Sunday, May 23, 2010

Life Without Dick

These are not the pictures that I wanted to post, but the one that I had in mind, I couldn't find.
Approximately 3:30P, 4/26/2010, the alleged "father," herein previously and hereafter referred to as "Teh Dick," dropped dead. Right there in that red leather recliner, in HIS fucking living room, in HIS fucking house. An astonishingly-competent (for West Redneckistan Bigotry General, especially) E.R. doc postulated that it was a combination of a pulmonary embolism (especially since he'd arrived home from work complaining of "burning lungs") and a massive heart attack, but the Fallen Uterus prefers the "medical" expertise of her nephew the physical therapist, in telling everyone that it could only have been, and I quote, "The Widowmaker" massive heart attack as diagnosed (sans autopsy) by said nephew, a republicunt narcissist to the fucking bone. Not necessary information at this point, but worth noting, as I can't stand the smug little prick.

And as in all things, I am alone. I am not "included" in anything, I do not "belong" to anything or anyone, and I am, above all else, the "evil one," the "troublemaker," the Henry II who will not recant nor apologize for fantasizing about beheading my own sort of Thomas a' Becket, in that I will not LIE to please THEM and kill MYSELF, I will not "befriend" a RAPIST, and I will NEVER stop fighting for the justice which I so richly fucking DESERVE.

Yet every pompous, sadiddy, arrogant, phony, greed-whore pretentious cunt in a hundred-mile vicinity comes here & orders me to "Take care of (my) Mama!"

Right. Same cunts who were more than happy to perjure themselves for Teh Dick & his Fallen Uterus' behalf when they tried to erase/invalidate/rewrite my Nannie's will. Sure will take THEIR advice to heart, you BETCHA.

Anyway, the picture I had in mind is either not amongst those that I've scanned-in, or was lost in the great flame-up of Ol' Bessie last year... there are very similar pictures, with his first great-granddaughter, SINCERE pictures, that almost exactly model/imitate the picture that I had in mind: a 3-year-old me, holding hands with "Daddy," as we hunt for easter eggs. Taken from the back, from a distance, by the Fallen Uterus, back before I was old or educated enough to know that THIS is not how "families" operate, when it was "perfectly 'normal'/natural" for me to be the sex slave of their almighty penis-extension SON. I've told this story so many thousands of times, I know that y'all are sick of it, but yes, it took an Ann Landers column for me to be able to put a WORD to it, to PROVE that it WASN'T RIGHT. I'd wondered all of my life, wondered whether other girls @ school had similar "relationships" with their "brothers," but never had any friends close enough to ask. One teacher stuck her neck out for me, SHE could see what was wrong in FIRST GRADE, and of course, teh F.U.'s connections got that teacher FIRED. Thank you, wherever you are, Mrs. Flanagan.

I know, this isn't supposed to be about ME, it's supposed to be about the chickenshit dead guy who TOTALLY could've prevented this death, MONTHS ahead of its occurrence, but decided that he'd rather skip-out early, do a dine & dash on us all, and never have to be bothered or disgusted by the sight of me ever the fuck again. And, I might add, the ONLY fucking witness, other than myself, to the BRAKE-LINE CUTTING that led to the infamous car wreck of April 3, 1986, wherein I lost the left half of my brain and gained a bum knee & arthritis @ the ripe old age of 15. So now the rapist not only gets away (thanks to the sexist-pig neanderthal JOKES that they call "detectives" in Livingston Parish) with rape, enslavement, torture, PTSD-invoking "jokes," et al --- he also gets away with ATTEMPTED MURDER.

All the little soldiers all fall down. First the three people who truly loved me, my Papa, Nannie & Tater... and now the one who never claimed me.

Yes, there were things that made me sad, even made me cry, but no, the rage will never subside, because justice will never be dealt, will never even exist.

Oh, and to make life even MORE fun, aside from the physical torment of moving everyfuckingthing that I own (with 2 rare exceptions, thanks to AwCResQ & a neighbor-for-pay) ALL THE FUCK BY MY CRIPPLED-ASS SELF and a TRULY sickening excuse for a doctor & "medical staff," --- on these rare nights when "fate" shines upon me and I am privileged enough to sleep indoors, GUESS WHO RUNS THE ENTIRE FUCKING PONDEROSA?!?!??!?

Guess who is the first voice that I hear in the fucking morning, as he swagger/waddles down the hallway towards a door that HAS NO FUCKING LOCK ON IT?

And guess who runs the F.U. far moreso and far more rabidly than even her precious Dick?

You got it.

The rapist. The Creature. The no-neck illiterate inbred dog-fucking PIECE OF SLIME who is responsible for Tater being homeless and ergo DEAD, and oh yeah, who had me sucking his dick when I was TWENTY-TWO MONTHS OLD. Yeah, I know, how... "CALIGULA"... even before the movie came out, I think...

So y'all can see how I can't just pour out my heart in tears & sadness for the loss of his chief enabler, defender, promoter and rewarder (if that's even a word)... I was the extraneous one, the one that Nannie & Papa had to bribe them not to abort, the one that Teh Dick always claimed belonged to the family photographer or the doctor or the milkman (literally...), NEVER the one that Teh Dick claimed, ergo, never worthy of his love, approval, pride, acceptance, and sure as hell NEVER worthy of him spending a fucking DIME on me in my entire life. HIS children had EVERYTHING THAT THEY EVER WANTED: livestock of damned near every description, trailers to haul them to every show in the Southeast, equipment & accessories for every competition, outfits to show those animals in, prom dresses, camel-hair jackets, NEW cowboy boots made of REAL leather (as opposed to the plastic ones I got second-hand), saddles, a fugly Winnebago, you fucking name it. I got a rabbit and second-hand chickens, and despite red & blue ribbons, that wasn't good enough, either. Nothing that I *was* good at, "trivia" like SCHOOL, writing, science, math (again, long before the car wreck that took all of that away), or WANTED to be good at, like music & dance (how the fuck DARE I even ASK?!?!? I giant clumsy GORGON like ME??!?! Oh, what great comic fodder this retard furnished for the schoolyard bullies in "my" own living room!) --- none of it meant a fucking thing to him. Never came to a single thing I ever did in school, never allowed me any extracurricular activities that cost over fifty cents, never allowed me to EVER have ANY of MY friends onto that 2.2-acre pretend "ranch" of his, only the snotty little bitches belonging to his construction buds, and they made fun of me at my own fucking birthday party. Gee, THANKS, Daddy! BTW, the foal in the above picture was supposed to be "MY" horse, "MY" mare. I trained her on halter & lead, I saddle-broke her (I was 12 @ the time), and then she was THEIR horse. Ask me how many times I actually *got* paid for shoveling-out the disgustingly-aggregated feces from his stud-horse's stall, too... Amazing how rich a construction plumber/foreman can be when it's for HIS kids, and how "broke" he always is when it comes to the bastard. When HE'S the one who OFFERED TO PAY FOR THE LABOR. Never did offer me a dime or a cut of the proceeds from my prostitution for his son, though...

I wish that these petty complaints were the end of it. I wish that I'd managed to hold onto my fragmented remnants of a radio "career," and NEVER had to ask him or the F.U. for a FUCKING THING, ever the fuck again. I wish that I could've kept my word in that when Nannie died, since they all took the kids away from me anyway, THAT I WOULD NEVER HAVE TO LAY EYES UPON THESE MOTHERFUCKERS, ANY OF THEM, EVER THE FUCK AGAIN.

But as we all know, I failed at THAT, too. And as long as my back stays re-broken and I am fucked-over by shitty doctors and their petty-little-suburbanite-cunt "staffs," I will never get a shred of my brain back and I will never even be able to write worth a fuck ever again, if, indeed, I ever did. Yeah, there are recordings of screaming, cheering audiences after hearing my rants & poems, there are radio demos that never got me anywhere --- but all that REALLY mattered, to Teh Dick and his flying monkeys, is that *I* "never" held a "REAL JOB." If it's not manual labor, if it isn't the same fucking job from cradle to grave (show me ONE person in radio or film who's stayed with the same company through their entire career --- ONE! Ain't gonna happen, but luddites like these assholes can't comprehend how those industries work), if you don't lick ass, balls & taint on the boss-man/massah with your every fucking breath, THEN IT AIN'T A REAL FUCKING JOB, you lazy fake-diseased fat bitch. A bad back? So the fuck what?

Sorry, didn't mean to go circular with this, but at least I'm doing it over here, instead of at the main joint. Talk about wasting page space.

It's not that I didn't fucking TRY with him, it's not like I never WANTED a "father." I did my fucking dance with the devil, not only because Nannie made me, but to stay in those kids' lives, and to TRY to get teh Dick & his F.U. to grow the fuck up and treat me like a human being, rather than their least-favorite SERVANT. I danced with the devil, over and over again, because it was always ALL OF THEM versus just me. Yeah, Nannie backed me up, she was on my side, but she was so psychologically beaten-down, she would never STAND with me, she would never "rock the boat." I love her with all of my heart & soul and always will, but paying me off, a droplet at a time, didn't achieve what she wanted it to: to fix the damage that they and their almighty Son-King had inflicted.

If Nannie was still alive, so would Tater be, that's for damned sure. But Nannie was merely an IMPEDIMENT to Teh Dick & his F.U., because she stood between them and HER MONEY, every penny she'd saved from 43+ years of teaching public school and tutoring rich brats, as well as what the F.U. hadn't stolen from every penny that PAPA saved from 40+ years @ Ethyl Chemical & his 1st-Depression-era poor farmers' baptist church. They "wanted" Nannie up here, alright, to make sure that she didn't live as long as her sisters & brothers had. Same hack who killed her is the one who gave Teh Dick a "clean bill of health" a month before he croaked. I know, y'all expect me to do the wicked little vindictive monkey-dance of hard-earned schadenfreude, but the irony is lost on me. Him dying has caused far more trouble and injustice than it could ever possibly have fixed.

And besides, it thwarted one of my lifelong fantasies (yes, I *do* fantasize about more than hitting the Powerball and taking out entire shopping malls with an automatic weapon, believe it or not...): of standing on his oxygen line, leaning over his deathbed, as he BEGGED FOR MY FORGIVENESS... And I smile (since it's a fantasy, I have a full set of real teeth and still remember HOW to smile) down into his weak, bloodshot, hateful green eyes and snarl, "NO." Then pan right as I glide out of the hospital-room door to the exit theme of his desperate gasps for breath...

If I can't dream of the "normal" shit that TV/movies/marketing scum TELLS US that we're SUPPOSED to "want," if I never know what any kind of love but the true platonic love of my friends is (seeing as how Nannie, Tater & Papa are dead, and even Oldest Niece has defected to the rapist's side), then dammit, I at LEAST deserve to fucking DREAM of what I can.

After all, when you're a pushing-40 hard & fast, unemployable homeless loser, dreams are what distract you from the pain, the shame, the futility of it all, so that you don't ruin somebody ELSE'S sheetrock with your brain matter. And revenge is a subject that I know far better, at least in the literal/literary sense, than any random batshit-crazy idiot who takes out total strangers in a school or a strip mall or an airplane. Their shit is stupid and pointless. MY shit would be EPIC, if I could ever actually pull it off. Or someday be capable of putting it to the page and making something out of it.

A girl can dream, right?

Oh, and wait 'til I tell y'all about the fucking POLTERGEIST shit... *sigh*

2 comments:

Capt. Bat Guano said...

Annti, I hope you can access your Paypal account. I sent you some thing. Love, Guano.

Anntichrist S. Coulter said...

I got it, hon. Thank you so much, you are too, too generous. I just hope to hell that you're not sending me anything that YOU need, y'hear me? I've been through shit before --- granted, I was younger, healthier, stronger and sans sarcoidosis the last time that I lived in a squat, but I am, apparently, doomed to be attached to this filthy rock of a planet for some time now, so I don't want you worrying about ME, I want you worrying about YOU, sir.

Ain't tryin' to be no damned martyr or none of that shit, I just know how fucking hard it is out there, and down here. And even though I can't hit a lick of work at a SNAKE in terms of doing anything for you or any of my friends right now, I'm as useless as useless gets --- I can damned well not rob you blind just because *I* am the queen bee of BEING FUCKED-UP AND FUCKED-OVER.

There's a reason why BIG whistleblowers get dead, y'know? Small-time moaners, bitchers, and complainers like me just get... temporarily disappeared, so to speak. I'll be a'ight, much pain as I'm in and as much rage as I have to carry on this broken back. Mean & crazy goes a helluva lot further than young & healthy, ANY DAY.

Thank you, my friend. Your kindness & willingness to stick by me will never be forgotten.