y'all can do for one person whom you KNOW will keep doing good in the world, who will never stop busting his ass to improve his little patch of the planet, and who genuinely needs your help to stay independent and self-sufficient. And no, that's not an oxymoron. And yes, we all know that EVERYBODY has it hard this year and will for the next couple of years, I don't give a shit WHAT the media tells ya to get you back into the shopping malls. That should tell y'all how serious this is, that Terrible would let me ask y'all for help, and how very much he and I will both appreciate any and all help that y'all can share.

Thank y'all, once again, for listening to me blather, and without even throwing rotten fruit or eggs.

The "RAFFLES MIA/APB DISAPPEARED!!!" Post

To preserve the original post, I've moved it here, because it was so damned long and I am so damned tired and my tailbone is trying to murder me, from sitting upright for all these long-assed fucking hours (at least four of them were devoted exclusively to finding Raffles!). The "Mission Accomplished" is at the main blog.

Many thanks to Terrible, all of the wunnerful women who work for the VA in New Hampshah, and a SAINT named Cindy who got Raffles ON THE PHONE for me!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Monday, December 07, 2009

MIA/APB: RAFFLES HAS BEEN DISAPPEARED!!!

RenB's dad, affectionately known as "Raffles," aka Richard Bodkin of Manchester, New Hampshire, has gone missing. He's a 93-year-old veteran, who fell & fractured (though not a complete break, thankfully) his pelvis/hip right after thanksgiving, out raking leaves, and had surgery at Elliot Hospital in Manchester.

He then went to his other son's house (names will be listed if we don't find him soon) to "recover," and was then to start physical therapy, in-patient or out-patient, through the V.A. Why on earth Medicare didn't send him to his own home with a daily "visitation nurse" to take care of him in his own home, in his own bed, I have no fucking idea. The wicked-witch daughter-in-law kept pushing the "NURSING HOME!!!" meme on him, which Raffles fucking HATED, she kept upsetting Raffles at every opportunity, and then would get on the phone with RenB and start fights with HIM, as if HIS nerves weren't already fucked ENOUGH. Blaming HIM for being in Austria, claiming that he wanted his own father to "die," psycho-cunt/socipathic shit like that. And then, as of December 2nd, "NOBODY" in the Bodkin clan "knows" where Raffles "is."

I shit y'all not. Not only has his other offspring and his wedded tumor done everything possible to emotionally alienate Raffles from RenB, now they have PHYSICALLY and LITERALLY DEPRIVED HIM OF HIS FATHER. I know, I need to google the V.A.s in N.H., I need to get off of my butt and FIND the ol' coot, but I have a hard enough time getting out of the damned bed these days. Much has fallen by the wayside, bills go unpaid, etc. But I can NOT forget about Raffles. I am NOT going to lose another friend this year, dammit. And Ren does NOT need to lose his only father, by any means or manipulation by third parties.

So if anybody up thataway knows anything about V.A. hospitals & nursing homes, please enlighten me, because it's almost been five days, and neither Ren nor I have any idea of where he is, and none of his "family" will tell him ANYTHING about the care/health/location of HIS OWN DAMNED FATHER. Raffles is one of the good ones, dammit, and I intend to do whatever I can to keep his ornery ol' ass on this planet as long as humanly possible. Well, not so much "ornery" as "smartassed," but y'all get the drift. Ren's been in Austria for 30+ years, seen his dad 3 or 4 times, but has been e-mailing and/or calling him on a regular basis all along. There were rough patches, Ren's fucktarded bigot "relatives" constantly bombard him and Raffles with homophobic bullshit, but Raffles knows what's important --- that Ren is his son, and that he loves him. Even though he still has to deal with the waste-of-oxygen types, Raffles sticks up for himself. That's where Ren gets that temper from, y'know. And that ornery/stubborn streak a mile fuckin' wide.

Yes, it IS most likely that Raffles is fine, though infinitely pissed-off, having been stuck into a damned nursing home, which he HATES (who doesn't?!?!), but until RenB or I hear something concrete, we're gonna keep rattling the shutters and banging on the doors. What kind of assholes CUT A MAN OFF FROM HIS 93-YEAR-OLD FATHER?!?!?!?! He's damned lucky to be alive at this point, YOU DO NOT GAMBLE WITH THE TIME THAT HE HAS LEFT ON THIS EARTH. And you sure as hell don't piss it away, playing psychotic little manipulation-games, just to hurt his own SON.

If the aforementioned skank-in-law, or his jellyfish of a "brother," doesn't get in touch with Ren, to let him know where Raffles is currently incarcerated (have YOU ever seen a nursing home that wasn't like jail?!?!? Much less one run by the state or fed???), I'm gonna call the fucking state troopers. Five days is a long damned time to NOT KNOW WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON, when you're talking about a wounded 93-year-old. No, he didn't lose bone marrow; he hasn't, as far as we know, been afflicted with hospital-borne pneumonia, which kills so many of the elderly; for all we know, he could be up and walking and bitching as we speak.

BUT WE DON'T KNOW, DO WE.

I wish that I had a picture of Raffles to post, but RenB can't find one on his current computer, as they were all on his ol' puter, "Lazarus," which means that they are effectively down the memory hole. How I've been friends with them both for all of these years and never seen a picture of Raffles, I have no idea. But we all know how senile I am. Compared to Raffles, *I* should prolly be in a nursing home, 'cause he's sharper than the proverbial tack and hasn't had a "foggy" day in his life. Certain people might have others BELIEVE that he's "slipping," that he "needs" to be in supervised-care prisons, um, "nursing homes," but HE DOESN'T NEED THAT SHIT. Medicare and the V.A. can send actual REGISTERED Nurses, not LPNs or "nurse-practitioners" who think that they're "DOCTORS," REAL nurses --- right to his home. They were the only real medical care that my Nannie got when the F.U. & her Dick condemned her to death by colon cancer, but somehow, nobody ever intervened or questioned that "medical power of attorney."

Sorry, flashbacks. I can't stand losing people, especially old people that I love. Not overly thrilled when I lose the young ones, either, whether by death or simply their desire to walk out of my life, but life is so fragile after you pass a certain age, no matter how tough the nonagenarian is --- you worry. You worry a LOT. And you miss the hell out of them. I don't want to jinx Raffles by talking about death, but this skeers the shit outta me like when Al Hill died --- I didn't find out for a WEEK after I talked to him in the hospital, and only found out that he'd died BY GOOGLING HIM. When the in-laws are outlaws like what Raffles has, you AUTOMATICALLY suspect the fuckers, especially when they make sure that the ENTIRE FUCKING "FAMILY" SHUTS-OUT THE ONE PERSON WHO LOVES HIM MOST.

Sound familiar? For those of y'all who were around after my Nannie died, you remember how the Fallen Uterus cut me off from all of my nieces & nephews, because she was trying to INVALIDATE Nannie's hand-written will and rob me fucking blind. Most of them, I never have truly gotten those relationships back. And this is what these manipulations smell like to me. And I'm not above publishing home phone numbers if Raffles doesn't surface and soon, either. What are they gonna do, SUE ME? HA! Talk about a waste of lawyer bills... I *know* that they don't want my hoopty old truck or two obese and crotchety cats, and that's all that I've got. A woman with nothing left to lose is a very dangerous individual, indeed. I've been censored by every gaggle of clique-brained breeders, cult freaks, "society" cunts, misogynist swine, inbred redneck mouth-breather "teachers"/"principals," lowlife "bosses," thieving "relatives," and Tammy Faye Bakker look-alike food stamp bitches known to humankind. SKEER ME.
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Elsewhere: Birfday update --- that young whippersnapper Hermes, of Hermes' Journeys, turns all of THIRTY on the 18th of this month, so send him your best wishes and as many wrinkles as possible. Looks like a fucking TEENAGER at the ripe old age of 29. Yeah, THAT'S fair. Right. He'd damned well better drink some tequila for me, is all I'm sayin'.

posted by Anntichrist S. Coulter at 2:34 AM