So. Another productive week from our Republican controlled Federal Congress. For the some-dozenth time a vote to repeal The Affordable Care Act, and less than two weeks after the terrorist attack on a Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado, Republicans voted to punish the victim by defunding PP and, likewise, reward the lunatic terrorist by insuring he can purchase another assault rifle should he get released and choose to repeat his terrorist act against women.
And I call them “do nothing Republicans” and I take it back. I call them bigoted and greedy shitheads as well, but that one I’m not taking back.
In the wake of this most recent deadly attack on women’s medical providers, it was suggested that mayhaps, just possibly, Republican/conservative rhetoric might have motivated this monstrous act. In their defense, those who spread the lies created by the false, doctored video of a PP doctor’s words both continue to lie about the video and claim Free Speech as justification.
I guess they can sleep at night knowing that they likely stimulated these murders and maimings, as verified by their continued actions. And my critical thinking on the subject leads me to a modest conclusion that they are either one, pleased with the result as a by-product of their actions, or two, pleased because the murderous attack on a women’s clinic was what they desired.
Then again, with Carly Fiorina it might be both and/or the simple fact that she appears to be a heartless autocrat and possible sociopath. The level of negative concern for humanity she displays is one of the key traits of antisocial behavior.
Which reminds me. I’m soon to be posting, herein, either a story about uncommon customer service performed by a major auto manufacturer, or instead, a tale of egregious customer abuse by said and same car maker. In either case I will be performing upon a promise made by me to said automaker to become either the best salesman this company could ever have, or, in the alternative, possibly the most gigantic pain in their collective ass they have never imagined.
And that reminds me that I need to admit that I now feel fully comfortable in saying that I am officially a cranky old fart. I’m a wears the tee shirt, card carrying, don’t give a shit what anyone says about me cranky old fart. As an aside, I just spent ten minutes adding, subtracting, adding back and re-subtracting hyphens from that last sentence. My memory from Mrs. Boulaware’s English class is that Grammar’s dictates require ten such hyphens in that descriptive sentence, and all those dashes made me queasy when I read it. So fuck it and add your own shitty little dashes.
Then again, a second count indicated twelve hyphens would have been required to accurately depict meanings. Let me show you:
“I’m a wears-the-tee-shirt, card-carrying, don’t-give-a-shit-what-anyone-says-about-me cranky old fart.” Unless you were to remove the commas and add hyphens thereat. Then there’s fourteen.
Fuck me running. How annoying is that? And how annoying have I become? All I do is bitch, all I seem to think about is what makes me bitch, and I’ve somehow managed to lose the last tiny bit of filter I possessed when in social situations. I’d be embarrassed for myself, and often, but I don’t give a shit. I’ve started speaking my thoughts out loud as a general condition, whether to others or just myself, I’ve not been diplomatic at times when diplomacy would be the call to duty, and just the other day I was standing in line over to the coffee shop Saturday morning when a giant gas ball attacked my already-bloated gastro-intestinal system.
When I say giant gas ball, I mean “ate a quart of pinto beans two hours ago”, and when I say already-bloated, I mean I’ve been bloated like a beached whale since January of this year. One of the two worst byproducts left over from my visits to The Great Radiator, my “intestinal distress”, as the TV ads call it, has been my constant companion. When gas makes sudden attacks with its full power—much akin to a Navy Seal seek-and-destroy action—making itself known with a sharp jab at my gut followed by cramps, it can be debilitating. The closer the cramps strike after the initial jab determines whether I can simply fart the distress away, or in the alternative, run like Jesse what’s-his-name to the bathroom before I shit my pants.
Knowing the difference is an important distinction, and why can’t I remember Jesse’s last name?
Anyway, since the cramps quickly followed the jab, I knew that a fart would provide a temporary respite from the pain. Normally I’d have paused life, moved myself away from other human persons, farted, and only then continued with my life. My other life not consumed with gastro-intestinal distress. As this type of gas comes from my inability to properly digest raw, and some cooked, vegetables, the coffee shop fart was full of the robust aroma of a breakfast burrito with extra garlicy salsa, refried pinto beans and tomato. As the Squirt tells me my farts smell worse than dead fish, I make extra effort to put space between my ass and the asses of others.
That is to say that I spaced asses until last Saturday. Saturday I’m standing in an already too long line with half a dozen folks in front of me and a like number behind. The sharp jab punched my liver and the cramps followed within fifteen seconds. This “it’s OK to fart, you won’t shit your pants” signal led to the following, abbreviated internal conversation between my conscious and subconscious selves:
Me: “Uh-oh, here it comes!”
Me: “Fuck-a-duck, not now. I’ve already stood in line for five minutes and I can’t be late for another appointment.”
Me: “Ask the nice lady behind you if she’ll hold your place in line while you go outside to fart. She has a kind face…go on.”
Me: “I would but the guy behind her is the same asshole that bitched at me on Thursday for taking too much time deciding did I want a mocha or just a regular coffee. Man didn’t much like getting thumped on the nose. I really should think before acting sometimes.”
Me: “Then just stand here and let the gas leak out and act like you’re offended by the smell. Ask the asshole back there if he did it.”
I haven’t farted a silent fart in twelve months so why did I think I could do it on demand. Just as I heard the nice lady behind me say, “Please, sir, would you step outside, I’ll hold your place,” I made a noise that sounded like an elephant sitting on a Whoopie Cushion, and released a cloud of toxic gas.
I’m looking for a new coffee shop and I’m lucky Santa Fe is over-stocked with options. Oh yea, it’s Owens, Jesse Owens was the black American who ruined Hitler’s Olympics. And Fuck Walmart!