Saturday, April 9, 2016

An explanation to friends and family

The past two weeks have been very difficult for me, and many of you who are aware have sent messages of support, advice and love that I greatly appreciate. Others may not quite understand what my family has been dealing with.

About 11 days ago, my wife came to me and after some brief arguing, told me she felt we needed a trial separation. She wanted to take our daughter, Fiona, and get an apartment in a better school district. I was struck by this, and didn't want any part of a situation that involved her taking Fiona from me. Some of her issues were practical. Fiona needs to be in a better school district for first grade. We have talked about moving for years but several factors held us back, like credit, money, how we would handle getting rid of our house that we have borderline negative equity in, and the biggest issue, my toy personal/business collection, which I had planned to sell off so we could move. But, between being a stay at home dad and house husband, trying to build my resin casting into something I could do as a career, and putting out our normal borderline catastrophic fires that were a result of a laundry list of issues, I didn't get anywhere near enough sold off to afford moving right away.

Also of note is, my wife has said that she feels she has no place in our house. It has been an issue for a while, one I have made attempts to fix, but was never able to do so to either of our satisfaction. Between my stuff and Fiona's stuff (I buy her a lot of stuff), it gets crowded. But I completely admit, this has been an issue I didn't handle properly.

Her plan seemed to consist of her taking Fiona at the beginning of the summer, getting an apartment, and I stay in our house and sell off all my stock/collection until the house is empty. The issue became fuzzy when I asked her where I fit in this new apartment situation...I apparently didn't. She gave excuses like "Well, it will be really small..." and "Maybe you will prefer living alone once you get used to it...". I was scared. I tried coming up with any solution, spoke to neighbors about local schools, bounced some ideas off her, and at one point, she said separation wasn't really a foregone conclusion. Maybe I could fix this. I could try to get rid of everything I owned by summer and we could use the money to buy a new house or rent a nice apartment somewhere in a better school district.

I started planning along those lines. Over the next few days I had to prepare for a toy show, so I dug deep and packed a lot of things that in the past I wanted to keep, but now they just needed to go. The stress of the work ahead started building on me, and I was waking up at night with anxiety attacks. As I got worse, my wife was quickly becoming more distant, avoiding eye contact, any physical contact was obviously forced. She was going out late with her friends every night, leaving me at home to stew and wallow. The day of my show, last Sunday, I was a mess. I was scared, I wasn't sure I could handle everything I needed to do to try and keep my family together. She came to the show with my daughter, but was visibly distant, which some friends remarked on.

After the show, I came home and began melting down. I had started sleeping on the couch because I couldn't sleep through the night, and my wife was all but ignoring me, which made me worse. I was getting in my car and driving around at 3am. I visited every house I grew up in, every school I attended, drove through old neighborhoods...My heart was constantly on the verge of beating out of my chest, I was shaking and cold. This went on for a couple days as I spiraled further out. One morning, Fiona came downstairs, I think it was this past Monday or Tuesday, to find me sobbing on the couch. She could tell I was sad and scared, and though I didn't tell her why, she said she would sit with me to keep me company so I would not be lonely. This became a daily ritual for us, we talk, share stories, and draw.

On Tuesday, I'd had enough. I asked my wife what I did to deserve the treatment I felt she was giving me.

She told me, in no uncertain terms, she was no longer in love with me. It had been a long time coming, and she was finally acting on it. There really wasn't any hope for me, so all my planning and scheming the previous week were useless. She was leaving with Fiona, she needed her life to be something different, to find out who she was and what she was going to do or be, and there was no place for me in it.

Her words had a physical impact on me. I was doubled over in pain, I couldn't move. I've been having daily emotional breakdowns, not sleeping or eating, and doing damaging things I'm not proud of. She softened her demeanor in her admission, and cried with me out of guilt over what she was putting me through. I've been trying to leave the house or hide some of my episodes to make it easier on her, but I'm not always successful.

I haven't made it through a day yet without some kind of anxiety attack or emotional breakdown. I've been suicidal, my behavior has been erratic towards everyone but my daughter, and I'm barely functioning as a human being. I'm fucking broken right now. My 40th birthday is in 4 days and I'm starting that decade with virtually nothing.

Just to put some perspective on this, a little over a month ago my wife and I were still actively trying to have a second baby. Two weeks ago, on Easter Sunday, we were taking family photos on the steps of my Sister's house. And even a week ago, I was busting my ass in hopes to fix the issues she had presented to me. To say I was not prepared for all this is a huge understatement. My wife carries a lot of job stress, it is almost crippling for her. So for the past two years, I did my best to help her through that, not realizing her issues were not just with the job, but with me as well.

Even though this was her plan to put in motion, my wife takes no joy in this and has been carrying enormous guilt over it. She has spent a lot of time comforting me as best as she is able under the circumstances, even when my state of mind caused me to lash out at her.

While my wife doesn't want me to be part of her life, she doesn't want me out of Fiona's, and has made it very clear that there will be no attempts to keep us apart, and she wants me to commit to being permanently and constantly available to my daughter. Since I'll be rebuilding my life alone, I honestly don't know where or how I will end up, or how my mental state will be. So I feel like I can't make any promises until I know how I'll be coping with this all. But, for my legally minded friends, this is a separation, not a divorce, and my wife is being very clear that she wants me to be able to rebuild my life without her making it any more difficult than it will already be.

Through all my pain and grief, I still love her deeply. I still feel drawn to her. She says I'll hate her eventually and she hopes I do so I can begin to heal. I really don't want to hate her.

But, today, we are telling my daughter about all this. Like, within the hour. My wife can hurt me, damage my heart and head, and I will still love her, I would still take her back if she said she needed me. But I'm worried about how my daughter will react, and how I'll handle her reaction. I don't want my baby to hurt, and I tried one last time to convince my wife not to go through with this. It didn't work or help.

And it's fucking snowing in spring.

Thursday, February 6, 2014

A new action figure custom...that might not be SFW

I am just using my old blog today to host pics of my latest action figure custom, which I call "Sexual Predator", so I can put it up on Facebook without getting pics reported for Nudity. Because, you know, plastic penis blah-blah-blah. Enjoy!!!

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

"Combative and Spitting."

 I'm a bit behind transferring these over due to launching a second hobby related Blog, but here is my fourth post from 30POV. I've told the story many times over the years but this is the "ultimate" version, chock full of details no one really wants to read. Enjoy!!

 “Combative and Spitting.”

January 30, 2010

Uuugggghhhhhh…….Bright….Light. Very…..very, bright…..Light. Like…Right above my head…So bright….like there’s a heat coming off it, it’s that intense. My deep lack of consciousness seems to be ebbing away very, very slowly….And that fucking LIGHT, that sterilizing sun just a few feet away…..Even with my eyes clenched into tearful little fists, that light bleeds through the corners….Fuck me, where am I? Did I die, and Hell is……a dentist’s office?
OK….slow down, Wrecked-Um…We’ve done this before. “We” being me, and my heavy, hollow noggin, talking ourselves through another hangover-awakening. I give my head a little shimmy….And there’s the pain…Yup, that’s a hangover. That pain that is soooo huge and detached, that it feels like the pain fills an entire empty, echoey room, but then someone took that room and shoehorned it into your fucking skull, and not nicely, either, they did it in a mean way, like you owed them money for a long time or something….Yup, I even have the rambles. I get the rambles when I’m hung over. I’m still only in my own head, but the rambles are there.
“Hello?” There is this detached voice to my left. Close enough to hear clearly, but I can tell it isn’t directed to me. Female, pleasant, almost maternal sounding, kind of too pleasant though. Like the best Telemarketer ever, or the worst phone sex operator….”Hello sir, how do you feel about your long distance? Well, how about a Cleveland Steamer, then? Or I can make you a sandwich…”
So, she never said those things, they were just in my head again.
“…Hi there! Sir, do you know a Mr. Wrecked-Um?” Hey, that’s me. “Yes, well…Are you missing him?”
A pointless joke from Office Space pops into my head…”Well, I wouldn’t say I’m MISSING Wrecked-um, if you know what I mean…” Aww, fuck you, it was funny to me.
“….Yes? Well, this is St. Mary’s Hospital…”
I should throw a note in here, I can not, for the life of me, remember the exact name of this place, it could have been St. Abfuscus of the Prolapsed Anus for all I know, but it was a “St”. something. I never paid the co-pay, so it is on my credit report if you really need to know.
“…..St. Mary’s Hospital in downtown Indianapolis…..”
THAT’S RIGHT!!!!! I’m in Indy….Some memories are coming back now….I remember a stripper….dressed like Princess Leia. But she had it a little backwards, she was wearing the Jabba’s Dancer outfit from Jedi, but with the cinnamon bun hair style from the first movie, TOTALLY a continuity flub there…Aside from the fact that she was a little chunky to be dressed like Leia at all…And, Stormtroopers. Yes, there were Stormtroopers…In the strip club. I think I tried to fight a couple of them. I remember screaming “Fuck the 501st!!” And punching a Stormtrooper in the face…Err, mask. Helmet? Or, maybe I just wanted to do that. That may not have happened. But there were Stormtroopers, and we were in a strip club. For….This Star Wars nerd’s bachelor party. A friend of a friend. In Indianapolis…..Celebration! That’s right, I was at a Star Wars Convention…I AM at a Star Wars convention, if I’m still in Indy…Don’t giggle, I was helping a buddy that is a toy dealer, he was set up at this thing, selling toys, and his friend was getting married, soooooo we all went to a strip club, and there were Stormtroopers there, and an incredibly opportunistic stripper that had the presence of mind to dress like Slave Leia for the Star Wars nerds in town. Smart stripper, I say. Even if she was a little chunky to be Leia.
OH SHIT!!! I’m out of town and in a Hospital, what the fuck happened….? We left the strip club…This guy De was drunk and high, he went running up to this sleeping homeless guy under a bridge and punched him in the ass, and screamed “BUM PUNCHING!! YEAH!!!” and we went back to the hotel…I was definitely back at the Hotel….It was this super nice place, I think it was called Omni, or The Omni…How did I get here from there?
“….and we have a Mr. Wrecked-Um here, he was brought in a little while ago. No, he is alright, I think he just had a little too much to drink, and the hotel staff found him passed out in the hallway…”
Ohhhhh…..that’s embarrassing….
“Can someone pick him up? Oh, OK. Well, we can arrange something for him when he comes around, he is sleeping now.”
Or he is semi-conscious and drifting through his own muddy memories of Chunky Princess Leia.
It was around this time that I tried moving a little bit…I wasn’t sure I was even in my own body, even lying prone on the ER bed I felt like I was weakly floating a few inches off our own plane of reality. My ass was numb from the position I was in, so I tried shuffling from cheek to cheek, and I noticed an….Uncomfortable dampness…In my pants. I think someone spilled something on me. Maybe Chunky Leia? MMmmmmmmm Chunky Leia…..Sounds like a cookie. With chocolate chips….
I tried opening my eyes just a crack and JESUS CRACKER BARREL CHRIST WILL SOMEONE PLEASE SHOOT THAT FUCKING LIGHT IN THE FACE SO I CAN OPEN MY EYES….That thought slowly synapsed it’s way into my brain and my arm lazily drifted up to shield my eyes…I craned my neck outward to see past my belly…And there was this HUGE wet spot on my pants, stretching from pocket to pocket, into a triangle between my legs, and it must have penetrated through to the other side because my ass cheeks were all soggy and damp and….OH…..shit…..Ummmm….Someone pissed my pants. Wow. That’s embarrassing.
My Time Life operator notices me moving. “Oh, I think someone is awake……Hello there, Mr. Wrecked-Um, how are you feeling?”
“I’m…..uhhh…” My voice was a gruff, deafening whisper bouncing around in my skull. It was around now that I noticed my mouth had a pretty strong flavor of vomit in it. And not fresh vomit,either, it was the well aged variety that the French pay a lot of cash for to put on bread or tobacco or berets or something…..Oops, rambles again.
“I uhh…I, think…I feel awful…” was what I said, but it was waayyyy more slurred and unintelligible, way too damaged to type.
“It sounds like you had quite a night, didn’t you?” She was really, really pleasant, but she was talking to me like I was a naughty puppy.
“…Quite a…night…” I was still at that embryonic stage of hungover, where repeating that last few words I hear makes far more sense than any murdered English I could muster. “…How…Did I get here?”
“Well, you’re at St. Mary’s Hospital…”
“Yeah, I heard you on the phone with…My friend?”
“Yes, that was him, you gave us his name earlier when we asked who you were staying with. Do you remember that?”
“…No….” I started making a feeble attempt to sit up on the bed, and the nurse came over to steady me.
“Be careful, you’re attached there.”
The nurse points to an IV in my hand. “You’re attached, there, to a saline bag. That’s your second one.”
“I…I didn’t even notice that.”
She guides me upward and turned me so that I came to rest seated upright, on the side of the bed. I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye…Not out of any sort of shame, mind you…But my neck muscles were sore as hell, and I just couldn’t lift my head that high in my current state. My gaze came to rest right on her chest, right around where her cleavage…should have been. She had some surprisingly low cut scrubs going on there. I could see a lot more boob than I was used to seeing on a middle aged ER nurse, but the cleavage was a good  bit lower than I expected it to be…And they were pasty, and veiny. Pasty, veiny, elongated booby cleavage. The veins were pretty dark, too like her skin was translucent or something. It looked like a road map. A road map of veiny, pasty boobs. My head was drifting around a bit, and I was following the roads as they curved…I was halfway to Areoladelphia on V-95 when she interrupted my drive.
“Mr. Wrecked-Um, did you want something? Were you trying to get up for a reason?”
“…Uh…yes. I….” It took all I had to bob my head up to look her in the eye….”I need to go to the bathroom….” my head dropped back down like a spineless Muppet and I got a full on view of my well-pissed pants…”Again. I need to go to the bathroom again.”
“Oh, yes, the EMTs brought you in that way. Don’t worry, we see things like that all the time.”
“Yes, the EMTs. You were brought in by ambulance.”
“Wait there, I can get the report. I have to take out your IV anyway, that bag is finished.”
She walks over to a desk off to the left, where she had made the call I heard earlier. “Here it is. You were brought in a couple hours ago, around 5 am, ‘Combative and spitting’.”
My head cleared just long enough to be alarmed, “‘Combative and spitting?!?”
“Yes, that is what it says. You were apparently giving the EMTs a lot of problems on your trip here. But you’ve been fine since you got here.”
“I was giving them problems?” I repeated. I remembered NONE of this.
“They picked you up at the Omni hotel, you were non-responsive when they found you, but at some point you woke up and were fighting them, and spitting at them.”
“Oh god….I was spitting at them? Why?”
“I don’t know, but I can say they were pretty happy to get rid of you.”
“So, what was I treated for? Alcohol poisoning?” This sudden realization I had become a “that guy” of legendary proportions had shaken away enough of the clouds that I was kind of scared and a little concerned. “Was my stomach pumped?”
“No, you took care of that before you got here. You were covered with vomit when they brought you in. We cleaned you up as best as we could, but you’re going to want to take a shower and get some fresh clothes.”
“So, I was brought in for…?”
“Vomiting. That is what is on your discharge papers. Even though you got rid of most of it, there was still enough alcohol in your system that you took 2 bags of fluids to rehydrate you.”
She took out my IV and I stumbled into the bathroom, reeling a bit from what she’d told me. The bathroom door shut with a deafening thud, each click of the lock tumbler going off like a gunshot in my head. I looked in the mirror and saw that I still had some vomit crusted to my cheek. “Combative and spitting.” I repeated to myself. A flash of brilliant common sense hit me and I started rifling through my pockets to see if all my semi-valuables were there….Wallet, check…but my cash was gone. It was only about $40, but I didn’t have a lot of money to begin the trip with. All my cards were there, but the hotel check in slip for my truck was missing. Shit, I started to panic a little. With that, someone could go to the valet, and steal my truck. My phone was missing too. I can’t even call anyone. Between the “combative and spitting” shit and now this, things are starting to look bad. Then a new horror occurred to me, and without thinking I jammed my hand down the back of my pants to make sure my asshole was still intact….And it was. But, now, my hand smelled like pee.
I did my best to get cleaned up, vomit and piss stains notwithstanding, and went back out to the nurse. I told her my money was gone, her reply was “It was probably stolen before you were found passed out. That happens all the time.” A lot of things happen all the time at this Hospital. I asked her how I get back to the hotel, and she tells me that there was a Sheriff’s deputy waiting outside for me. NOW I’m about to freak…
“Am I in trouble?” I ask.
“No, no, but you’re friend wasn’t able to come get you, so I called a local deputy to come drive you back to the hotel. It’s OK, really, this part of town has people in and out all the time for conventions and trade shows, and things like this happen. We don’t try to railroad the tourists here. You didn’t do anything illegal, so you have nothing to worry about. He’ll just take you back to the hotel, as a public service.”
I thank her and humbly shuffle out the ER doors to see a bright, shiny white Police cruiser waiting for me. I lean down and look in the passenger side window. The deputy leans over and opens the door for me. “Mr. Wrecked-Um? You need a ride to the Omni, right?” He looked a couple years older than me, but was well groomed and professional looking, much like you would expect a cop to be, up close. Definitely a stark contrast to my own “blue collar thug” lack-of-style, especially with all the bodily fluids decorating me.
“Yeah….Thanks.” I slowly folded myself into the cruiser, trying hard to conceal the giant piss stain on my pants. It was really surreal to be in the front seat of a Police car, with all the radios and scanners and the shotgun standing at attention against the dashboard. I mumbled a low “wow” under my breath as I looked around the front, and then the back, of the cruiser.
“You’re more used to bein’ in the back of one of these, ain’t ‘cha Mr. Wrecked-Um?” he joked.
“No….No, it isn’t that, I’ve never been in one at all. Just crazy, seeing the shotgun there, I’m not a gun guy at all. It’s…big.”
“Yup, sure is. It’s a big one.”
As that awkwardness drifted in the air, He toggled between small talk and probing “What the hell happened to you?” questions while we drove. I told him I was a bit ashamed at what the ER nurse had revealed, and I was hoping to get the full story from somewhere. He did tell me that no charges were filed against me that he was aware of, so I shouldn’t have to worry. He’d have been happy to arrest me if there were, he assured me.
We pulled up at the hotel, and I hopped out quickly to avoid being seen, but a cop car really brings an attention all it’s own. Hands firmly in pockets and head hung low like a beaten dog, I tried to hurry through the lobby as inconspicuously as possible, hoping not to be recognized as a piss smelling homeless vomit covered vagrant, or worse, the aforementioned “that guy”.
I got back to the hotel room, and both my friends were at the Star Wars show, so I was alone with my shame for a little while longer. A 45 minute shower, shave, and change of clothes later, and I jumped on line (my friend had brought his laptop) to check some things. I still had my debit card, and with my cash stolen, I needed to tap an ATM but I couldn’t remember how much money was in my account. Panic sets in again when I see the account is just about empty, less than $20 in it.
Every nightmare scenario repeats in a flash (though I didn’t stick my fingers in my ass this time). Missing cash was easy and obvious, but no one  could have gotten into my account without my PIN.
I frantically called my bank and got a customer service rep.
“Hello, Mr. Wrecked-Um, how can I provide you with excellent servi-”
No time for all that, “Hi, I think I am missing money from my account.”
“OK, well, let me check on that on that for you, Mr. Wrecked-Um.”
“Thank you.” clickety clack, clickety clack, click click click….
“Hmmmmmm….” she says.
“Hmmmmm? Hmmmmwhat? HmmmmmI got robbed Hmmmmmm?!!? What is it?!”
“Did you…Spend some time at an….Establishment…Called ‘The Red Garter’?”
Ohhhhhh yeah, Chunky Leia…”Yes….I was there for a….Function. A Social Function.”
“Mmmm-Hmmmmm. Well, did you use your card to buy a drink or run a tab?”
OH, it’s coming back to me now…”Yes…I did. I paid for 2 beers…It was only $27 or so, though.”
“Well, most places like bars, restaurants, or…adult establishments, will put a hold on any card used for a bill or a tab, to be sure there are funds available. It looks as if this “Red Garter” function you attended did just that, they swiped your card and put a $120 hold on it. In a few days the funds will be released and the actual bill will be charged.”
Crap in a hat. “Can you push that through any quicker?”
“I can’t, no, but sometimes if you call the place that put the hold on the card, they can release it and put the actual charge through.”
At this point, I think I have enough indignities in my life without begging for money at strip clubs.
That solves the missing money. I checked with the hotel valet, and my truck was still in the lot, so the missing valet ticket wasn’t an issue any more. Someone had found my phone, made a few calls, determined who it belonged to, and returned it to one of my friends. Other than the missing cash from my wallet, which is just gone, I won’t see that again, some of the mystery has been solved, except for the biggest part…How did I end up in the hospital?
I asked around, but none of the guys that were at the strip club or the hotel room after wards had much to offer. Apparently, all the nerds, myself included, were booted out of the bachelor’s hotel room at about 4:30 am. I knew I was brought in to the hospital around 5am,  and our room was right down the hall from his. So, whatever occurred did so within that time frame and between those two points. None of the guys had any ideas. They said I was lucid when I left, no one had flagged me as “too drunk to walk”. only one place left to ask…
I was a little nervous to even approach the front desk of the hotel. I didn’t know if there would be photos of me with the words “CALL THE POLICE” posted somewhere. I scanned through the desperately smiling faces of the staff members behind the desk for any glimmer of recognition, and got none…None, that is, until a young woman wearing a “supervisor” name tag made eye contact. She did a double-take and stare, like she was looking at a ghost, then looked away. She knows something.
I walked right to her and she smiled somewhat fakely.
“Hello, sir, how can I help you?”
“Hi! I….Uhhh…Well, I kind of woke up in the hospital this morning, and they told me I was found here and brought there…Can you tell me…What happened? I really don’t remember much…”
Well, sir, you were…” She was stammering a little. “You were found passed out….You were found unconscious and unresponsive by a member of out staff..” This was starting to sound rehearsed. “An ambulance was called to take you to the hospital, that is hotel policy in these situations.” OK, makes sense so far. “We refrained from calling the police after your violent outburst…”
“Wait, what? Violent outburst? That… doesn’t sound like me.”
“Well, if you have a minute, I can pull up the incident report.”
Incident report? Fuck me. I’m an incident now. A combative, spitting incident.
She clicks away at a computer terminal for a little bit. “You were found in the hallway on the eighth floor around 4:35 am…”
“Does it say where in the hall?” I asked.
“…Yes, outside room 803, by the elevator bank. Someone getting off the elevator found you.”
803 was the room we were staying in. I had almost made it there. Then I could have vomited in my toilet and peed myself in the hotel bed with all this ER nonsense.
“An Ambulance was called. The EMTs couldn’t wake you, so you were being taken to the emergency room. on the way down the service elevator, you suddenly woke up and had a violent episode.”
“Wait, what do you mean by a violent episode?” Some things were coming back to me as she spoke, “Wait, was I held down?”
“Well, you were lying face down on the gurney, and the EMTs had to strap you to it.”
“And I got sick, right? Started vomiting?” I remembered some of it now. I was strapped down, flat on my chest, and when I threw up, my stomach was convulsing, and being strapped down made it difficult, and painful.
“No, not at that point. You woke up scared and confused, started screaming obscenities and became violent-”
“Oh, Jesus…” I put my elbow on the desk and rested my forehead in my right palm. Between her account of last night and my own recollections flooding back, I was starting to feel a little sick.
“-the EMTs tried to calm you down, but you kept screaming that you were being kidnapped and kept fighting with them and tried to break out of the gurneys restraints. Our security guard had to handcuff you-”
“What??! No way! Cuffs! I’d remember cuffs, I’d have marks…on…my…” Just as the words left my mouth, I look down at my wrist, and there it is, clear as day, a bright red ring around my wrist where a handcuff once dug. I checked my other arm and there was it’s mate, hidden behind last night’s hospital bracelet that I hadn’t removed yet. “…Oh, wait, yeah, I see them now. I was cuffed. Behind my back, huh?”
She continued, “-and they took you to the ER. You did get sick when you were being loaded onto the ambulance. That isn’t in the report, but I remember it.”
“Which is probably why I was spitting…To get the vomit out of my mouth.” I said aloud, mostly to myself.
Over the next 48 hours or so, more flashes of memory crept back in. My “Violent episode” became clearer as the fog lifted, as well as images of the ambulance interior, and the EMTs yelling at me to stop spitting at them, even though I am sure I was only spitting because I had vomit in my mouth and nowhere to get rid of it. Some random bruises showed up on back, shoulders, and wrists. My whole body was sore for several days. It has been 5 years, and I haven’t had a similar incident since. But then, I haven’t been to any more Star Wars conventions. Seriously, fuck partying like a Rock Star. Party like a Star Wars nerd. Those motherfuckers can light some shit up.

Friday, March 9, 2012

A Comedy of Terrors

This isn't my most popular post, but it is certainly my most infamous piece from 30POV. Personally, I would love it if "Push your pregnant wife down the stairs" replaced "One of these days, Alice, Bang, zoom, straight to the moon!" in the pop cultural-firmament lexicon.

Husbands of pregnant women, I give you three reasons to read and absorb this piece: First, if you and your significant other are still in the early stages of pregnancy, it may provide a guide, a cautionary tale, to what may be coming. Second, it could provide an outlet, a place where you realize the anger and frustration you are feeling doesn't make you a singular bad person, there are other bad people out there, namely me. Thirdly, at the very least, you now have a scapegoat, and can always say "At least I'm not as big an asshole as Wrecked-Um!"

A Comedy of Terrors...

So…I get to write the final post of the month, during the last month of the year, last year of the decade, and the topic is “Season Finale”. Jesus, think I’m gonna slit my wrists. Do I need to sacrifice a virgin to some angry Mayan god before I get started? Honestly, the most important thing here is that I get the last word.
For about the last 15 years or so, I have tried to approach my life as if it were a sitcom. I like to handle any issues that come my way in 22 minutes or less, and I have a laugh track in my head that goes off whenever I say something funny (it goes off all the time, like just now…). I try to find humor in every situation, no matter how far from humorous it is.
Luckily, my life so far has been full of less than funny shit that I can make funny, at least in the retelling, if not in the initial happening. I can trace a definite downward spiral of events since I graduated from High School 15 years ago, mainly a gradually deepening series of annoyances and aggravations, some life altering, some simply attitude adjusting, but all of which that have led to my own caustic sense of humor and outlook on things. It has also left me with a crippling fear of inconvenience and and a deep seated hatred of change. Not the jingly change, the making-things-differenty change.
Just in the last few years, I’ve been laid off, spent over a year on unemployment, started and destroyed my very own failure of a small business, went through an IRS audit that almost killed my liver and had me repaying $40K in business deductions, destroyed my credit to the point where I pay cash for everything, bought a little house that I can’t afford which I almost lost less than a year and a half later to foreclosure, done all types of odd labor to make money, and settled for a blue collar hell job that I hate. Those were the more “season ending cliffhanger” moments, but just from episode to episode I can recount tons of funny stories, like the time I was mistaken for a burglar in a wealthy neighborhood and detained because I drive a van (one of the cops actually said “How could you NOT be a burglar? You drive a van full of boxes…” I shit you not.).  Then there’s the time I woke up in the hospital after a night of partying out of town and had no recollection how I got there…Or the time my next door neighbor knocked on my door to tell me had had bombs in his house…Or the time my van broke down and rolled to a stop in front of the driveway to a local high end event location that just happened to be holding a wedding that day (rich people can be quite cruel when you inconvenience them.)…Or the time I got thrown out of an Asian whorehouse because…You know what, I’ll stop there.
That is just since 2002 or so, if we go back further….Fuck it, let’s not go back further. I’m already depressed.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to make all of this out to be more than it is. We all have our ball and chain, our crosses to bear. Our lives are what we make of them, and I can’t complain too much.  I have made it through only partially scathed, and I know many people that have had things waaayyy worse than I have, problems with drug or alcohol addiction, depression, suicide, chronic illness, run-ins with the law. But, I also have quite a few friends that like to call me and catch up, just so they can feel better about how uneventful their own lives are. And, in the end, it gives me a lot to talk about, a lot of episodes in the sitcom of my life.
Now, what do we call this sitcom? I’ve been thinking hard on this one, how about…..Everybody Fucks Wrecked-Um. It will probably have to run on Showtime, what with all the full frontal nudity, violence and language.
I told you all of that to build up to the current season’s finale. It seems that the last few years in my shitty job have caused us to lose some of the show’s core fans, and the ratings have dropped a bit. The network is resorting to a tried and true “jump the shark” event to draw audiences back in. It’s been a secret to most of the fan base for the last 20 weeks or so, with only certain show insiders getting the scoop…
My wife is pregnant. Soon, we’ll be hearing the pitter patter of a foul-mouthed little Wrecked-Um farting around the house. And…I am scared fucking shitless. I can’t handle my own fucking life, but I can make another one. There really should be some legislation…
PLEASE, god, no empty congratulations. I didn’t do anything to deserve the accolades other than ensure that my life as I know it is about to horribly change. Making a baby is only hard when you WANT ONE. When you don’t want one, (or maybe aren’t ready just yet to make one) it’s easier than dry humping a pillow into submission, which to be honest, might have been what I thought I was doing at the time…Minus the “dry” adjective.
Which leads me to my next point, mainly for the men reading this.
Guys, when that special someone, be it a wife, girlfriend, friend with benefits, slam piece, one-night-stand, barfly,  regular Saturday night thing, random hooker, or attractive drunken cousin, comes to you, and says “Honey, I’m pregnant…” or “dude, you should’ve used a different rubber the second time” or “I told you this would happen if you did it in my front-butt” or maybe “way to come in me, asshole”….You should consider….How to phrase this?…just giving her a quick shove down a good, long flight of stairs. A straight flight, too, no turns or landings. And do it right away, because if you wait until she’s more pregnanter, I think the penalties are way worse. Yeah, you could spend a year or two in jail for assault, but compared to the 9 months of mental and emotional HELL your knockupee is about to put you through, a good jailhouse gang rape is much more honest, straightforward, and less emotionally destructive.
Before you all get offended and send nasty comments, let me state for the record, that I am not, in any way, advocating violence against women. Only the pregnant ones, and only if you are personally responsible for said bun in said oven. And only right away, like a knee jerk reflex…Anything later would look premeditated. And even then, I’m not telling anyone to actually DO this…..I’m just saying, keep your options open. Just sayin’.
And yes, I know how that sounds. When thoughts like that, thoughts like pushing a pregnant woman down a flight of stairs, come into my head, I, too, take a pause, and think to myself that, deep down, inside, I am really just an awful, horrible person.
But I also know that I am not the first man to consider this.
I recently mentioned this idea a buddy of mine, and his reply was, “Oh yeah, that is why I just bought a 2 story house,” He previously lived in a rancher, “I even keep a basket of laundry by the top of the stairs , to toss down after her. She is pretty clumsy to begin with, so it adds to the believability.” Sigh….I’m not alone in the world.
Another friend from work offered some advice when I approached him with the idea…”Pf, yeah man, bitches be doing that shit…” Oh, this friend is black, so I’m not making fun of him, I’m quoting him word for word. “…you’ll see em’ layin’ there, sleepin’, and you’ll wanna punch ‘em in their fuckin’ heads for some shit they put’cha through, but boy, when that baby come out, it’ll all be worf it.”
This seems to be a popular bit of advice from friends of mine that have children. They say that my whole life, outlook and attitude will change when I see this new baby something. To them, I have asked, “Really? Will I still be an asshole?” And while the answer has been a resounding “YES” from all parties, the general consensus is that I will be a much more direct and purposed asshole, an asshole with meaning in my life. A “Capable Wrecked-Um”, perhaps?
Another friend at work had this to offer…”Whooooo, yeah! You think you’re miserable NOW, you think you hate this place NOW…..? Man, I can’t WAIT to see you in a year, when you gotta come in for overtime just to pay for diapers and shit!! THEN YOU’LL BE MISERABLE, MOTHERFUCKER!! You’ll be coming in here just to escape the crying, and the bitching, and the WAAA WAAAA WAAAAA….Hot damn I’m gonna laugh in your face you miserable prick!…” He even did a little dance to go with that rant. I guess misery does love company.
One fool acquaintance of mine (who doesn’t have kids) threw this one at me…”Dude, what about all those cats? You have always taken care of your cats, just draw on that when you raise this kid.” Yeah, that’s a good idea, idiot. Just this weekend, I just yanked 18 inches of waxed, shit covered dental floss out of my cats ass. So, when my kid chows down on a tasty tangle of minty used dental floss, I’ll have that experience…Fuck it, I’ll shoot them.  I’ll say it right now, if I have a kid that is dumb enough to eat and poop out dental floss, I’ll fucking shoot them. It will be a favor to us both.
Until that time comes, I live in abject fear of the unknown. Afraid of fucking up someone else’s life other than my own. I really haven’t been dealing with it well, and I have been having a very hard time keeping to myself just how hard this whole fucking pregnancy thing is for me. Sure, I guess it is tough for my wife, too, but she isn’t fucking writing this, I am.
So, as of the 31st, when this goes live, Mrs. Wrecked-Um and I are at the 20th week. Halfway point. And my wife is a fucking emotional pipe bomb that fire off rounds of completely irrational, conversational insanity without warning. One minute she’s fine, the next minute she’s crying, the next minute she’s angry about something I did or said at some point in the last five minutes or maybe last week, then she’s crying again and apologizing for snapping at me, then angry again because why should she apologize? She’s pregnant! Then crying because she’s pregnant and hormonal, then she’s mad at me for agreeing with her, because I shouldn’t disregard her emotions just because she’s hormonal, it discounts her feelings…For fuck’s sake, I have never been so wrong so goddamn often in my life.
Add to that my own lack of….Well, I kid of have this disconnect between my brain and my mouth. Not so much a disconnect, more of an OVERconnect…See, I have a very hard time stopping myself from saying the first thing that comes into my head. Some people say I don’t have a filter…or a conscience…or shame. One of those, or all of them, it doesn’t matter. I speak my mind, and sometimes I shouldn’t. I’m sure that is a surprise.
My initial reactions to many of her basic questions have led to some confrontational moments…
“Wrecky, honey…” she calls me Wrecky…”Do you have any names in mind?”
“Whoa, we’re not naming this thing. If you give it a name, we’ll never get rid of it.”
“What do you mean, get rid of it?”
“Sweety, have you SEEN what white babies go for on the internet? THOUSANDS…Assuming it is a white baby. It IS gonna be white, right?”
“Yes, it will be white.”
“Great, we can pay off all our debts, buy a nice new TV, and fuck, we can always make another one later…White babies are a completely renewable resource! If we could just make SUV’s that run on white babies, forget planting all that corn…”
You know, I’ll cut that one off right there. Running automobiles on white babies is really more of a topic for “Green Ethics” if it gets revisited in the future.
Then there is the nursery debate…
“Wrecky, we’ll have to turn the guest bedroom, you know, the one with all YOUR stuff in it, into a nursery, so you’ll have to throw out all YOUR stuff to make room for the babies things…”
My less-than-well-thought-out reply…
“Fuck that! This kid’s gonna live out in the back yard like a ghetto Pit Bull. I’ll get a stake and a chain…”
After a while, conversations like these started to wear on my wife. We were fighting often, much more so than we normally would, and her mood was getting progressively worse. She basically had 2 modes…Miserable bitch, and sleeping miserable bitch. She was constantly nauseous, missed some work, and she spent a lot of time moping around the house. So, being the supportive hubby that I be, I did my best to avoid her, avoid conversation and the inevitable confrontations, ignore her outbursts, and figured that was the best way to handle the situation.
That is, until one afternoon about a month or so ago, when she came home from work and crawled into bed with me. I work the graveyard shift, 11 pm to 7 am, so I need to sleep in the afternoon. It was about 5pm, I had been asleep for a couple hours, and had to be up to get ready for work at 9pm. I am a really light sleeper, so just the sound of her opening the door tends to bring me to at least half-consciousness. After a few minutes, I hear sobbing coming from her side of the bed.
“Hon?” I sleepily drool out.
(through sobs) “Yeah…?”
“What’s wrong?”
(still sobbing, with a sniffle this time…) “Nothing…”
“OK, good night…” and I quickly rolled over hoping that would be the end of it…
“I miss my husband…” she sighs out.
“What?” Being half asleep, I totally didn’t see that coming.
“I miss my husband.” Same sentence, a little firmer.
I gurgled the sleep away for just long enough to blurt out “Well, could you give him a call, I’m trying to fucking sleep here…”
“I mean it. You’ve been distant and avoiding me lately….I don’t like being avoided.”
“Well, every time I say something, it’s wrong, and we get into a fight…So I was doing nothing.” I was doing a piss poor job of diffusing the situation, but like I keep saying, she totally ambushed me while I was sleeping. I had even less control than I usually do.
She was really crying now, and getting louder…
“I can’t do this alone! I need you for support, you can’t just do nothing, you have to acknowledge me, don’t just avoid me because you’re afraid we’re gonna fight or something!…”
I was pretty conscious now, but short on patience…”OK, What should I do? You wanna talk about something?”
“Well, nothing right now…just that we’re not talking.”
“You want to talk…about not talking?”
“Don’t do that! Don’t make fun of me!” This sounds so awful when it is said through tears. “I just want to know you’re with me…”
“I’m here, I’m here…Is it the baby’s room thing? I don’t really expect it to live out in the back yard, I was just joking…”
“No,it isn’t that. You really can’t do anything about the baby’s room until we know the sex of the baby…”
“Alright, should I…Make you something to eat? Are you hungry?”
“No, I’m not hungry, and besides you’re sleeping…Oh god, I am so sorry, I’m keeping you awake aren’t I?!” And a renewed volley of tears and sobbing ring out…”I’m sorry I’m being so insecure and crazy…I’m just so worried about everything, I don’t know if I will be a good mother…and we never have any money, so I worry about providing for the baby…”
“Sweety, you’ll be a wonderful mother. Don’t worry about all this, it is just the hormones running wild…”
“Don’t disregard my feelings like that! Just because I’m hormonal doesn’t mean my feelings don’t count!”
“I didn’t say your fucking feelings… Look, what would you like me to say? What do you wanna hear? What do you want me to do?’
“Well…nothing right now.”
“Nothing?” Don’t get mad, Wrecked-Um…..
“Yeah, there’s nothing you can do about anything…”
And she looked at me with those sad eyes…And I exploded.
“I was fucking doing NOTHING before you came in here to wake me the fuck up and tell me that was fucking WRONG!! “
….And it went back and forth for another half hour before I got to go back to bed. But, it was all good. I decided to amend my plan and be more engaging. I was already picking up even more of the housework…
By the way, this whole “Pregnant women can’t clean the cat litter box” thing is total fucking bullshit, seriously. It’s a fucking conspiracy. I have 6 fucking cats, with 7 fucking litter boxes. They are all Persians, and at an given time at least two of them have diarrhea. Persian fur soaks up shit like a sponge, and then the litter sticks to it, and what the fuck is a Toxoplasmosis anyway? It sounds like a shitty hair metal band from the 80′s…..
OK, got that out. Whew. So, I had amended my plan to be more friendly and engaging, but still try to diffuse things by NOT saying what was on my mind. Have a conversation, without saying what I am thinking. I would tend to her needs without really saying what I mean, or meaning what I say. Oh boy.
A few days after that last debacle, we were sitting on the couch, conversing. She was sleepy and a bit depressed, so I tried to joke with her by making lewd comments. They always cheer her up. She tells me she is having a “Low self esteem day.” I assumed it was something she read about in a women’s magazine and took it as a hint to not say anything stupid.
She had to go to the basement to do her laundry, and I sat on the couch and marveled at myself for being such a good husband and doing everything she had asked.
Then she came sobbing up the stairs…
“Sweety, is there something wrong?” I ask, full of caring and a willingness to help.
She replied, “When I told you was having a low self esteem day, it was so you would compliment me. I was fishing for a compliment. I wanted you to say something to make me feel better, all I got was ‘do you want me to take you upstairs and sex you up’. That isn’t what I need to hear right now…”
“But I said that because I thought you looked hot, all depressed and sleepy…”
“You…just…don’t…get it…” she sobbed.
…And this was another breakthrough moment. For me, anyway. Because I realized that she’s right. I don’t get it. I CAN’T get it. But I see what I need to do…I can’t just not say what I’m thinking. I can’t just be supportive and engaging. I have to completely suppress every urge, every instinct, every fiber of my being that doesn’t, in some way, understand what it is like to be a completely insane pregnant woman. So, I have to stop being a man. And that is impossible. Which basically means I’ll never get it.
She kept looking at me, expecting me to finally say something, some sweet and loving compliment that would make her feel better…And I had nothing. I tried, but this new realization that I would never get it was just too strong, and it filled my head with the incredible lack of possibilities. The only thing I could come up with was “Gee, honey, you sure are good at this whole bat-shit crazy thing, ain’t ‘cha?” But I didn’t say it. Nope. Instead, I said “Well, this day just took a 180. I’m gonna go scoop out the litter boxes.”
That is where this season ends, for now. My wife sobbing and me scooping cat shit with a little plastic shovel. Let those ratings soar.
Oh shit, I forgot. I have the last word.
The last word on 30POV for the month, the year, and the decade. (Comments don’t count, Poop.)
The last word is…Penis. Yes, Penis. Don’t deny it, amplify it. Penis.
Without one of those, none of us would be here. I certainly would not have been able to write all this without my penis to help make the impending bundle of crippling financial burden that I will call daughter or son…
So, appreciate a penis today, be it yours, or someone else’s. And if you’re not into penises…Wake up! Fake it if you have to. I’m sure at some point a penis faked being into you…
So, yeah. Penis. Penis. Penis.

Friday, February 24, 2012


This is my second piece from 30POV, under the theme of "the Seven Deadly Sins". I was pretty proud of this one at the time. I tried to work in a ton of gags, offensive jokes, stories, etc, and I felt like I really kicked some ass on it. I was so impressed with myself that I sent it to everyone I knew, even printed out some copies and brought them to work to get some friends to read it. I gave it to one of my best friends in the world, my buddy Matt. After an extended toilet reading, he walked and went "Eh." I said "Eh? Really? Why Eh?" I was crushed. His reply, "You say shit like this all day long. Is it supposed to be funnier because it's written down?"


{Spoiler Alert} This post leaves nothing to the imagination; not for the faint of heart…

….Please direct your attention to the center ring, to the overweight, bald man standing sheepishly with his hands in his pockets…There you will see the one and only INCAPABLE WRECKED-UMM, here to shock and amaze you with his uncanny ability to do shit that no one cares about YET AGAIN!!!! Yes, tonight, this inept, useless asshole will attempt that which no one else has professed to attempt or accomplish before (that he is aware of)….He will commit all 7 of the the SEVEN DEADLY SINS right here before your eyes, tonight, while you watch/read/gasp/retch, and he will do so using NOTHING but the INTERNET!!!!!!

(….And, probably his checking account, a comfortable chair, his piss poor attitude, and at some point, some Johnson’s Baby Oil…)

…This was the best I could come up with. Honestly, of all the random Christian shit that crosses my path, I cannot even remember the last time the 7DS were even referenced. I could only remember the good ones off the top of my head…Lust, Gluttony, Greed….And that was probably only because they were characters on Fullmetal Alchemist (danger, your nerd is showing).
I guess I’ll have to look them up in the Bible. I’m sure I have one somewhere…I mean, hell, I went to 10 years of Catholic School, at 4 different institutions, 4 years of which were at a big fancy ol’ college Prep school, so yeah, there HAS to be one somewhere in the house…

…Aaaand nope. Not a single one anywhere. I can’t imagine what I would have done with them, I know my family had a ton of them. For Christ’s sakes, they were giving them away like dead Jesus crackers when I was a kid. I think you got one with every fucking sacrament or each time you baptized a kid or something. I have some recollection of our couch losing a leg when I was in first or second grade, and we just had all the kids baptized again to get enough Bibles to prop it back up on the one side. It was a little high, though, we ended up having to balance it out with some Bible cliff notes, I think it was the “King Jim” version of the Bible, the slightly skinnier one that Catholics don’t use.
Well, there are no bibles in the house. I guess I’ll take a look on line…But, I waited way too long to get this written, so it would take a miracle to get here in time, and God knows the extent of Christian themed Spam that would hit my email account if I did buy it from an internet bookstore. I can see it now…”Jesus can make your penis bigger! On the third day it will rise stronger and harder!” “Refinance with Zacchias and lower your mortgage interest rates!!” “See Mary Magdalene sodomize Gommorah with a strap-on!”

Time to go shopping. I try to avoid real bookstores as a rule, there are just way too many books and the people that work there tend to be unattractive and bookishly nerdy. For what books are costing nowadays, bookstores should really look into hiring some topless dancers to man the registers or something. Not to mention, seeing the Children’s book section always makes my skin crawl. I can’t believe they are pushing this reading shit on kids.

Target didn’t have any Bibles, not even in the Magazine section. I didn’t see any at my local Wal-Mart, which was really a kick in the apostles considering how high and mighty Wally-world tries to come off at times. I remember there being a Catholic store in this old strip mall up the street. They always seemed to be going out of business though, there was constantly some sort of sale banner or sign up in the front window.

Well, I was right, there was a Catholic Shop about a quarter mile away, and it was having a big “going to hell” 50% off sale. Regardless, I was sure they would have a Bible. I am also assuming a Bible will be cheap, like a pocket paperback or something. I am cruising on little income this week, like vow of poverty little, so I need me the cheapest Crack Ho of a Bible I can find.
I am amazed at the wide range of items one can find at a religious themed store. I kind of thought that God merchandise would fizzle out somewhere between bumper stickers and ornate statuary. I guess there is a market for stuff like T-Shirts, dishes, high end artwork, etc. I personally think a line of Christian themed lingerie would be a big hit…Think of the killing someone could make marketing Virgin Mary crotchless panties, or maybe some men’s boxers with an image of the Acension on the crotch….Get it?

This store was no different…It was a small strip-mall location, but it was crammed with tons of random Christian stuff. There were walls full of books, several racks of T-shirts, a Poster display full of artwork and wall-sized prayers, a full sized stone replica of the Ten commandments, lots of statues of all sizes, the biggest being a Sacred Heart of Jesus statue that HAD to be 5 feet tall, they even had Jesus Christ action figures…And a very stern looking older woman jockeying the register. And a hell of a looker, too. She seemed short even while seated, had a mop of curly grey hair, and must have been over 60. She reminded me of every nun I ever had as a teacher growing up, all clenched fists and firm stares, like she’d just as soon bite your ass than Bless it. She glared at me as I wandered into the store, her eyes all frowny and wrinkly. When I made eye contact, her mouth contorted into this unnerving, uncomfortable smile, like she was fighting it with every muscle in her face. The eyes never changed.

“Good day, sir, is there something you need here?”  Her voice reminded me of this screaming cat IM noise I use to piss people off when I’m on AIM.

“Well, I’m kind of looking for a Bible, but all I reall-” …

She cuts me off, “Well, sir, we have several, but a man your age should have his own Bible, didn’t your parents give you one as a child?”  Hrumph…presumptuous bitch.

“…Yeah, but we threw that couch away years ago…”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing, nothing….look, all I really need is the Sev-” Cut off again.

“You’ll find our Holy Books over on that wall, sir.” and she turned away to whatever the hell she was doing before I interrupted her obviously full life.

I had to blow like 10 years of dust off these bookshelves, I am starting to doubt this place gets many customers. I find a plain, basic looking Bible and go to check the Table of Contents for the Seven Deadly Sins, but it was shrink wrapped, like you’d find around meat or something….Do bibles get that “not so fresh” feeling? I couldn’t open it. All the books seemed to be sealed this way.

“Ma’am, I can’t look at this bible, it is shrinkwrapp-”

Cut off again and she didn’t even look up this time. “Yes sir, the books are all covered. We had a problem with children coming in and reading many of the holy books without buying them, so the owner had them heat sealed. This is a store, after all, not a library.”

“Really? Are you serious?”

“Pardon me?”

“You had a “problem” with Kids….coming in here…and reading  the books?”

“Yes, some days they would be in here all day causing a fuss, we had to call a truancy officer on them, but they were Amish children from Lancaster and really didn’t fall under his authority, so we had to seal all the Holy Books.”

The idea of Amish kids playing hooky and loitering in a Catholic Bookstore was totally tripping my 

“There’s comedy to be had heres” radar.

“Are you fucking with me?”

“What? But, No! I’m not!” she almost yelped, with a look that if I were giving it would have been followed by the words “You fucking idiot..” “….and if you insist on using such…language, I’ll ask you to leave here!”

“OK, I’m totally sorry on the Lord’s F-bomb there, but all I really need to know is what the Seven Deadly Sins are…”

“That information can be found in one of the books in the section you’re standing in front of, Sir.” Now each time she said “Sir” it was like she was hammering a nail into my hand or something.

“Yeah, but even at 50% off these books are more expensive than I expected, is there some kind of condensed version som-”

Hey, guess what? Cut off again, “The holy books are not part of the 50% off sale, sir. They are full price, but are priceless in Our Lord’s wisdom.”

“Well, do YOU know what the seven deadly Sins are?”

“Of course I do, I am a good Christian woman, and won’t have my faith questioned-”
This time I got to cut her off. “I know Greed, Gluttony, Lust, I just need the other 3…I mean 4…”

“If I tell you, you won’t need to buy the book, now will you, SIR!?” Another nail in my hand… “And it seems to me that you could use it…”

“Oh Jesus Ass-Fucking Christ lady, will you-”

She cut me off with a stammering ROAR this time “I will NOT have you…cheapen our Lord’s name with your….Blasphemous…taking of his name in vain…in this house of God…” I guess I got to her, she was just repeating herself now.

“This isn’t a house of God, it’s a Goddamn STORE of God, and I’M not cheapening him, YOU ARE!!!” I gestured towards the giant Lawn Jesus towards the front of the store. “You’re selling him for fifty fucking percent off!!! Check out Dollar Jesus, the discount Savior!!! Forgiving sins on the cheap this week only!!! For fuck’s sake, can’t you JUST tell me the Sev-”

This last time I was cut off with a coughing, sputtering threat to call the Police if I didn’t leave, so I thought it best I do so. I’m not on the best terms with the local cops as it is, no need to make it worse. 

On my way out the door, I saw their stack of “end abortion now” bumper stickers and screamed back “You wanna end abortion!? This whole store’s a fucking abortion! You should end the store cause it’s an abortion and you wanna end abortion so shut down the store….”

OK, I made that very last part up. It was one of those things I thought of on the car ride home, and WISHED I had said it. Only more eloquently thanI just typed it. You know what else I thought of on the way home? I have that damn Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman movie, Seven, from the late 90′s tucked away in my DVD rack at home, where Kevin Spacey is the serial killer obsessed with the Seven Deadly Sins…

…And guess fucking what!? The 7DS are listed right on the back of the DVD. Didn’t even have to watch the fucking movie again. Big waste of time all this shit was. I hope I didn’t give that crazy old bitch a heart attack.

Now down to the real point of this post. I’m going to attempt to commit all Seven Deadly Sins in one sitting, right here in front of my computer, using the internet. Gluttony, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, Greed, Lust, and Pride. Huh.

How the fuck to do this….

OK, Gluttony is easy. I have 2 big ass DiGiorno pizzas cooking in the oven, be ready any minute. I also have 3 six packs of my favorite beer in a cooler next to me. I can normally eat and drink about a quarter of that in a normal sitting before puking. I will eat it all while I am typing here. That seems pretty fucking gluttonous. I…guess you’re just gonna have to believe me on this one.
Sloth….Well, I’m not getting up and doing anything for a while. I’m just gonna sit in this comfy chair, and eat, get drunk, and type. I’m gonna call that one done too (this is super fucking anti-climactic here…).

Wrath…OK, so an old friend of mine, who found me using Myspace, invited me to his wedding this past summer. Over the course of our renewed online friendship, both he and his super bitchy bride-to-be became my friends on Myspace. It was cool chatting with him once in a while, but his fiance was one of those self-important bitches that feels the need to send bulletins to EVERYONE several times a day, just to update her mood or some bullshit. It was annoying.

When the day of his wedding came, I ended up blowing it off. Money was tight, and I just plain didn’t have the patience to reconnect with him and his family, not to mention enduring the annoyance of his older brothers inevitably digging up every old alliteration they had for my last name that I hadn’t heard since the third grade. So, like a dick, I bailed.

A week or so later I got a nasty message from his now wife, that came in the form of a bulletin to all her friends that whined about “some people didn’t have the decency to even call us to tell us they wouldn’t be sharing my special day blah blah bitch cunt shrew whore bitch…” Yeah, it didn’t name names, but it was about me.

So now she can feel my wrath…As I delete her from my friends file. Sure, she isn’t dead, or even hurt, and she might not even notice it right away because, really, who the fuck still uses Myspace? But yeah, fuck that bitch. You’re dead to me, can-opener.

Envy…I head for my rarely used Instant Pesterer to see who’s online for chatting. I see a work buddy of mine, Dan. Dan’s is one of those types that is always happy, never a bad thing to say, and nothing bad ever seems to happen to him. Nice looking wife, a couple kids that don’t seem too obnoxious, a decent house, and he likes what he does for a living. I know I can envy him in some way, I just have to find it.
WreckedUmm- sup dude?!?
DanDaddy1969- Hey man
WreckedUmm- hows things? what r u up 2?
DanDaddy1969- I was about to have a snack. I just got back from a funeral.
WreckedUmm- Snax r cul sry bro who dieded?
DanDaddy1969- My mother passed away. It was really sudden, my whole family is in shock
WreckedUmm- no way! that blows bro hows yer hot wifey doin?
DanDaddy1969- Well, that isn’t great. I got served with papers the other day, she wants a divorce.
WreckedUmm- HA u got served!
WreckedUmm-oh shit bro sry that isnt good at all
DanDaddy1969- I kind of saw it coming. I think she’s been screwing my neighbor’s son that just got out of college
DanDaddy1969- I caught him naked in my garage and I never believed his bullshit “i thought this was my garage” story. his house doesn’t even have a garage.
WreckedUmm- LMAO nekkid in yer garage man i’d fuck yer wife too 2 b honest
DanDaddy1969- That bitch even took the kids when she left. it was really hard to see them all at the funeral today my daughter was holding that fucking 22 YO kid’s hand.
WreckedUmm- dude maybe we should go out drinkin to get yer mind off shit
DanDaddy1969- I can’t, my dr is telling me I have this liver problem, I can’t drink or take painkillers for a while until he does more tests
WreckedUmm- Oh boy
DanDaddy1969- Yeah, things aren’t going too well
WreckedUmm- didnt u say you were snackin?
DanDaddy1969- yeah
WreckedUmm- mmmm whatchoo eatin?
DanDaddy1969- I haven’t been to the store because my wife had my account frozen but I have an old dented can of stale pringles I was going to eat
WreckedUmm- oh yeah man pringless rock that is cool
WeckedUmm- dude i totally envy you gettin to eat those pringles
DanDaddy1969- huh? WTF?
WreckedUmm- GTG TTYL KHA
DanDaddy1969- Uhhh, bye.
OK, Envy’s done.

Greed…Fuck it….Umm, I just….went to ebay and bought ALL of the…Uhh…”Planet of the HooJibs” action figures….all of them. Because I’m a greedy motherfucker and I want them all. Don’t bother looking for them, they aren’t there. Fuck, this is turning out to be a shitty idea.
OK, Lust and Pride. Goddammit, how the fuck do I do Pride? I am lost on that one. But for Lust….I think we know where this is going. Ba-chicka-wa-waaaaa!!!!!

Lust…Much like Alcohol, Internet Pornography really is the answer to all life’s problems. I have never had an issue that couldn’t be solved by watching a chick do another chick.
Unfortunately, internet pornography is also wrought with danger, again, much like alcohol. People may make light of addiction to internet pornography, but it is a very real and damaging problem. Just the sheer volume and selection of porn to be found online can dampen a man’s resolve and desensitize him to normal sex as a whole. I’m not kidding here, there are more David Duchovnys coming…Errr….And by that, I mean  that there are more people LIKE David Duchovny who will eventually need to admit their addiction to internet pornography and seek help. I’ll admit it, I have felt the urges..I have watched some of the most vile, filthy, tittilating, incredibly arousing and erection-inducing things I could find on the internet, and it has affected me, sometimes even negatively. Some days, I can’t walk by a Lane Bryant without wondering what the chubby girl behind the register might look like getting gangbanged in a public bathroom by 4 black guys and a horse while a Brazilian Lesbian midget in a racoon costume pees on her…It has changed me. It is THAT pervasive. Thank God Fox Mulder has the courage to speak up and lead us.

But enough of my soapboxing, it’s time for some lotion-bottling…Because I can’t see a better way to commit this Lusty sin without a little baby oil and some alone time on the web…..Where should I go? Hmmm, NerdprOn? Am I feeling a little….A little Barnyard sex-ay today? There are always the Russian chat sites…Oh yeah, that will work.

A lite slap and tickle on my salty pink Irish nuts should get this show on the road…And just my luck, it seems that every teenage girl in even the most impoverished former Soviet Bloc nation has three things…A webcam, internet access, and a surprising elasticity in her nanny-hoo-hoo. Ooooo, yeah, you’re a bad girl, what are you gonna do with that oiled up bananna squash? What? you need my credit card number before you can show me? Well, let me go get my wallet…Cue the sexy music and fade to black….

4 hours later

ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz….snort…..huzzah? Huh?…..Oh, sorry, I guess I dozed off for an hour or so after that little session….Whew….hey, did I finish? All that Pizza and beer made me sleepy…Let’s see, frozen chat screen, t-shirt stuck to my belly, one sock missing….Yup, looks like I finished…I remember it now. Godammit, that was good. No, no……I am good. Seriously, I really know what I am doing down there. No one has ever been better, not my wife, none of my ex girlfriends, not the creepy guy dressed as a clown at that one kid’s birthday party when I was six…NOBODY does it better. I got the tight grip, the right stroke, PERFECT technique, just enough forearm strength, and an enviable sense of rythym and timing. I doubt anyone in the world is as good at Masturbation as I am. I should be a fucking gold medalist Off-Jerker. A MASTER-Masturbator. The sultan of sweet self-Love-makin’. A motherfucking GENERAL in the army of Tug. Hell yeah, I’m just that good.

Hey, there’s my Pride.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Bah, mischief-pisschief…Anger, Retribution, Karma, and the Incapable Wrecked-Um.

 Beginning my transfer of pieces from 30POV before it disappears completely.

This was the first thing I wrote for that site, and possibly the first thing I had written in 10 years. I was having issues at my job with several people, and in the case of one particular douchebag, I felt the need to retaliate. 

 I REALLY HATE my fucking job.

OK, so…This is my first time “blogging”, or for that matter, writing this pseudo-publicly, on a site that people I don’t know may actually read….And I have been sitting here trying to figure out just how the fuck I am going to start this little story up. I even read a bunch of entries on the site to get some feel for just how this is done by “professionals”. My last writing course was many years ago, and I didn’t do very well, but my friends say I can write and that I’m “funny” so it has to be true, right?

(To be honest, my impression of blogging was that it allowed for self important, overly literate computer nerds to assert their opinions without reliving the beatings they probably got for opening their mouths when they were younger…At one point, I even considered starting a business that would hire out local High School Football teams to confront and beat down obnoxious bloggers/forum trolls/internet nerds with entitlement issues blah blah blah…)

I need a strong opener…Nothing too fancy, not over-reaching, not being more than I am…something simple, that I believe that others can relate to, that relates to my story and the topic.

OK. I REALLY HATE my fucking job.

I work at a factory as a machinist, running automated grinding machines that make bolts for aircraft. So, if you’ve been on a plane and had a wing fall off due to a “catastrophic fastener failure”…it wasn’t me.

I work third shift, 11pm to 7 am, a shitty schedule that I still have not gotten used to after over 3 years. Just about everyone I work with is a flaming fucking asshole. Racist Bikers, drug addict ex-cons, blue collar white trash, gangsta’ wannabe douchebags, drunks…Apparently factory work attracts the bottom of the socially challenged barrel.

One pain in my ass is a kid in his mid 20′s that runs my machine on the shift before mine. He’s an illiterate slob with little to no mechanical or people skills, a pill popper and a drunk, and just a plain shitty machine operator, always messing up jobs, breaking the machines, and leaving a mess for me to come in and deal with. Add to that, he’s a cocky motherfucker that thinks he runs the plant, and I’ve got a special vein in my forehead that throbs whenever he opens his mouth.

Luckily, he doesn’t talk to me often…I’ve developed a habit of getting to work 2 minutes late every day so I avoid the kid. So, he writes notes, and leaves them on my toolbox…

(…Just a quick aside here, the company issues all employees large rolling toolboxes, about 3 feet high, 18″ wide, 24″ deep, with 2-4 large drawers,  full of tools like wrenches, vice grips, micrometers, and other things we need to do our jobs properly. Think of it like a cubicle to those of you trapped in an office space…My personal “area” to keep my personal shit.)

…Barely legible, incorrectly spelled, horribly written notes. For a while, I kept a scrapbook to show them off. You’ve seen the signs on the highway, around construction sites, that say “MY MOMMY WORKZ HERE PLEESE SLOW DOWN” written by some half mongoloid ADD kid, with the backwards ‘e’s and shit spelled wrong?…He could have a lucrative career writing those.

The incidents and stories I could share about this kid are endless…He’s broken into my toolbox and taken things out (which I proved by breaking into HIS toolbox and getting them back), left our machine broken and denied it, sabotaged or screwed up jobs so I would have to fix them, he’s a fucking terror. But, in a factory as large as ours, unless someone causes violence, sexually harasses or makes direct death threats, management basically tells you to get over it and be happy you have a job.
I should also add, I am a firm believer in karma, and I felt certain that this fool would eventually get what he deserved. It’s just…the WAITING that kills me…

One day, I was so tired of this kid’s crap, I was ready to explode. I had complained, I had confronted him, I had tried to do everything within the company policy to handle this situation, and nothing was being done. He just writes another cocky note, breaks something and ruins my fucking day all over again.

So I pissed all over his toolbox.

Yes, you read that. I pissed all over his toolbox. On top, in all the drawers, all over the picture of his blonde girlfriend that he had hanging on the side of his toolbox, all over the magnetic Philadelphia Phillies calendar with special dates highlighted that he had tickets too, all over the lock that I had broken into,  all over his oil rags, all over his tools, especially the handles of his tools, all over the stash of spare change he used to buy snacks (ever seen a bunch of quarters immersed in a puddle of pee? It looked kind of cool…) and made sure to leave a few drips in his coffee cup.

This isn’t a “gee I’d love to” or a “wouldn’t it be funny but I’d never do it…” Nope. I did it. Totally premeditated, malevolent urination.

I am sure you’re wondering how….Right? I mean, I couldn’t just drop my pants, prop my nuts on his toolbox and piss away, could I? No, there was some thought, and a little stealth.
I bought a 20oz bottle of lemonade from one of the vending machines, drank it, went into the bathroom, and filled it back up. No one will question a bottle of lemonade, right? (note to reader-Urine and Lemonade look a LOT different than most people realize). I took it out to his toolbox, and went to town, dumping it all over the place, a cheery golden shower of vengeance. The only issue came when I realized that I left a strikingly-yellow-under-the-fluorescent-lights puddle on top of the box, but used some of his oil rags to soak that up. The outside of his toolbox was all glistening and wet, so I had to snag a floor fan to blow on it and dry it out, lest someone walk by and say “Is there a leak somewhere? That toolbox is all wet, and glistening, and yellow….”

And FUCK ME it felt good. I had my personal little revenge, his toolbox would start to stink in the oppressive shop heat, he’d be handling everything I pissed on by the next shift, and I have a fun “don’t fuck with me or I’ll piss on you” story to pull out at parties. Everyone wins. Well, I win. A small victory. And lots of giggles every time I see him open his toolbox.

Then, as I drove home, my truck sputtered and died as I pulled up in front of my house. No previous warning. My fuel pump went. $650 to have it fixed. Fucking Karma.

                                                 Epilogue 2/20/2012

 This whole thing went basically unnoticed at my job. Either the urine evaporated in the heat, or the kid just assumed it was a roof leak (the plant had many of those) and moved on. Angry that my pee-venge did nothing, I went one "better" (read: worse). 

Our company issued a medicated hand lotion to all employees that wanted it. There were some pretty nasty chemicals being used on a daily basis and a lot of people would get dry, cracked skin. This kid was one of them. He used the lotion every day at the end of his shift. Expanding on my theme, I pissed in his tube of hand cream. It wasn't easy, I pissed all over myself while doing it. The hole was small, and my aim isn't great. I shook it up, and it all blended together surprisingly well. He went through the tube pretty quickly, so I at least got the enjoyment of watching him rub it on his hands at the end of each shift.

I told several people at the job that I did this. It disgusts most of them, but they all agreed that the guy was a seething, shit-fucking asshole. I just lowered myself to his level. Regardless, nobody ratted me out. So far, the story hasn't spread, and it has been two and a half years. I'm no longer working there (or at all, for that matter) and I don't plan to return, so part of me really wants the story to get out, but since I'm still looking for another job, it's probably better it doesn't. 

Except on my blog no one reads, and the Facebook links that my friends will all ignore.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Goodbye, 30POV?

From what my editor says, the site I work for, 30POV, is done for good. I'm not too happy about it, but this was my first experience as a "writer", "blogger", "printed asshole", etc, so I don't know how these things roll. Maybe 2-3 years is the normal lifespan for the average blog site? A lot of us regulars seemed to either be flaking, busy, or burning out, myself included. Regardless, I am happy with the work I did there, and my plan right now is to transfer the pieces over to this blog. Even if I get zero hits here, they will at least still be somewhere. In my own amateurishness, I didn't keep copies of any of my work on my computer anywhere. So if that site disappeared tomorrow, I'd be out all my work. Live and learn.

Oh, and I am still unemployed. I could expand on that a lot, and I will, at some point. But until then, I am still collecting unemployment and making ends meet selling everything I own on eBay.