Party Like It's 1976

Journal sm62704's Journal: Party Like It's 1976 9

Journal by sm62704 on Monday June 02, 2008 @03:43PM

"I'm gonna die!" Tami exclaimed Sunday morning when she finally got up.

"No you won't", I replied. "You're not that lucky. You're just gonna suffer."

I'd been up since eight thirty, drinking coffee and reading The Restaraunt at the End of the Universe. Zaphod and Ford had just sobered up in the sobering up machine after several Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters (the drink that's like having your brain smashed by a slice of lemon wrapped around a solid gold brick) and had gotten Marvin to open Hotblack's black star cruiser for them so they could steal it. I know what happens next, having read the books before. I envy those who haven't read them.

As Tami slept, I'd turned on the TV. It's odd that we still say "turn on" when we refer to turning something on, as there's nothing to turn. The only knobs left are on the stove and car radio, and the cheapest of boom boxes. But even though the radio part of my cheap boom box is analog and has volume and tuning knobs, the on-off switch isn't part of the volume knob the way they used to design things.

The science fiction writers were right about one facet of 21st century life - everything is push buttons. If language evolves, then why don't we say "push on the TV set"? No longer do you turn anything to make it come on like you did with the black and white 20th century TVs you had to get out of your chair and turn a knob to change channels on.

I don't miss the TV's knobs one bit. I don't miss the incredibly stupid and dangerous car volume buttons one bit either. Someone's sig says "poop is a one word argument against intelligent design", but the same could be said about the intelligence of automotive engineers and carbon monoxide. Poop is, after all, useful. Bullshit is a very good fertilizer, without which the bulls would starve, but carbon monoxide and the other poisons spewing from your car's ass are not only useless, but destructive. The late 20th century car stereo volume buttons are a good argument against the intelligence of engineers too, who all think they're so damned smart.

I contemplated this as I idly flipped between the six channels on my TV. There are "only" six because I neither have nor want cable. I had cable when my kids were little, back when the Discovery channel had science shows instead of "Trick my truck for truckstop tricks" and other useless noncompos crap like that.

Wikipedia doesn't give credit for the coining of the word noncompos so I won't link it. "Noncompos" was a word coined by an Isaac Asimov character in a short story about an assburger nerd who saves a spaceship's crew with his encyclopediac knowledge. By "noncompos" he referred to normal people of normal intelligence, who all hated him as much as he hated them. I wanted Wikipedia to tell me the name of the story and its character, but I might as well have tried to look it up on the Uncyclopedia.

The last time I tried to edit Wikipedia the edit was removed within an hour. Several months later it was re-edited by someone else to say pretty much what I had put there, so fuck it. I'm done wiki-fiddling. If I want to edit an encyclopedia I'll edit the Uncyclopedia, which is a whole lot funnier than Wikipedia anyway.

One channel was talking about Obama quitting his church after the latest un-Christian preacher from Trinity's unChristian outburst. In my opinion it's a little late; Obama has been a member of the Trinity Church of Hateful Preaching for twenty years. If my preacher had such hate filled sermons I sure as hell wouldn't have attended that church for twenty more years.

With preachers like "Assassinate the President of a foreign country" Pat Robertson (who has converted more Christians to Athiesm than all the slashdot athiests combined), The "God damn America" pastor of Obama's Trinity United Church of Hate, and now another guest preacher of that church, Rev. Michael Pfleger, who yahoo news gives credit for Obama's quitting attendance at that church, Satan has her work cut out for her.

What struck me about Pfleger wasn't his making fun of Hillary Clinton crying, a very un-Christian thing to do in itself, but the man can be forgiven for that. Forgiveness is what Christianity is all about anyway, although we seem to hear little forgivness from today's preachers.

No, what struck me about this mammon-worshiping asshat who pretends to be a Christian was this passage from a Chicago Tribune story dated June 1. "Because he had received more than 3,000 e-mails of 'hate, threats and name-calling,' he said, the security guards who often flank Pfleger even kept parishioners at a distance as an extra show of caution."

A Christian doesn't need security guards. If a someone wants to punch a Christian, a Christian lets himself be punched and offers the attacker to do it again. "If a man smite thee, turn the other cheek". If someone wants to shoot a Christian, the Christian dies and goes to heaven, or God keeps him from being hit, or if not then keeps from dying. The Christian leaves it up to God and knows that if it's his time to die he'll die, and if it's not then no bullet can stop him.

The last Catholic Pope took a bullet and that never stopped him. He forgave the shooter. It isn't to his credit that he rode the bulletproof popemobile, but pain smarts; and by "smarts" I mean "teaches". Once bitten, twice shy. But the new Pope should forego the bulletproof car. Of course, my opinion is meaningless on the subject, as I'm not a Catholic.

Tami, now on her second marriage, is. Or was. Or something. Hell, I don't know.

I shouldn't talk, I haven't even been inside a church since last June, and there's a church two houses down from where I live. The church is right across the street from a dope house. I never was in the dope house, but some of the whores I know have. I used to go there almost every Sunday. The church, I mean, not the dope house. They pass a microphone around for folks to praise God for this and that, so the last Sunday I was there I took the microphone and praised God for giving me a surgeon and circumstances that my incredibly bad eyesight could be cured in one eye making it better than 20/20.

By nightfall that evening the eye I'd praised God for restoring was completely blind. I guess God doesn't like my praising Him so I think I'll try to stop stop doing that. Or maybe he was just giving me another sign of his existance, knowing I come here to Athiest Central. Do virri believe in humans? Would you scorn the praise of a virus?

The eye had gone completely black from being filled with blood, which eventually cleared up. Of course, it repeatedly did this until the retina detached, causing me to have to suffer a vitrectomy. I woudn't even wish a vitrectomy on an oil company executive.

I flipped the channel some more. There's another archaic word; the picture looked like it flipped when you changed channels on the old TV sets, but even though the transition is now seamless we still say "flip the channel" and even though there's no knob we still say "turn it to channel seventeen". But "gay" no longer means "happy and carefree" so that Deck the Halls is now a song about transvestites, "gay" refers to a group of people of whom half attempt suicide, and "hacker" no longer means someone who writes quick and dirty code or modifies hardware, but now means "cyber-burglar".

Fox had a political talk thing on so I watched for a while. Astoundingly one of the commentors (I still refuse to use the ugly and ignorant word "commentator", geezer attack anyone?) mentioned not only the Libertarian Party but its Presidential candidate Bob Barr! Not astoundingly at all they didn't say jack shit about the Green Party candidate, whoever he is. I say "not astoundingly" because the Libertarians' biggest glaring fault is that they are illogically pro-corporation. The Fox corporation must have discovered that salient detail. Or maybe they're been lurking at slashdot.

The un-American multinational corporations like Shell and Sony and Zenith and Ford and Fox and the God damned rich sons of bitches (some of whom are native born unpatriotic American traitoirs) who run them are ruining our once great nation. Locally owned businesses are for the most part reasonable in their prices. For example, I can get a haircut at Martha's Magic Comb for five dollars, Fred the Barber next to Felber's charges only six. Go to one of the multinationally owned chains at the mall and you'll pay thirty five, if you're fucktardedly stupid enough to go there in the first place (and many do). They want three dollars for windshield washing fluid these days, what the fuck? Last summer it was seventy nine cents! I'm just going to use water and the hell with it.

I'm conflicted about the Libbies. On one hand they want to legalize reefer and hookers, on the other hand they want to further decriminalize the corporate rape of the American people. I wonder what the Green party's stance on drugs, gambling, and prostitution is?

I actually feel sorry for the evil rich. There is a world-wide economic depression on the way and the pendelum will swing. We haven't had a depression since Hirohito stupidly pissed off America by bombing Pearl Harbor. In the 1930s no mansion or Cadillac was safe from vandalism, and a banker who was spat on felt lucky he hadn't been shot. The average man on the street cheered bank robbers. "Bastards get what they deserve," the average Joe who'd lost his house grumbled. Thank God the oil men will be out of the White House next January, eight years ago gasoline was four times less expensive. Why hasn't the minimum wage gone up 400% to match everything else? And where's MY pay raise???

When the Fox show was over there was another political show on chennel 20. When that was over there were nothing but half-hour long commercials on that fine Sabbath, so I turned the TV off, despite the fact that TVs no longer have anything to turn.

"Don't touch that dial!"

"Mom, what's a 'dial"?

"I don't know, honey, it's just something they say."

We still dial the phone even though the phone no longer has a dial either.

Earlier in the week I'd been in the bar (of course) and had gotten an invitation to a birthday party Saturday, which was (mostly) the cause of Tami's great distress on Sunday. Saturday morning she'd woke me up being noisy, which was a good thing because I needed to get to the bank before it closed, and we needed to buy ingredients for a dish to take to the party, and beer, and other less necessary things like food and toilet paper. Tami and I had had a tornado party in the basement Friday night when the new tornado sirens you can't hear went off. Why do they say "went off" when they come on? The old tornado sirens were loud, unless there was a tornado, in which case the power went off and they stopped working. We drank beer and vodka in the basement and listened to the inane ramblings of the dufuses on the radio.

We went to Felbers for a pitcher of beer (still reasonably priced, but it's a private-owned bar) Saturday morning while her cheese ball cooled. Then to the party for lots of food and beer, and reminscence of the old war with other service veterans. The birthday girl Kathy, who turned 47 but looks older than me, gave Tami a big box of hardcover books including five Tolkein tomes, one of which was The Hobbit and another was Lord of the Rings with all three volumes between its covers. It was a fat book indeed; at least as fat as the Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide my daughter got me for Christmas that I've been savoring a chapter at a time.

We went home for a nap. After the nap we drank the Merlot I'd spied at the grocery store; 2005 must have been a very good year because the bottle was only five bucks. As I sat on the toilet I heard the doorbell ring.

I couldn't believe that Tami had let the that thieving crack whore in the house. Fuck.

It was Bighead, who we've been referring to as "Snake". For one things she's WAY too skinny. I never met a skinnier human being. She's like a skeleton with skin stretched over it, and has no breasts at all. Nipples, but no breasts. It's a wonder her kid didn't starve when it was a baby; before infant formula it would have needed a wet nurse. I've mentioned that sex with her was like fucking a snake.

And she does this thing with her tounge when she's high on cocaine that looks like a snake's tongue.

And she's a thief. I hadn't had anything to do with her for quite some time; I know I journaled the morning there was no woman living at my house that I wouldn't let her in, telling her she's sold the best friend she never had for fifteen dollars. Now, I hear your brain cells rubbing together - "That damned mcgrew's a hypocrite, preaching forgiveness while he won't forgive the theiving crack whore." But I forgive her, I'm just doing my best to keep her from stealing from me again.

I'm having a harder time forgiving the thieving bastards who run the multinational corporations. But I'm trying.

I can't find the journal where I wouldn't let Bighead in. I'll edit this sentence out and add a link if I do.

The snake walked into the bathroom as if nothing had happend. I put my hand up her shirt, grabbed the ultraflat nontitties and said "hi". Then I put my other hand up her shorts and fingered her. I wouldn't let her talk me out of any money, telling her she would have to talk to "my agent", meaning Tami.

Did I mention that Tami doesn't like snakes?

When I got back in the other room, the snake was gone, and so was the wine, although the bottle was still there. I must have had a Paxil flashback, because I could have sworn I saw steam coming from Tami's ears. "I'm going to have him" the snake had told Tami before Tami physically threw her out.

I wanted to go back to the party, as I'd been promised that there would be reefer smoke. After being thoroughly pissed off by the snake, Lucy Furr (Tami) wanted stronger drink than the beer that was at the party, and I wound up getting corralled downtown to Farley's to buy her a cheap shot of rotgut and a minipitcher. As I was waiting for the bartender, Tami was talking to a woman on the other side of her, and all of a sudden I realized who she was and was immediately embarrassed that I hadn't recognized her. She'd lost a lot more weight and wasn't wearing her glasses.

"Robyn!" Robyn was the last real girlfriend I had, the last lover I didn't have to pay, even though I was supporting her while she lived with me. She'd been with me when I'd moved out of the apartment. I walked over and gave the very drunk woman a hug. "How are you? You've lost a lot of weight!"

"I'm dying," she said. "I have cirrhosis." I felt like crying.

There was a fat young androgyne on Robyn's other side who had been obviously hitting on Robyn when Tami and I had walked in. "Don't you recognise me?" it said. I hadn't - not until she spoke.

It was Odie, the whore I'd let stay in my house for a week when she'd lost everything and wanted to get off crack. The whore who had stolen my car! The car that I'd only made one payment on. She'd traded it for crack, and the woman who she traded it for had used it as a murder weapon and tried to kill her parents with it, running over her mother and breaking both her legs.

Odie had gained weight - a lot of weight. She'd also gotten some new wire rim glasses to replace the plastic ones I'd nerdily fixed for her with a piece of wire from a diode before she stole my car, and she'd dyed her hair blonde. She looked a lot better fat than skinny.

I gave her a hug and talked for a while.

Wink's a pretty good bartender, especially for Farleys', but they were really busy as it was a Saturday night and the "crazy checks" as Tami called the SSI checks the mentally ill get had come out. I bought a small pitcher and a couple of shots of Captain Morgan, not wanting to stomach the rotgut.

Some time later after drinking with these three women, all of whom had stayed in my house at one time or another, the two of us got back to the party. We were too late for the reefer; there were only four or five people and not much beer left. I drank two bottles, Tami drank a six pack.

The next morning after proclaiming she wasn't going to drink, she went with me to Felbers for pizza "and I have to have a Pepsi" she said. She then proceeded to nurse her hangover with a Bloody Mary.

Then another one. And another one. I'd drank a beer, and finally bought a pitcher to share with her.

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