I fucking hate funerals.
I know this is a redundant statement, because in all honesty, who (besides morticians, funeral directors and just creepy people in general) likes them? It’s like a really bad party where everyone gets together to reminisce and cry about the stiff, regardless of whether they were a good person or a worthless shitbag.
In my lifetime I have only been to six funerals, and yes, they were ALL good people. I would not have gone if they hadn’t been. I am sometimes honest to a fault, and I despise hypocrisy. I have said before that when certain people (who I have the great misfortune of being related to) snuff it, I’ll subsequently throw a party to celebrate that they are no longer around to poison society. At the very least I might attend the funeral to make sure they are dead.
Two months ago, I went to the memorial service of a dear, dear friend who was practically family. During the service, people were asked to share any stories or memories they had. This led to several church members approaching the pulpit to talk about how much of an inspiration Raul was, how strong he was in his faith, what a firm believer he was, etc. This I will not, or ever, challenge. In the face of a terrible and, eventually losing battle, Raul was strong and never lost faith that God was with him, no matter what was going to happen. He was a great kid and would have made a great police officer.
As a child, Raul was a right pain in the ass.
My parents were the best man and matron of honor at Raul’s parents’ wedding. My only memories of that day were waiting FOREVER at the park for the goddamn pictures to be taken already, and getting my chair upchucked (with me still in it, thank you very much) by some drunken fat guy trying to catch the garter. That shit hurt. Fucker. Anydangway, we have pretty much known Raul since his in-utero days. He was an adorable kid with eyes full of mischief, chubby cheeks and a bucktoothed smile that told you he was up to something and you’d better damn well run or hide the valuables.
Whenever my parents announced Raul and his parents were coming over, we’d groan internally and quickly go through the house, putting the breakable stuff on high shelves and locking our bedroom doors so we wouldn’t get our stuff stained, broken or set on fire. He is the only four-year old I have ever seen ride a full-sized mountain bike. He was driving before I even got my learner’s permit and left more girlfriends than I can count. He repeatedly asked my dad when they were going to steal a cow and make tacos.
Once, when I was around 8 or 9 years old, I was lying on the living room floor on my back watching TV. Raul was about 3 or so, and consequently weighed about thirty pounds, or whatever the average weight is for a toddler. Cue the running jump on little toddler feet, followed by a powerful leap, landing a perfect cannonball on my exposed torso. I deflated like a Goodyear slashed by a crazy ex, and at that moment, truly understood the meaning of ‘having the wind knocked out of you’, except it felt more like ‘having the wind (and any other internal organs) mercilessly pounded out of you by an insane and rabid child’.
He was stubborn, mischievous, occasionally obnoxious, always entertaining. He was also sweet, brave, and unfailingly kind.
I will always think of him as my guardian angel.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Holy F*cking Shitbags Batman, It's HOT!
You wanna know how hot it was last week, kids?
So hot, I ate hummus with my finger (I was hungry too, obviously) because I didn’t have any pita chips, did not want to venture outside in search of pita chips and sure as HELL did not want to turn on the oven to make pita chips.
So hot that I opened my freezer several times to put things in it, only to leave said freezer door open and let cold air blow over my simultaneously dry and sweaty face.
And, more importantly, so hot that I didn’t wanna use my own potty.
Anyone who knows me knows that there are few things I am squeamish about. Burping is funny. I have seen, touched and smelled many icky things during my time as Da Man and I have no qualms with discussing them. Preferably with REALLY delicate people, and the more inappropriate the setting (weddings, people’s parents’ houses, church) the better. I am also bothered by the fact that in the 2-year duration of last relationship, I heard Boy burp once (he claimed it as an accidental hiccup) and I absolutely never, EVER heard him fart.
My family adheres to a particular saying, one that, if you have been paying attention kiddos, I used as a previous blog post.
“It always comes back to poo.”
We could be having a Socratic seminar about the situation in Darfur, or the condition if public schools, or church gossip. Somehow the conversation will somehow make an eventual transition to doody. We’re just those kinds of somistificated peeps
There are however, certain things I AM squeamish about, things that I myself will admit are kind of…well, off.
1.) Being touched by anyone who is not related to me. There are very few exceptions to this rule, and most of them are either female or gay. Everyone else pretty much needs my blessing. If I am familiar with you, I might make the contact as short as humanly possible (a high-five maybe, or a knuckle bump?). If you and I are strangers, expect to get yerself a one-way ticket to I-kick-your-assville. My mom would be happy about this because my don’t-fucking-touch-me-Asshole attitude means I ain’ts no skankalicious hobag.
2.) Dead aminals. I see squished bunnies, mice and lizards on my running trail all the time and it always makes me cringe inside, and on the occasions that they are directly in my path and I don’t see them until the last second, I yelp and leap out of the way so I don’t step on them. I also go around them when driving, or direct Fig over them so I don’t hit them with my tires. I accidentally rode my bike over a baby bird once at the park when I was a kid and the incident has haunted me ever since (read: it gives me the yuckies).
Oddly enough, dead PEOPLE don’t bother me. When I was in the academy one of the happy fun time field trips we took was to the county coroner’s office to watch an autopsy. When we filed into the hallway and I first spotted the little nekked Mexican man lying on the table, for a split second I thought, “Holy guts and ballsacks, it’s Dad’s brother So-and-so!” (It turned out not to be, but the fact that for that second I thought it was and felt no sadness told me what a real cold bitch I is.) Anydangway, we stood around for an hour or so watching this guy get cracked open and various organs and slimy things taken out and measured. After we walked out of the building and piled into the Mysterymobile, I promptly announced I had a hungry and wanted a cheeseburger. With bacon.
3.) Feet. In my opinion, feet beat out armpits, taints, underboobs or any other nasty part of the body you can think of. They are the ugly sisters of hands. Granted, they do most of the work, what with carting my ass around all day and repeatedly being slammed into the ground when I feel like running around, and on occasions when I am bored and I’m going to shower afterward anyfuckingway so everything will invariably be clean eventually, I will take out those little toe separator thingies and put color on my toenails. Mostly because when I try to paint my fingernails I almost always get bored while they dry and try to read, learn sing language, or do origami and I fuck them up. Plus I am Veiny Manlyhands so painting my fingernails pretty colors just looks fucking stupid. But yeah. Dry feet, crusty feet, fat feet, flat feet, fake feet. Grosses me out. On the plus side, for you mens out there, if you decide you hate yourself and want to hang out with me a lot and stuff, this means I will never, EVER ask you to rub my feet because that’s just really gross. That also means however that I will never touch yours.
4.) Warm toilet seats. Growing up, I always wanted to be the first one in the bathroom so I could sit my bare ass on a cool, unsoiled (ha) commode. To me, the fact that it was still cold meant it was sterile and unpolluted by anyone else’s buttgermies. I DETESTED using the bathroom after anyone else. If Jeebuz himself came over and announced he had to blow a holy dookie I probably would have told even the Son of God that no, I did not want to sit on a toilet that felt warm and slightly oily and he was just gonna have to wait, even if that meant I wasn’t getting any fish or bread.
Remember how I first started this post and I mentioned I didn’t like using the potty when it was hot? Well in the span of this entry I wrote about the weather, feets, not being skanky, and the academy. I also talked about poo.
It always, ALWAYS comes back to poo.
So hot, I ate hummus with my finger (I was hungry too, obviously) because I didn’t have any pita chips, did not want to venture outside in search of pita chips and sure as HELL did not want to turn on the oven to make pita chips.
So hot that I opened my freezer several times to put things in it, only to leave said freezer door open and let cold air blow over my simultaneously dry and sweaty face.
And, more importantly, so hot that I didn’t wanna use my own potty.
Anyone who knows me knows that there are few things I am squeamish about. Burping is funny. I have seen, touched and smelled many icky things during my time as Da Man and I have no qualms with discussing them. Preferably with REALLY delicate people, and the more inappropriate the setting (weddings, people’s parents’ houses, church) the better. I am also bothered by the fact that in the 2-year duration of last relationship, I heard Boy burp once (he claimed it as an accidental hiccup) and I absolutely never, EVER heard him fart.
My family adheres to a particular saying, one that, if you have been paying attention kiddos, I used as a previous blog post.
“It always comes back to poo.”
We could be having a Socratic seminar about the situation in Darfur, or the condition if public schools, or church gossip. Somehow the conversation will somehow make an eventual transition to doody. We’re just those kinds of somistificated peeps
There are however, certain things I AM squeamish about, things that I myself will admit are kind of…well, off.
1.) Being touched by anyone who is not related to me. There are very few exceptions to this rule, and most of them are either female or gay. Everyone else pretty much needs my blessing. If I am familiar with you, I might make the contact as short as humanly possible (a high-five maybe, or a knuckle bump?). If you and I are strangers, expect to get yerself a one-way ticket to I-kick-your-assville. My mom would be happy about this because my don’t-fucking-touch-me-Asshole attitude means I ain’ts no skankalicious hobag.
2.) Dead aminals. I see squished bunnies, mice and lizards on my running trail all the time and it always makes me cringe inside, and on the occasions that they are directly in my path and I don’t see them until the last second, I yelp and leap out of the way so I don’t step on them. I also go around them when driving, or direct Fig over them so I don’t hit them with my tires. I accidentally rode my bike over a baby bird once at the park when I was a kid and the incident has haunted me ever since (read: it gives me the yuckies).
Oddly enough, dead PEOPLE don’t bother me. When I was in the academy one of the happy fun time field trips we took was to the county coroner’s office to watch an autopsy. When we filed into the hallway and I first spotted the little nekked Mexican man lying on the table, for a split second I thought, “Holy guts and ballsacks, it’s Dad’s brother So-and-so!” (It turned out not to be, but the fact that for that second I thought it was and felt no sadness told me what a real cold bitch I is.) Anydangway, we stood around for an hour or so watching this guy get cracked open and various organs and slimy things taken out and measured. After we walked out of the building and piled into the Mysterymobile, I promptly announced I had a hungry and wanted a cheeseburger. With bacon.
3.) Feet. In my opinion, feet beat out armpits, taints, underboobs or any other nasty part of the body you can think of. They are the ugly sisters of hands. Granted, they do most of the work, what with carting my ass around all day and repeatedly being slammed into the ground when I feel like running around, and on occasions when I am bored and I’m going to shower afterward anyfuckingway so everything will invariably be clean eventually, I will take out those little toe separator thingies and put color on my toenails. Mostly because when I try to paint my fingernails I almost always get bored while they dry and try to read, learn sing language, or do origami and I fuck them up. Plus I am Veiny Manlyhands so painting my fingernails pretty colors just looks fucking stupid. But yeah. Dry feet, crusty feet, fat feet, flat feet, fake feet. Grosses me out. On the plus side, for you mens out there, if you decide you hate yourself and want to hang out with me a lot and stuff, this means I will never, EVER ask you to rub my feet because that’s just really gross. That also means however that I will never touch yours.
4.) Warm toilet seats. Growing up, I always wanted to be the first one in the bathroom so I could sit my bare ass on a cool, unsoiled (ha) commode. To me, the fact that it was still cold meant it was sterile and unpolluted by anyone else’s buttgermies. I DETESTED using the bathroom after anyone else. If Jeebuz himself came over and announced he had to blow a holy dookie I probably would have told even the Son of God that no, I did not want to sit on a toilet that felt warm and slightly oily and he was just gonna have to wait, even if that meant I wasn’t getting any fish or bread.
Remember how I first started this post and I mentioned I didn’t like using the potty when it was hot? Well in the span of this entry I wrote about the weather, feets, not being skanky, and the academy. I also talked about poo.
It always, ALWAYS comes back to poo.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)