Friday, October 21, 2011

Reasons why crackheads are not in parades.

If you're not familiar with the town I'm from let it be sufficient to say that like many other towns  it possesses good parts and not-so-good parts. Imagine that your humble narrator and protagonist sometimes used to drive through the lesser parts to get to her abode, which was humble by obvious extrapolation.

Imagine one Friday evening your narrator, that being me, is driving home from work from her second job that was in the ghetto. It's the certifiable ghetto; pizza places will not deliver there. I'm driving home down highway 52 (Which I may interject is still a death trap. Seriously, I have no doubts that my untimely demise occur on 52. The greatest likelihood would be that I was trying to exit Bus-40 onto 52 and some dumb asshole who doesn't understand the concept of merging will be poking along in the right lane and the idiotic asshole in front of me can't immediately get off the exit ramp so they'll just stop, because they're the kind of people that use their brakes on the highway, and I will have to figure out what Dumb and Idiot are doing and die in the process.) and get off onto my exit in the not nice parts of town and while turning onto the 3rd worst possible street in town, I blow a tire at 9:30 on a Friday night.

I'm talking to my mother on my cellular who proceeds to freak that I've blown a tire in the actual ghetto and instead of letting me off the phone immediately to call AAA she does her 'I'm-a-mom-therefore-I-cannot-get-off-the-phone-in-no-less-than-2-minutes' thing and finally hangs up. I call AAA and the fun begins.

Enter crackhead #1.

This crackhead was relatively mild-mannered and may not have been a crackhead at all but this story would be much less dramatic if he wasn't so we're going to assume that he was. The point was that he had a GIANT stick. Seriously this stick was more of a branch and was about 6 feet long. He stops at my car window and asks me if I require assistance and when I say no he moves on along. I was extremely relieved. IT was a significant stick.

Enter crackhead #2.

This crackhead was the annoying one and was an actual crackhead. He smelled like crack. (I know what crack smells like because we went to this bar this one time and my friend turns and looks at me and says 'This bar smells like crack.') By this point I'm currently talking to the AAA operator and explaining that I need someone to come and change my tire. This crackhead just beats on my window to get my attention and I crack the window to speak to him, because I may be a lot of things but rude is not one of them. Well at least not on purpose. Most of the time.

Now I'm currently having 2 different conversations. One, explaining what is going on and what I need done, with the AAA lady and one where I'm fending off the crackhead outside of my car who is telling me that I don't even need to get out of my car. If I'll just pop the trunk he'll get the spare out and change it for me. The AAA operator hears this and says 'Are you in a safe place?' Before I can answer her I say to the crackhead 'No, I'm not going to do that. You're just going to get the tire iron out and beat me to death with it.' The AAA operator then says: 'I'll tell them to hurry.'

Here is where it gets interesting.

I figure I can't just sit in my car and not inform someone that I'm about 3 minutes from death so I make a decision: 'I know, I'll call my dad! He'll come and sit with me until the AAA people come.' This is a brilliant plan.

Except, I'm me and my father is my father. I call him and he answers the phone and I explain to him the situation, mention where I am and that I am literally less than 10 minutes away from him, all the while STILL yelling at the crackhead outside of my window. By this point the crackhead has just lost all shame and has decided to just ask me for money outright. He seems to think that he is entitled to some sort of monetary compensation for staying with me and scaring off the other crackheads. Yes he actually said 'other crackheads,' I'm not making that part up. My father retorts with this jewel: 'Anna, you mean to tell me that you're 26 years old and cannot change a tire?'

I believe I may have said 'Excuse me?' to my father before I said 'Fuck you' and hung up on him. Nothing can deter that man from a blow job, nothing. Most definitely not his child, his ONLY CHILD, the only genetic evidence that he has on this earth, being threatened by a crackhead. I'm sure that the gem of a woman he selected to give him head that evening would have waited on him to go rescue his child. I highly doubt that her mouth was going to fall off in the 45 minutes he would have been gone. But then again he may have been paying her by the hour and he is cheap.

So here I am, with a crackhead, waiting on the AAA people to come and change my tire. By this point we've kind of come to terms with one another and I honestly feel that if we had been given the full 30 minutes that it was going to take AAA to get to my location we really could have become friends. But alas the police showed up and honestly I have never been more grateful to see the cops ever in my life. Up to this point in time this may have been the only interaction with the police where I wasn't arrested or ticketed.

I have a certain irreverence for the local law enforcement and apparently it shows.

The cop gets out of his car and actually has to tell the crackhead to leave me alone. Talk about brazen! Sargeant-major-police man then asks me if I'm alright and informs me that he is going to have one of his rookies come and sit with me until the AAA people come. It seems that the AAA operator called the cops. So they actually are worth at least half of the exorbitant price they charge you every year. Who knew?

Unfortunately the rookie cop wasn't that cute but I was glad to have to have company that wasn't trying to bludgeon me to death with a small tree or a tire iron.

'This is a nice story, but what does all of this have to with a parade?' you say.

I'll tell you what it has to do with a parade. In a parade you have to keep moving and crackheads have the attention span of magpies and stop to see every distraction on the way.

That ladies and gentlemen is why you will never see a parade of crackheads. It wouldn't go anywhere.

Monday, October 17, 2011

I hate movies that make you cry and how this relates to my ex-boyfrands.

I have had it.

I have had it with movies that make you cry.

Lord help, I do realize that I've got a pretty super case of PMS and that I'll shart blood out of my vag soon and thus aaaaaall of my emotions are all willy-nilly over everything but good people that still read my blog even though I totally said I was going to start posting more and here it is halfway through the month and I've written what 2 posts so apparently I really do still suck at life, oh sorry about that.

Avoid My Sister's Keeper.

I imagine the book would make you cry as well. Good God I sobbed like a child through the whole thing and I even stopped it in the middle and took a 6 hour break in hopes that it would dull the histrionics. Yea, not so much.

It started out with what seemed like an interesting legal posit and WHAM uncontrollable sobbing.

I haven't cried this hard at a movie since I Am Legend or The Notebook.

Yes, I realize you're now currently wondering why I cried at I Am Legend and I'll tell you why. That is a sad fucking movie. The dog gets bitten and turns into a zombie. I was doing pretty good until ol' dude aka The Fresh Prince starts screaming 'Sam! Sam! Sam! Samantha.' And when I realized that the dog was a girl I lost my shit and embarrassed the shit out of my bff who was sitting beside me and hissed:


To which I muttered incoherently: 'Yeah, but the dog was a girl.'

To which he said: 'What? You don't cry when boy dogs die?'

I then said: 'Yes. I cried when Old Yeller died.'

So if the Confederate Railroad* song rings true, then dozens of past boyfriends should have cried when I left but I'm not really sure that they did.

They may have cheered. I don't stop to poll them.

*If you're not familiar with this piece of Southern Americana here's a link to a you-tube video of a fairly patriotic trio singing the song I'm referring to.

And yes, I'm aware that I just admitted to knowing a Confederate Railroad song. For what it is worth I have like 3 black friends. So there.

Monday, October 10, 2011

Bitches with Brazilians in Barroom Bathrooms

There is an epidemic going on in this great country of ours.

Do not get me wrong. I support every woman's right to go have all of the hair ripped off of her vagina by an old socialist Soviet. This is America and it is still a free country.

My problem is more of a logistical issue.

You see when you have no hair on your woo-woo there is nothing to direct your stream of pee. It just kind of goes out in a spray, instead of down. Especially if you're half-drunk and do not have the proper muscle control to pee with enough velocity to force the stream down into the bowl.

So the next unsuspecting person trots into the bathroom and finds the seat besmattered with piss. I imagine this is a common problem with boys because I hear horror stories of women cleaning their bathroom walls because their boys, husbands, boyfriends, visitors piss on the walls instead of into the toilet. I do not know. I do not let men piss in my bathroom. If you comment on the picture on the wall above my toilet you are not invited back to my house. Plain and simple. You've clearly over-stayed your welcome because you shouldn't have had time to go pee before you put your clothes back on and left.

You're thinking to yourself: But Anna, you don't actually sit on the toilet seat do you?

No, I do not. Unless I'm half-drunk and do not have the proper muscle control to hold myself up while my lazy bladder tries to push out the 3.5 beers worth of pee that have accumulated in my bladder. By then I probably have forgotten because I'm trying too hard not to piss on my actual self because I've stood in line for 20 minutes waiting to actually go piss. I cannot multi-task whilst inebriated; I can only handle one thing at a time.

Ladies, if you're gonna go whole hog and go Brazilian down under, sit the fuck down on the toilet.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Anna goes to dinner with Conchis.

So I just recently finished reading this book, The Magus, by John Fowles.

I know, you're amazed I can read. 

This book is 656 pages of utter and complete nonsensical chaos. I will tell you about it now in a much condensed version.

There is this guy and he's a total cad. I didn't bother to learn his name because he is dumb. Really, really dumb. So dumb. He thinks he is God's gift to women and he does seem to pull the ladies quite well. Somehow he ends up shacking up with this Australian chick that comes to visit her friend downstairs and never leaves their building because guess what? They're meant for each other because they're miserable excuses for human beings. Ol' dude gets a job teaching English in Greece (Btw they live in England) and she gets to be stewardess. He goes to Greece and homegirl gets mad at him for leaving, even though he told her he was leaving and asked her on multiple occasions to not only go with him but offered to stay in England if she wanted him to.

Part 2: This is when shit gets real hairy.

Ol' dude shows up on an island in Greece that the best I can tell is populated by troglodytes and hermits. There is a village where 3 people, literally, live but there is apparently a super-posh school on this island that the Grecians send their sons to. I don't know, I'm not Greek, maybe it's a thing.

On this island lives this batty old rich guy that has more money than free time and he proceeds to torment the fuck out of our protagonist. The old man's name is Conchis, who is not to be confused with Ol' dude whose name I never bothered to learn. Ol' dude has dinner at Conchis' house every fucking weekend.

My learned roommate tells me that this book is about the temporality of reality or the validity of reality or something. What this book is really about is that our author, John Fowles, had a bone to pick with his editor so he wrote the most convoluted book ever known to man to piss his editor off. Here is a bullet list of shit that happens whilst on said island with Conchis:

  • Ol' dude meets Conchis for dinner and learns about his fascination with dead things and the time/space continuum.
  • Ol' dude meets Lily/June/Skank-whore and her twin sister Rose/Julie/Evil-person.
  • Lily/June/Skank-whore gives Ol' dude a hand-job while skinny dipping in the ocean.
  • Ol' dude gets a hard on from seeing Rose/Julie's boobs.
  • Conchis convinces Ol' dude that Lily/June/Skank-whore is schizophrenic. That's why she has three names.
  • L/J/SW convinces Ol' dude she isn't schizophrenic.
  • Ol' dude becomes confused.
  • Rose/Julie convinces Ol' dude it's contemporary theatre and Conchis confirms it.
  • Ol' dude's Australian live-in girlfriend comes to Greece and they hang out for a weekend and shag and then Ol' dude breaks her heart by telling her 'There is someone else.'
  • Ol' dude is even more confused, Conchis doesn't help.
  • L/J/SW finally lets Ol' dude in her twat and Ol' dude is in looooove
  • Ol' dude's Australian gf commits suicide and he has kind of an emotional meltdown.
  • Rose/Julie calls off the charade and somehow Ol' dude still is a sucker and manages to get captured, drugged and possibly sexually molested for 3 days on Conchis' yacht.
  • There is what they refer to as 'The Trial' and I'll just say this: Just when you thought this book could not get any wierder, BAM! It hits you over the head with this sadistic bullshit. For serious, there is a man with horns. And an alligator head. And a witch. And of course, Conchis.
  • Apparently it isn't contemporary theatre, it's a grand psychological experiment in which they're essentially torturing ol' dude to get him to realize he's an asshole. Why? Because Conchis is not only a psychic but a psychologist. That works out well.
  • JK, Australian gf didn't commit suicide. She's alive and well and bff with the Bitch-Twins' Mom who also happens to be sleeping with CONCHIS.
  • Ol' dude goes back to England and the last 200 pages of the book are him arguing with Bitch-Twins' mom about Australian gf. Also apparently Conchis has been dead for 4 years. Yeah, I don't know either.
  • Australian Girlfriend finally comes back and the book ends with a fucking French quote that I was too pissed off to look up. I have no idea if Ol' dude and semi-dead Australian gf end up together.
There are a couple of points I'd like to make. First, this book would 650 pages shorter if Fowles would have just had his Australian girlfriend tell Ol' dude he's an asshole. Secondly, ol' dude never seems really angry that he was abducted, drugged and molested/tortured for 3 days on a yacht. Although I guess it could be said that if you're going to be molested and drugged it would be nice to be able to have Hector bring you a pina-colada to dull the pain? WTF man? Tertiarily (Is this a word? I know thirdly isn't. Maybe ternarily?) why in the fuck this dude still continues to GO TO CONCHIS' HOUSE is beyond me. Personally after about the 4th dinner I'd stand up and graciously thank Conchis for a wonderful dinner and then shoot him the bird, piss on his foot and bolt from the house of Hell.

My roommate says I'd be impervious to his tricks though. He says that Conchis would be waxing philosophically about the fluidity of reality and I'd knock over my drink and make some smart-ass comment about the fluidity of fluid, or I'd see a bug and get distracted. I forgot to mention that at least 30% of the book is Conchis waxing philosophically about the fluidity of reality and what actually defines reality. I'm sure there is an important point in it somewhere; I'm just not sure where it is.

I guess what a person can really get out of this is this: If your significant other is an asshole, tell them. And if you're gonna get random hand-jobs in public, don't get them from schizophrenic bitches. They're cray-cray.