Thursday, July 30, 2009

My Kinfolk

I'm not sure if there is actually inbreeding, but there is defiantly a lot of grossness.

My parents did not spread the brains in the family around fairly, as each subsequent child has proved to be a little dimmer than the former.
My big brother is Extra Super Smart. I'm extra average smart, and my baby brother is, very very sweet, well meaning person. Despite his good intentions, his spouse is a worse boobie prize than my own Archie Bunker, difficult as that may be to imagine.

Let's call her Trashie.

Trashie was working the cash register at the cafeteria where my baby brother was warshin' dishes. She and her crushed velvet pictures of Winter Wolves and her frizzy home perm orange-ish hair swept him clean off his feets. When they started swappin' spit, she almost immediately divorced her then-husband and kicked him out of her trailer, rendering the husband somewhat homeless.
This homeless condition was soon remedied by Trashie's sister who promptly married the ex and moved him right into her trailer.
Trashie decided that working and paying rent weren't really her thing, and she quickly wed my brother. The happy couple moved in with my (reluctant) parents, where they would have stayed forever had they not been booted at the urging of the heartless big sister. This occurred soon after Trashie announced that what she had thought was constipation turned out out to be a bebby chiel growing.
Trashie is adopted, but she is clearly related by blood to her family; it's been speculated that she is really her older sister's daughter and was adopted by her grandparents. They are a confusing clan, but they come together every year for the county fair season to run the family business, which is a rolling wiener stand. Trashie still is not really too excited about working, she mainly likes going the emergency room and wearing durable medical goods so she can moan about her aches and pains. Don't ever ask her how she's doing unless you have the afternoon free.

It has recently come to light that Trashie's first husband was actually her second husband, because the actual first husband's creepy brother has suddenly decided to start hanging out with the family. Why???
The ex-brother-in-law of husband number one is a big fat 53 year old single preacher man (retired) who has suddenly become "wealthy" which has filled him with an urge to take his former sister-in-law and her family to Disney Land. Creepy preacher man said that if the parents can't make it, he'll be happy to take their 11 year old son. Alone.
Reeeally, am I not the only one who thinks that this does not pass the smell test?? Correct me if I have become overly suspicious of the motives of others, because I cannot think of this as being anything but CREEPY. Trashie seems to think this is a normal thing, but she also seems to think that revealing a former marriage to her husband of 15 years is not a big thing, and he's probably just a kind & generous Christian man wishing to share his good fortune.

OK, so now I've written it, read it, and it all seems even creepier that it did before.

Recap of Visit Home

Somehow our high school reunion was at the crappy VFW hall while our rivals from the other side of town gathered at the country club. It's probably to make up for their feeling of inadequacy from getting an ass-kicking in basketball all those years ago; alternatively, maybe we are from the wrong side of the tracks.
The geezers gave us some dirty side-eye looks for taking over bingo night, but they'll recover. Or possibly they won't.

Mr. Bunker got up from his death bed to accompany me and managed to look relatively dapper (ass crack not showing) for the big event. Fortunately he was still feeling poorly enough that he didn't start any fights, especially since My 8th grade Harvest Moon Dance date, Larry, was there and looking pretty good. It turns out I SHOULD HAVE JUST MARRIED HIM. Who knew?

The football team boys were fat, bald & drunk, the homecoming queen is twice divorced and looked a little rough. The valedictorian is a single mother of 5 with a Madagascar hissing cockroach as a pet. The queen of potheads has offspring nobody can keep track of and looks like she may be in a family way again; let her keep the drugs, someone ought to confiscate that uterus; lots of food stamps dedicated to feeding that bunch.
My vocation caused a bit of a stir, that is until everyone figured out that I can only write for controlled substances in the state in which I'm licensed. I felt really popular for a quick minute.

The really popular girl stayed true to form and snubbed me, but she'll probably have to pay attention to me if I go into the mall where she's selling shoes, OR maybe she could snub me there and I then would do that whole "Pretty Woman" scene and bawl to anyone that gives a shit "all this money and no shoes! waaboohowaaahhh" this could turn out to be good.

That is a quick summary of my visit with former classmates, the really interesting stuff is all about my family though--in laws, not a lot of branches on that family tree. Family dirty laundry, comin' right up!

What the Hell kind of GD summer is THIS?

Maybe the above picture is exaggerating a little tiny bit, but come on!! It's official today, we have just experienced he coldest July on record, not one single day in the 90's. Perhaps someone could take a moment and inform the pesky Greenpeace hairy hemp little stanko's parked out in front of my building that the polar bears are disappearing from the arctic because they are on their way here.
Also please tell them that yes indeed, they have waited so long to bathe that they will brutally maim the micro-ecco system on the planet if they engage in any kind of brutality with bar soap, so the should just stay home with others emitting similar foul & biohazardous gasses.

Usually the kids have a wading pool set up out back, but it's been way too cold.
My main complaint is wardrobe related, in that it looks like I won't have the real summer wardrobe out until mid August. Then what? Two weeks then it's time to start wearing boots again?

At least I don't feel bad about my tardy garden, as the June weather probably would have done it in anyway.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Home Sweet Home

I'll be making the trek to my hillbilly hometown this weekend for some kind of high school reunion gathering, the first of which I have attended. So much can change in, uh, well.. 10 years, or something like that. I will be a standout because I have all my teeth and pants will not be elastic in the waist. My kids can play with my classmate's grandkids; it'll be good fun. We can swap mac & cheese recipes and see who's wearing the best overalls. Can't wait!
On the brighter side, my garden is finally in bloom. A little late but look at those delphiniums! The climbers on my trellis are going crazy, I think the little fucker's been fertilizing, it's good for a dog to have hobby outside of chewing up shoes and dragging underwear around. I guess he's good for something (besides alerting me to the presence of nekid drunk intruders, that is).

Mr. Bunker Visits the Hospital

The BEST HPI (History of present illness) ever, delivered by my very own Archie Bunker!

My super fine baby daddy got some kind of illness, felt bad for a few days and decided at 9pm Monday that the end was well-nigh upon him. This involved lots of groaning "get the gun", moaning, swearing and declarations of ever-lasting love and devotion throughout this illness which is referred to by many as "The Flu".

He was seen earlier in the day by the lovely Dr. FK ; labs were ordered and the "tincture of time" and "rest, plenty of fluids, and suck it up you baby" talks were administered. By evening he was absolutly incensed that he had not recovered and THAT NOTHING WAS BEING DONE. Hence, a trip to the ER in The Really Big Teaching Hospital was deemed necessary; thankfully an ambulance was not within his requirements.

The waiting room was, of course, full to capacity so Mr. Bunker commenced to perform his own triage, becoming irate if someone that looked less miserable than he got called for treatment during the course of our wait.

He badgered the triage nurse the same way he'd badger an IHOP hostess on a Saturday morning; always a useful tactic. I probably could have coached him to add in a little bit of chest pain with a pinch of SOB, but I wasn't feeling that kindly towards him, plus I was reading a good book ("Into Thin Air") and enjoying a big bag of cherry Twizlers. I was fairly content. Well, except for when he started demanding that I call St. Bob's and the other Big Teaching Hospital to see was their wait time was like, and then when he announced to all who would listen that he couldn't sit anymore and was going to go outside and lie in the grass (this is why it is good to stay home in bed when you don't feel good). Then he railed about the the service here being terrible and he'll soon take his business elsewhere. So what if there was a huge MVA, he was here first and he has good insurance.

Finally at 11:30 we got called, and Archie delivered his complaint to the unfortunate intern (remember, it's July, so the interns are mainly concerned about trying to not get lost when they attempt to figure out where the fuck the restrooms are. DON'T GO TO A TEACHING HOSPITAL IN JULY).

Intern: "So what brings you in tonight Mr. Bunker?"

Archie: " Well, I'm SICK, can't you tell?? I got a fever and I can't walk and my hands are swolled and I can't move them and this swellingness is in my feet won't stop and it feels like I'm gettin' stabbed by a knife in my wrist. I can't walk and my legs are numb and I think I had this same feeling about 6 months ago when I got out of my truck so maybe it's all coming from my back. I'm getting PERMANENT damage in my nerve endings because they hurt and I got bitten by a mosquito a few nights ago and I got a red rash all over my body that looked like sunburn but it's getting better now but that time I got out of my truck I almost fell down, this might all be workers comp! And my throat hurts and I can't gelp (swallow) at all! this happened once during my ute (youth) when I couldn't gelp anything and my glands got swollen and I took penicillin for a while and now I can't turn my head and look left. And I get fever and I can't sleep and my balls have really been itching and I used some cream, maybe I got some bacteria from that or an allergy."

intern goes, resident comes.

Resident: "So intern says your sick. how long has this been going on?"

Archie: 5 days or 6 months. My feet seem numb! I can't feel my baby toes, AND my son said his feet hurt the other night when we were at the movies seeing Harry Potter! he took his shoes off and said his feet hurt! This must be something contagious! we're all going to get sick! I can't walk! look at me walk! (walks). I can't walk! What's wrong with me, please tell me what's wrong with me. Don't forget the giant red rash and the fever and my ENTIRE BODY HURTS like the time I was in the bar and the bouncer told me not to go outside and I went outside and I got punched in the nose and I had to spend the night in jail. That's kind of how I feel. And my neck hurts and my back hurts like the time I was getting out of my truck and I almost fell down. Maybe I have diabetes or that Limes disease."

Resident: (to his credit) "I have no idea."

resident leaves attending comes.

Attending: "So it sounds like there's a lot going on with you. Are you feeling stressed out or anxious? Is your wife leaving your crazy ass?? (ok. a little embellishment).
Mrs. Bunker, may I speak to you in the hallway?"

Archie Bunker: "Oh so you're the real doctor? why can't you talk to me? I have to tell you everything and see if you can figure it out. WHAT? YOU BETTER TELL ME WHAT HE SAYS! I ain't making this shit up. I CAN'T WALK!! LOOK AT ME WALK!! (walks again).

Attending in the hall to me: "Vitals are fine, labs are fine, what do you want me to do with him?"

Ativan was administered along with some fluids, it got to be 4:30 am and we went home with Archie bitching about them being ignert fools and he's gotta find a Real Doctor who can figure out what's wrong with him. SHRINK. That is what we need here.

Maybe he does in fact have some dread disease, but must he whine SO MUCH?? And it would seem that he's improving. Asshole's wearing me out.

If you need a happy love story please visit Frankie's Hideout for some glittering sunshine, hearts and unicorns. The angels are humming Pachabel's cannon at the hideout today.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

A Cry for Help

Damn whoring c**ting bitches used up all the coffee. Been in a coma all week. Withdrawal hurts.

I have begun writing several posts about my commitment to NOT participate in the Chicago marathon this year. The last time I ran Chicago, it was during the catastrophic heat wave of 2007. After a slow and painful finish, I solemnly swore that I would never do another marathon, and if I ever got sucked in again I would wear a shirt with big letters spelling "DUMBASS". This may prove embarrassing. I doubt the person witnessing my pledge will remember, she'd forget her kid's name if she didn't write it on her hand. If she does remember I'll send her a nice fruit basket & she'll politely pretend to be appeased. RIGHT?

Anyway it's not even the Chicago marathon I'm considering, I'm done with that one. This is the New York Marathon, and I'm not officially committed. Yet. Just thinking about it. Busting out the log and the watch, JUST IN CASE. But I'm not going to do it. Every time (ten times) that I have finished a marathon I say this is fucking retarded and I will never do it again. I curl up in a ball for a little bit, get some bananas and WALK AWAY forever (maybe limp away) from that mess.
The training's not so bad; I get a little scrawny looking in the high mileage weeks but that never lasts too long. It's those last 20 miles-- I mean the first 6 are all good fun. Halfway through I start feeling like I've been running for a while, by 18 I usually want an epidural, and I still have 8.2 miles to go. REEL ME IN...Someone help, send some Marlboros, quick!! Talk me down. Save my knees.

Friday, July 10, 2009

Introducing Boy Wonder

Is that some kind of tumor? or could it be a saline implant migrating south? This here's the progeny of my fine partner, Dr. PA (as in business partner, not life; dang filthy pervs). He was immaculately conceived when she was 12 or so.

As I understand it, little pigtailed Dr. PA was a sweet young girl living in the middle of a cornfield (a few states west of my cornfield). She was just skipping along with her jump rope, mooning over some Bon Jovi posters and suddenly she got into a big fight with her mean mean mom. Absolutely distraught over upsetting the tranquil harmony of her family home, she snuck out the bathroom window, and next thing you know, Whamoo!! One in the oven! (To revisit Dr. PA, kindly click here and here.)

Her guidance counselor promptly steered her toward beauty school, WIC coupons, and even hinted at a decent shot at one of the nicer section 8 apartments if she played her cards right. But No! Off the the big city, momma and her bebbeh for higher education; how great to be hacking on a cadaver and lactating?? And somehow even shaking down honors? obviously accomplished through cheating or sleeping around; how else?

My admiration of her perseverance allows me to turn a blind eye to some of her fashion faux pas; see I didn't even notice this horror with the socks!

Please note that whatever's going with Boy Wonder's arm, there happily is nary a track mark or prison tat. That little asshole became smarter than a Cray Supercomputer before he started shaving so he basically needed to be tied to a chair for a little while so he'd quit hacking into secure systems. He did this not out of criminal intent, but mostly in order to make a mockery of parental controls. Kid had to go on lockdown, Dr. PA was getting some gray hairs and starting to get this crazy look about her.

Our young hero will probably be getting his first bachelor's degree before he gets his official driver's license, but presently it looks as if his powers will be used for good rather than evil purposes. That is, unless it turns out that that thing in his arm is a three headed alien monster getting ready to break out and wreak havoc on the Earthlings; but look how cute he is in scrubs!

Wednesday, July 8, 2009

Coming of Age

Miss H. is humming a happy song and coloring pink hearts, pretty flower gardens, butterflies, and fairies; she'll soon be turning 8.
I may as well bust out the bad news for her before she has a chance to imagine too many cheerful hopes and dreams. I'll be doing her a favor, really. She ought to know that the princess stories are a bunch of booshit, and that if there really is a Prince Charming he'll probably turn out to be more interested in either her brother or the dumb skeezer with bigger tits.

After warming up with that glad news, I'll explain the whole income tax structure to her ( after all, why even try to generate an income?? go straight to public aid! government cheese is tasty), then I'll tell her I can't really think about sending her to a good school anyhow because I spent all the money on fancy shoes, and that the shoes were a necessary expenditure to lift my spirits because her daddy is an ASSHOLE! SHOES OR VODKA??? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?
Next I'll break the news about Santa, the "woman's curse" natural childbirth, acne, what boys really want, and what actually happened to her goldfish (should have been on Discovery Channel--soo gross). If her soul does not appear to be too savagely crushed, we'll go out for ice cream where I may or may not explain the relationship between ice cream and fat thighs. Happy Birthday Baby!!
OR maybe I'll just get her a new bike and we'll play some Scrabble; so many decisions.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

An Intruder

So much excitement at the Bunker home...

It was a dark and stormy night. We were all tucked in tight, children angelic and sweet, Mr. Bunker snoring like a wild boar having a seizure and scratching away at his.. well, never mind that. Anyway, he suddenly sits straight up in bed and says something like "Edith, what the hell are you doing down there?" I reply something like "I'm next to you in bed, bonehead".

"Someone's downstairs!" hisses Archie. The dog's hackles are up and he's doing his growl as best as a little pussy poodle dog can do. Archie gets up and starts down the stairs and says yes, someone is defiantly down there, "call the police Edith! Now! 911!! get the ball bat! bring me some pants!"

I do the 911 call and creep down the stairs where Archie is holding the bathroom door shut, and whispering "someone's in there!" I too hear noises apparently originating from the bathroom.
Soon 6 policemen show up, lights flashing, (2 cute, one smelling a little garlicky) running, flashlights, high drama. I meet them out front decked out in my sizzlin' hot wife beater and pink frog jammie pants and bravely lead them up the stairs to the haunted crapper. The door's still shut, it sort of sounds like there's water running?

The garlicky poe-leece pounds on the door and says "WHO'S IN THERE?" No answer. Guns drawn, 2 of them open the door, rush into the bathroom and interrupt a shitfaced drunk beer-calendar model girl taking a shower. Nekid. In MY bathroom.

She was so tanked that she just kind of stood there grinning and weaving all BARE ASS NAKED while the entire group (which had by then grown to 8 policemen) stood and stared. Finally someone asked her who she was, and how she had gotten into our house; hell if she knew! "Candie! I'm Candie!" was all we got.

"Do you know Justin?" Archie finally asks. "Ohhh yea, Justin!!" slurs Miss Budweiser.
Justin is our basement tenant who's some kind of money selling finance guy who was dating Jessica The Model (not the kind you'd see on a runway in Paris) until the markets tanked and she departed.
Apparently the fetching Miss Candie The Model (the kind that stands next to a beer tank in a nightclub) was helping him ease his Jessica pain. Somehow she became so disoriented that she climbed through a storage area, came up our back stairs, climbed through a window maybe having a little potty woopsie on the way, perhaps explaining why she started in her ablutions while fully clothed. I know this because I found her soaking wet clothing in the sink in a few short hours upon sunrise.

Being a gracious hostess, I got her a robe, roused Justin to come get her, saw the police force out, laundered her clothing (her top is pictured above), gave her some Advil and went back to bed. I guess we need to re-think the alarm system.