Things To Do with a Phone Line

The Butcher is out on a date with a girl he met at Mr. Roboto’s party last week. No, wait, he’s walking back in the door. He’s grabbing his bowling ball. He’s getting his bowling shoes. He’s walking back out the door. “I’ll throw this in the trunk just in case.” In case his date turns out to be a fifty year old man.*

Whatever. Mr. Roboto predicted this (the hook-up, not the bowling). He is all-wise.

I’m trying to recover from my tough afternoon of sitting on the back porch reading about female Irish revolutionaries. It sure was hard work letting the warm sun beat down on me while the wind blew wisps of my hair loose. The dog baked in the sun and once we were sufficiently warm and well-educated, we came back inside and sent snarky emails to the Professor, who is working under a deadline and so must have an inbox full of fun things to read when she needs a break.

I just got off the phone with Shug, who told me that the guy who stalked me in high school has hit hard times and got divorced and moved back in with his parents. If I wasn’t afraid of the karmic blowback, I’d be doing a gloating little dance to David Banner.

Once, he (the stalker, not David Banner) threw me into my locker for talking to the guy who had a locker next to me. I was relieved to have the bruises on my back and the knot on my head. It showed he meant me harm in a way nothing I said ever could. Not that it mattered. I was still “provoking” him, but it mattered to me. To me, it meant I wasn’t misreading the situation.

Wow, this is totally the post of live-blogging. I just got off the phone with my nephew! Who is at my dad’s! He’s playing with a balloon. Who knows why his mom is back in town? Perhaps there are drugs to be run. Crack to be whored. Realities to be broken from. Who can say what her agenda is?

But that darling boy is, at least for the next couple of days, in a warm and safe place where he can have a bath and play with Grandpa.

Y’all I really hate my sister-in-law. Before I had a sister-in-law, I thought that people who hated their in-laws were just not trying hard enough to be charitable to people different from themselves.

To everyone who may have been a recipient of my sanctimonious bullshit, I apologize. Some in-laws just suck.

If I had to make a list of everyone I hated (if we made the rule that I actually had to know them), it would be as follows:

1. My sister-in-law.
2. The guy who stalked me.
3. The head of a local non-profit who shall remain nameless for my own sake, but who really needs to be beat to death with a large vibrator while all his underlings watch.
4. The United Methodist Church.

That was the other news that my dad had–that, since the Church has completely fucked over his insurance, he will not be able to retire next year or the year after as the most current broken promise was, but will now have to stick around another five years.

He is, then, looking for another church to serve until he retires. When he leaves this church, they’ll be lowering the salary. Because lord knows Methodist ministers are so over-paid.

Dear United Methodist Church,

Wither you motherfuckers, like the fig tree empty of fruit for the people who serve you. Wither, wither, wither and die and I will dance naked in your empty buildings in a pagan ecstasy and spray paint “Matthew 21:18-22” across your doors.


Aunt B.

Whew. I feel better now.

*This is my first time live-blogging. I hope it was sufficiently thrilling for you.


22 thoughts on “Things To Do with a Phone Line

  1. What? Afraid the young buck swooped in while you were in the bathroom and stole your conquest? I tease.

    I didn’t catch her name. She’s one of the non-bloggers who was sitting on the couch with him most of the evening.

    Were you hitting on those girls too?

  2. I don’t think they are the same girls. They were at the couch in the back, right? You are in a better position to know who was chattin’ up who that night.

    What a relief. Now I can go back to stalking without distraction.

  3. Man, that blows. You weren’t kidding the other night. Lovely church folk, eh? Oh well. At least everyone can build a new gym.

    Here I was the other night talking about the church and killing people with tampons and the hidden misogyny of Brown Sugar and I missed all the freefloating sex in the air.

    I am so blasted oblivious.

  4. The misogyny of Brown Sugar is hidden? I thought it was the main selling point of the song.

    The Password is detann.

  5. The misogyny of Brown Sugar is hidden? I thought it was the main selling point of the song.

    The Password is detann

    See. Oblivious. Froggin’ Stumphy Oblivioius.

    Those last 4 words are english. Yet I have no idea what they mean.

  6. It’s a good thing the Butcher has the car or I’d be downtown probably getting arrested for vandalizing the UMC headquarters. New gyms indeed. I’m sure Jesus is pleased.

    Still, a lot of this my dad brought on himself, as the Church told him he should distance himself from my brothers when they were going through their troubles and it’s been pretty much downhill for him career-wise since he refused to disown at least the recalcitrant brother.

    Because, lord knows there’s nothing more Christian than turning your back on your children to further your own career. Oh, wait, there’s the punishing someone with pay-cuts and shitty churches and trapping him into serving them by fucking with his benefits when he refuses to do wrong by his family; THAT’s the more Christian thing, apparently.

    God, I hate those fuckers.

    Sarcastro, if you were the one hitting on all the women there, I’m not sure how I was in a better position than you to know who was flirting with whom.

    But yes, I’m positive she’s one of the girls from the couch in the back.

    Had she known about you breaking the bed, I’m sure she’d have picked you over the Butcher, if that counts for anything.

  7. If “Fails to Properly Read and Follow Bed Assembly Instructions” is a quality that women are looking for, I would have the babes lined up and down the block.

    The Password is lmjege

  8. Just ask Mr. Mycropht.

    The Church has a funny way of demanding their ministers make the ultimate sacrifice. It seems that the consensus is you must either be Abraham, tying your begotten to the altar or you are PNG. Lovely way to be.

    You have my sympathies, utterly. Just don’t waste any of that lovely Glenfiddich on those UMC molotovs.

  9. Oh, btw, my troll over at pitw thinks you and I are lesbian lovers.

    Sorry about that. Next time you switch hit, try to go Democrat, will ya?

  10. Ah, but isn’t a certain amount of self-deprecation considered charming?
    It leavens the arrogance.

  11. Oh, no good scotch wasted on the Methodists, that’s for sure. Your husband and I could probably get together for a great bitch session. No one gets it like another minister’s kid.

    Lovers? You and I? You could do much better than me. Get you a little woman who will cook and clean and who doesn’t sit around cursing the Democratic party for being too conservative. You deserve a lesbian lover you can discuss politics with.

    Still, I’m flattered that someone thinks I have a more exciting sex life than I do.

    Sarcastro, fair enough. Still, when you’re on the verge of legendary, don’t shy away.

  12. You shall have to come over to Villa Gorilla for cheap wine, good cheese, and a healthy bitch session about the life of a PK. The door is always wide open. Only condition is you must love dogs. (Not in THAT way)

    No frotteurism. I promise.

  13. Ah, but isn’t a certain amount of self-deprecation considered charming?
    It leavens the arrogance.

    You’ve apparently already got the woman touching herself in bars. You don’t need to be self-deprecating, man.


    How the hell are dyslexics supposed to do this word verification thing? I already keep mixing up the i and the l

  14. Please know that I just found out about The Butcher’s date last night, so that means that my party resulted in two love connections. The next one I throw, I’ll be charging admission.

  15. Who was the other one? Because, I assure you, contrary to the rumors going around at Pith in the Wind, Katherine Coble and I are just friends.

  16. I’d love to dish the dirt on the other, but, if I’ve learned anything from my online fun over the past two years, it’s to never put anything in print. (Or at least for free.)

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