Fuck It, Fight It, It's All the Same...

I like to cuss. I'm certain that if you've even ever been here only once, this confession should come as no surprise. I wouldn't even call it a confession. More a statement of fact. And if this is your first time here, well then now you fucking know. And you'd have noticed soon enough without the warning. I talk like a truck driver and perhaps even moreso now in the presence of adults in real life and here on the internets (Hey you! The twelve-year-old who thinks I'm a MILF! Go do your homework! What are you, Brad's cousin or something?) because I have to reign in the F-Bombs around the childrens. And there is just something so goddamn cathartic about swearing for me.

That said, there is one swear that I use with the utmost discretion. I reserve it for only the most deserving of recipients. That is the word cunt. It isn't that the word bothers me especially. Honestly? I'm always afraid that when I use it someone will say I'm not a real feminist and so I make especially sure that when I'm calling someone a cunt, it is worth any hassle I will get. I've got to tell you, I haven't received my card in the mail just yet, but I'm a member of the Feminist Club just the same. And I don't even pretend not to be. Like, "Oh, OF COURSE I think women should be equal, but I'm not a FEMINIST! Ew! They're, like, hairy and ugly and stuff!" I'll say it loud and proud. I'm a feminist.

And yet, I cannot rectify the fact that I'm a feminist with the fact that nothing gives me more pleasure than calling someone I don't like a fucking cunt. I suppose I could equate it to calling someone a prick. But that'd be a lie. It just isn't the same.

Still, though? At the risk of ruining my feminist street cred and all? My former coworker is a FUCKING CUNT! And that is ultimately why I quit my job. I hadn't wanted to say anything while I was still working because, though none of my former coworkers read my blog, it would be easy peasy for them to find if they put in a little effort. And, well, let me call a spade a spade, Cunt was looking for every opportunity to throw me under the bus since she had already succeeded in getting my coworker fired and seemed bored with her lack of a victim. Now that I'm gone and I've come to realize that I don't give a rat's ass about burning bridges (why should I worry about burning bridges when employers don't have to worry about the same?) I'll spill it.

In the end, this was a good thing. I had been finding my job not leg-humpworthy for years. And I think my ex-boss is losing her damn mind what with nearly humping Cunt's leg on a thrice daily basis.

What is really cool, though, is that knowing I was leaving eventually, and knowing that I decided when I'd leave, and knowing that they could all fucking kiss my ass because I knew shit they didn't know and they needed me to stay and I could leave whenever I fucking wanted, well, it gave me power. I'm power-trippin' yo. Hence the unabashed use of run-on sentences. I found my voice. I spoke up for myself in a way I hadn't for the eight years I'd been there.

I don't have the intestinal fortitude to go into the details of Cunt's cuntiness, but I thought I'd share an e-mail I sent to my boss with you. Mostly because I read it and smile and thought you might, too. And it sort of sums things up so you'd get the general idea of what happened. Because some of you have so kindly asked.

Without further ado...Here it is...An e-mail to my ex-boss...

Boss,

Here’s the thing. I totally get that you need to back up Cunt at this point. She’ll be staying and I’m not. It behooves you to sing her praises. It would be silly to do anything else from a business standpoint. It even makes sense that, in order to buoy Cunt, I be painted as incompetent. That’s fine, too. She needs the boost, not me because I’ll be gone.

That said, working with The Two Cunts (the sacchariny sweet one when you and Delores are around and the condescending, snotty one when you are not) is disconcerting to say the least, offensive to say the most. I am staying past April 7th for your and Delores' sake, despite Cunt. But while you backing her up makes good business sense for you, me tolerating condescension from her and being treated as though I’m incompetent does not make good personal sense for me.

Last night I almost decided to rescind my offer to stay past my originally planned resignation date of April 7th. I’ve decided against that because I don’t want to do that to you or to Delores. But, once April 7th comes, I am prepared to leave if I find working with Cunt too stressful. I’d likely be willing to come in and train Delores hourly if it comes to that.

I also want to add, I was a little thrown by your response to my e-mail offering to leave notes about the groups that had absolutely no acknowledgement of the project I was taking on. I mean, I don’t need anyone to do an interpretive dance to “Wind Beneath My Wings” or anything. Heck, I don’t even need a thank you. But it would have been nice if it had mentioned, after singing Cunt’s accolades, “That’d be cool, Zube.” These aren’t notes My Predecessor gave me, nor would I have expected her to. It is stuff I figured out on my own over the past eight years.

Anyway, I’d hate for our relationship to spiral downwards in the upcoming weeks. Seriously. That’s what I fear most. But I also don’t want to willingly play the part of sacrificial lamb for the next six weeks.

Zube

Suffice it to say, my ass was not harrassed outwardly and I worked the remaining weeks I'd been asked to stay.

But now, thank the dieties, I'm done. And on that note...

Just So You Know...

It's kinda like that right now. Kinda like North America somehow morphed into a huge bootish Italy and it's kicking my ass. Or I still can't draw for shit. Which is nothing new. But, with the weight of the world and all, I'm having a rough go of things at the moment. Hopefully it's just temporary.

Zack, Zack, He's a Pooping Maniac! Or Not...

Zube Girl: Okay, Zack. I need you to fess up. Did you poop in Psycho Twat's yard?
Zack: Who me?

Girl: Yes, you.

Zack: Well, you see, I don't really remember where I poop. I mean, come on, you should understand given the fact that one of your nicknames for me is Peabrain. Anyway, I've done a little sleuthing, and snapped this photo...

Zack: As you can see, sometimes my buddies come over and I can't be responsible for knowing where they poop. We're just dogs, Mom. Geez. Nature calls and we answer. That's about the extent of thinking that goes into it.

Girl: Yeah, I know. I sure am glad you got that photo though. Wanna biscuit?

Zack: Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Oh my god. You're the best Mom a dog could ever ask for...Ooh, would you rub my belly, too? I promise, I'll never, never, never poop over there.

Girl: Whatever, Peabrain. You'll forget that promise in, like, two seconds.

Zack: Okay, okay. But with the biscuit. Get on that, lady. I'm hungry.

***********************************************************
PS- I want to thank EVERYONE for their advice on the nose-punching incident. If you'll hang in there, I promise the Zube's will be back to their usual crazy antics!

The Poo-Flinger: Parte Dos

If you haven't already, you'll want to read the post below, or this won't make sense.

So, there was blood everyfuckingwhere...Zube Boy, thankfully, walked away and said, "Call 911."

Which I did. I was in a panic. Psycho Twat had retreated to his house and I wasn't concerned about another confrontation, but I was so shook up to witness Zube Boy getting walloped in the face by a grown man. And ugh. The blood.

The county sheriff's department must've been beside themselves with joy having something other than your run of the mill DUI to police. Two cars showed up, and a fire truck with an EMT crew to ascertain whether or not Zube Boy's nose was broken. It wasn't.

Here's the thing. We're struggling with whether or not to actually follow through with the pressing of the charges. I mean, we've got to live next to this guy and things were already bad, but maybe if we drop the charges, he’ll realize what a huge favor we did him. It was a third degree assault charge, and the fine is upwards of $1,000.

We were going to say forget it last night, but the police officer said to just leave it be for now. Psycho Twat's court date is set for September 14th and he is required to leave us alone between now and then, otherwise it would be intimidation, which is a felony. We can drop the charges any time before that date.

I’m trying to be super fair in my head about this. I mean, it’s gotta suck being the only guy in the neighborhood who doesn’t have a dog. But, that’s just the way things are in this neighborhood. We happen to live in the one section of town where homes can be purchased for under $300,000. I mean, I know we’re not entirely innocent in this scenario, but palming someone in the nose is just out of hand.

We've got two months to figure it out. I'm just not sure what to do.

The Poo-Flinger: Parte Uno

Zube Boy got punched in the nose last night by our fuckwit psycho neighbor.

The Long Story

I arrived home from work to an unpleasant scene. Zube Boy and our neighbor, whom I’ll refer to as Psycho Twat for the duration, were exchanging words. Psycho Twat is just not right, and we’ve not gotten along with him for one and a half of the two years we’ve lived next to him.

Honestly, we kind of kissed his ass when we first moved in having been warned by the people we bought the house from that he’s an asshole. We invited him to parties, and Zube Boy offered to shovel the snow on his walkway when he broke his leg. Which is a huge task considering that, for just about six months out of the year, it’s snowing round these parts.

Eventually, things started to feel strained. Psycho Twat stopped saying hi. We went about our business and basically ignored him. Every once in a while, we’d exchange unfriendly words about our friends stopping by and having a car tire over his property line. Let me explain that houses are just about on top of one another in our little community. It’s difficult to describe, but basically each rancher *cough* double-wide *cough* is on approximately .1 acre. It’s your rough and tumble blue collar community, and most folks manage to suck it up and get along.

Excepting our neighbor who seems to believe that he owns a million dollar home in a upstanding community. Or rather, that his Dad gave him a million dollar home…

Anyway, Zube Boy was on the ground arms deep in the guts of his jeep when he heard…

Thwump

Thwump

He crawled out to see what all the thwumping was about. Psycho Twat had a shovel in his hands and was using it to fling dog shit at our house. Now, I will admit here that said shit may have been Zack’s. It is possible. It is also possible that the shit being thrown had previously resided in the intestines of any one of the twenty other dogs that run around our neighborhood unabated. Zack poos in our backyard. He seems content to park his happy little ass in the confines of our yard. But, perhaps he wanted to try something new and exciting in the world of pooping. Who knows?

Whether it was Zack’s or not, we would have been more than happy to clean it up. We’re all about keeping the peace, and have shoveled his yard before without being asked. No one else in the neighborhood does this, even though just about everyone has a free-roaming dog. But, we were not given that opportunity, as Psycho Twat skipped over the friendly neighborly request bit, and went straight to the act of throwing feces at our house. Mature way for a guy in his late 30’s to act.

Anyway, Zube Boy looked at Psycho Twat who said, “What? What?”

Boy: Ummm, you’re throwing shit at my house.

Twat: Yeah, because your fucking dog just left a big fucking steamer in my yard!

Boy: Okay. He's been laying here next to me all day, but...

This is when I arrive home from work. This entry is already long as shit, so I’ll just say that things escalated for about 10 minutes. There was a slight pause when Psycho Twat got in Zube Boy’s face and I stepped in between them, shook my finger in his face and said, “You back the fuck away from him.” Both gentlemen seemed a bit taken aback by my feisty involvement.

Eventually, the argument turned to the subject of property lines. I can’t even tell you how ridiculous it was to see a grown man screaming and crying about six inches of land, and whether it was his or not. Much to Psycho Twat’s chagrin Zube Boy walked in the house and promptly emerged with the property map we received when we bought the house.

I started to walk away and turned around to see Psycho Twat leap across our property and palm Zube Boy in the nose.

Click here to read the rest of the story...