Gut Rumbles
 

February 28, 2011

"shared" custody

Originally published October 19, 2002

I really don't understand why I do a lot of the things I do. I picked up my son yesterday and was notified by the BC that Quinton had 1) a soccer game at 8:00 in the morning all the way over in southside Savannah, then 2) a car wash at the Sonic drive-in in Rincon from 11:00 until 1:00.

I had a few objections to this schedule.

First of all, I cut my vacation short and paid for a cabin that I left two days early to be with my son this weekend. Had I known he was so heavily booked on his social calender, I may have reconsidered that choice. It would have been nice to know before 6:00 on Friday, when I picked him up.

Second, who in the hell except an overbearing Soccer Mom, who does this shit a lot more for HER personal gratification than my son's, has him scheduled to play soccer at sunrise forty miles away from home, then wash cars in 50-degree weather TWO miles away from home when the game is over? That's batshit planning to me. And it's also batshit thinking. Eight year-olds don't need to be washing cars in this kind of weather. I started to ask, "How much money do they expect to raise at this all-important car wash? If I write 'em a fucking check for that amount, plus fifty dollars, can I keep Quinton today?" It's MY SATURDAY with him.

Third, I see my son every other weekend, from 6:00 on Friday evening until 6:00 on Sunday evening. The BC has him THE REST OF HIS LIFE and I don't appreciate her booking MY weekend with shit SHE wants him to do. I took him to the soccer game this morning, at 8:00 so that he could warm up before the face-off, kick-off or whatever the hell they call the start of a soccer game at 8:30. She arrived 30 seconds before the beginning of the game and was one hell of a show all by herself. I didn't know she was there until I heard her holding court from a lawn chair ten yards away. The men gathered around like flies on shit (and YES, that is a PERFECT analogy) as the other Soccer Moms stared in abject adoration at the Queen of Them All. The game was a sideshow that really deflected the spotlight from her.

I didn't receive so much as a how-de-do, and I wanted to puke. While I'm standing there tasting food I ate three days ago on Blood Mountain, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw the only person in the world I despise more than the Bloodless Cunt. "How are you doing, Rob," said Joe Thompson, the most worthless, scheming, ass-kissing, loogie-stain of a person I've EVER met in my life. He stuck out his hand to me. I kept my hands in the pockets of my jeans.

"I wasn't doing worth a shit, then I saw you. The day just got worse."

So, I left. I elbowed my way through her throngs of fans to reach the Soccer Goddess and told her, "I'm outta here. When Quinton is finished with the grand multiple-county tour you have planned for him today, you can bring him back to my house or not. But if his "schedule" on MY WEEKENDS has any more shit like today on it, notify the coach, the car-washers and EVERYBODY ELSE involved that he won't be there."

I am certain that she can explain to her adoring fans what a total asshole I am, without mentioning the unemployed dope-smoker and the other downright sleazy things she has done to me. That's fine. But she needs to get her greasy fingers out of my son's head and stop manipulating that boy for her own aggrandizement. My son didn't want to play soccer this morning. He warmed the bench for all but about two minutes while I was there, and he DAMNED SURELY didn't want to wash cars after the game. SHE wanted that.

Now, I don't know if he'll be back here today or not. That depends on her mood, I suppose. But I know one thing.

I'll never have to ask that question again.

February 21, 2011

Meeting Dax

Originally published October 18, 2002

A CERTAIN INDIVIDUAL may want to hear the rest of a story I told him on Blood Mountain. I realize that most people who read this blog can't understand how I could ever even POSSIBLY piss someone off with the rants I write, and when I tell them about hateful or threatening emails I receive, they laugh and call me paranoid. Maybe so, but I have gotten a few missives that fall into that "I Know What You Did Last Summer" category.

The anonymous ones don't bother me, because any asshole too cowardly to identify himself damned surely doesn't have the balls to look me in the face and strike me dead. Those jackoffs lead rich fantasy lives. They also smoke cigarette butts that they pluck out of uninals in public bathrooms and de-pissify under that modified hair-dryer in the corner of the Men's Room before they light them and grin like a mule eating briars the entire time. Fuckwits. Maybe the DC sniper wrote me. But that nutless wonder prefers to shoot schoolboys and gas-pumpers, hero that he is, so I don't worry.

I usually carry a gun. (Or keep one fairly handy, at least) If he shoots at ME, he had better not miss.

But a couple of the folks who want to see me dead, or "punished" for my writing don't mind saying who they are, or promising that they will "get me," given the chance. I don't intend to give them the chance, but John Hinkleys exist in this world, and I may be receiving love notes from one of them. I believe most of that shit is 99.9% bluff, but you never really know...

So, Dax, that was why I reacted the way I did in the woods when I first met you. Yeah, I was worried for a moment there. But I almost wish you had been the assassin sent to kill me. You remember what I told you about the cleanup operation that was supposed to occur at my house while I was camping?

It didn't happen. And the end result was WORSE than Recondo 32 predicted. It was a horrific return home. At least the swarm of ants I discovered in the bedroom ate most of the evidence.

But they didn't eat the smell....

February 14, 2011

Friends

Originally published October 18, 2002

As I was packing Sunday evening for my trip to the mountains, I received a phone call.

"Want some company?" asked Recondo 32. He had experienced one of his frequent brain-farts and decided that he wanted to amass fantastic wealth by panning for gold around Dahlonega. I already had told him earlier in the week that he and his lovely wife, Georgia, were welcome to use the cabin for the weekend after I went back home, but he decided to get a head start, so I told him to come on. I picked him up where he lives in Nowhere, South Carolina, and took him with me. We argued the entire trip.

I believe that I am just twisted enough to really enjoy the company of someone who argues about EVERYTHING, including what kind of gas I choose to put in my truck and what kind of dressing I like on a McDonald's hamburger. Recondo 32 does that. If I hadn't had that asshole around to keep the waters churning and muddy, I might have become lonely up high in that cabin. Thanks to his lively wit and spouting pie-hole, I never had the chance. I mainly stayed pissed off, and thought about killing him more than once.

Isn't it GREAT to have friends?

February 07, 2011

Dear Mr. Abby

originally published October 18, 2002

This post is for all the women who believe that I am an insensitive beast of a pig of a swine.

Ever wondered what it would be like if Dear Abby was a man?

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband wants a threesome with my best friend and me.

A: Obviously your husband cannot get enough of you! Knowing that there is only one of you, he can only settle for the next best thing - your best friend. Far from being an issue, this can bring you closer together. Why not get some of your old college oommates involved too? If you are still apprehensive, maybe you should let him be with your friends without you. If you're still not sure then just perform oral sex on him and cook him a nice meal, while you think about it.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband continually asks me to perform oral sex on him.


A.: Do it. Sperm can help you loose weight and gives a great glow to your skin. Interestingly, men know this. His offer to allow you to perform oral sex on him is totally selfless. This shows he loves you. The best thing to do is to thank him by performing it twice a day. Then cook him a nice meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband has too many nights out with the boys.

A: This is perfectly natural behavior and it should be encouraged. The man is a hunter and he needs to prove his prowess with other men. A night out chasing young single girls is a great stress relief and can foster a more peaceful and relaxing home. Remember, nothing can rekindle your relationship better than the man being away for a day or two (it's a great time to clean the house too)! Just look at how emotional and happy he is when he returns to his stable home. The best thing to do when he gets home is for you and your best friend to perform oral sex on him. Then cook him a nice meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband doesn't know where my clitoris is.

A: Your clitoris is of no concern to your husband. If you must mess with it, do it in your own time or ask your best friend to help. You may wish to videotape yourself while doing this, and present it to your husband as a birthday gift. To ease your selfish guilt, perform oral sex on him and cook him a delicious meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband is uninterested in foreplay.

A: You are a bad person for bringing it up and should seek sensitivity training. Foreplay to a man is very stressful and time consuming. Sex should be available to your husband on demand with no pesky requests for foreplay. What this means is that you do not love your man as much as you should - he should never have to work to get you in the mood. Stop being so selfish! Perhaps you can make it up to him by performing oral sex on him and cook him a nice meal.

Dear Mr. Abby:

Q: My husband always has an orgasm then rolls over and goes to sleep never giving me one.

A: I'm not sure I understand the problem. Perhaps you've forgotten to cook him a nice meal?

I did not write that stuff, but I COULD have. Hell, sometimes I think I SHOULD have. If you believe that I'm wrong, feel free to change my mind by bringing your best friend over to the Crackerbox. After you BOTH perform oral sex on me, I'll tell you what I think of the nice meal you cook afterward.

If I don't roll over and go to sleep first.