Catching up

I'm fine. The boys are growing. All's right with the world. Now on to more douchebaggery, and the real reason any of you stop by for a read. Seriously, it shouldn't be this easy to find so many ridiculous examples of retardation, but it is.
More letters to the complete trash that never ceases to entertain me:

Dear Mother of the Year:
I applaud your parenting skills, or not. Really. It's quite a talent to be able to reign in your children while sitting on your ass, smoking a fat pile of cigarettes, by doing nothing more than screeching at the top of your soot-infested lungs for that "little fucker" to get off the slide. Really, it was one of the few times I've ever felt sadness at having grown up and moved out of the ghetto. My ghettiquette is obviously, and sadly, in disrepair, as I could not get my mouth to form a coherent response to you or to the untrained monkeys you claim to be your children. I can only assume that "ass hole", "little fucker", and "dumb ass" are yours, since each of them responded with a finger or a bare-assed salute when you called upon them to leave the playground equipment. You've obviously trained them up right. You ma'am are a true, shining example of douchebaggery at it's best. As long as you continue to stumble through the world, I will sleep safe in the knowledge that my worst day as a parent pales in comparison to you. On the scale of suckdom, you are a perfect ten.

Truly,

L


Dear Douche bag Dog Walker,
Your dog is ugly, really ugly. And she's mean. And no, it's not cute when she growls and snaps at my small children. It's especially not cute when she runs up into MY yard to get at MY children. I don't care that you have her on a leash and you think she's "just playing". She's not. If you knew anything about dogs, you'd know that teeth baring isn't a smile, it's a warning, you complete douche. She wants to eat my babies like a dingo. I will snatch your nuts off like a paper towel if you let that dog on my property again. That is, provided you have any. What kind of man has a tiny dog, anyway? And don't tell me she's your wife's dog, because your wife is just as scared of that thing as my kids are. Me? I love dogs, but I'll punt that little fucker into next week before I let it eat my kid. You'll notice she doesn't run up on me. She and I have an understanding. She stays away from me, she lives.
I suggest you look to your dog for a role model.

Your friendly neighborhood ass hole,

L

A moment of seriousness before I catch up

When I was younger, ten or eleven years old, my cousin committed suicide. He was in his early twenties, still living with his mother, in constant pain from a back injury and feeling sorry for himself. He left a note for his mother, took a bottle full of pills, and died before she got home from work. His name was Zoltan. He was the one person on my father's side of the family who was consistently nice to me. I adored him. His suicide crushed me in more ways than I can describe, and still affects me to this day, mostly because of the sheer selfishness and stupidity involved in it. His was a cry for help that went unanswered.
In my first year of teaching, one of my students, despondent over a fight with his girlfriend and angry at his father, put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger. His cry for help also went unanswered. The people who should have recognized what was going on didn't.
Every day, thousands of people make that same cry for help. Every day, their cries are answered by the crisis counselors at the Hopeline. This year they celebrate their tenth anniversary of helping people and saving lives, and the government wants to take them over.


If you can spare it, please make a donation to the Hopeline. If you can't, just pimp them out. Spread the word to others who can, so that their work can continue.
Thank you.
XOXO
L

A Thank You to the Supreme Douches Around Here

These people aren't neighbors, per se, but they do frequent my neighborhood and the businesses surrounding it. Their douchetastic behaviour warrants a thank you, in my estimation, for helping me teach my children how NOT to behave.

Dear Douche Dad,
Hi. You might remember me from the other day, but probably not. I was the crazed woman standing on the corner screaming at you as you careened down my street with your two year old in your lap steering your giant piece of shit. Yeah, that was me. Yep. I saw you. I saw your toddler, unrestrained, steering your car. Well, I saw him trying. I also saw him clapping, jumping up and down, turning around to face you, and pulling the wheel back and forth like a toy. I saw your car zig zag down my street, spend more time on the sidewalk than the actual street, and narrowly miss several groups of children and adults walking on the sidewalk. And then I saw you laugh. Motherfucker, you better be glad you were in your car and that I'm no longer a sprinter. My child plays outside. His friends play outside. My neighbors and I take walks with our families. You could have killed someone. There's a reason two year olds don't get driver's licenses. They. Can't. Drive. Had your car had a plate on it, I'd have called the cops on your ass. But I wish to thank you. Thank you for being SUCH a dumbass. Thank you for helping me teach my son the importance of being aware of his surroundings. Thank you for helping drive home the need to look both ways before crossing the street. Thank you for making my son believe me that there are supremely STUPID people in this world who do not think about their actions before taking them. THANK YOU, Douche Dad, for being such a stellar example of bad parenting that my four year old now thinks I'm the best parent in the world because I make him wear a seat belt.
Hope to never see you again!
L

Dear Stupid Whore,
You're old. My son is four. I know it's annoying when a kid bounces on the seat behind you and moves your chair. I know. It annoys the shit out of me too. But here's the thing, I had corrected him. I had made him stop. I was about to have him apologize to you. And he's four. When you take your gigantic geriatric ass and bounce his seat, making him drop his food and spill his water, you are not teaching him a lesson. He doesn't get it. Again, he's four. He just thinks you're fat, old, and mean. Or that you have really bad gas, because your fat rubbing on the vinyl seat made fart noises, which cracked him up. If you don't want to eat around children, you should not frequent restaurants catering to children during the lunch hour. Do us all a favor and stay home! But, Stupid Whore, I wish to thank you. Thank you for being such a bitch yesterday. Thank you for showing my son how not to behave in public. Thank you for demonstrating a total lack of manners and civility. Because of you, my son gets it now! He saw what an ass you made of yourself! He heard the cussing and rude things you said about him! We all did. And he understood that to mean that you are a monumental douche whose mother didn't teach her how to behave in public! So thank you, Whore! Thank you for helping me to instill a sense of compassion, courtesy, and civility into my son! Because of you and your supreme powers of assholery, my son will be a better human being!
Should we meet again, I won't be polite either!
L


Stay tuned for further acknowledgements and testimonials from the world of asshattery I live in!

If wishes were fishes.....

I wish, for just one second, that I could make all the thin people who hate themselves and the way they look see themselves the way I do. You're not fat. You haven't lived in the same neighborhood as fat for a very long time. Get over yourselves. Please.
I wish, for one minute, that I could make anything happen. I'd tell him I love him one more time.
I wish, for one hour, that I could make them hear me. It gets better. You just have to get through the suck. You'll be better for it. The other side of high school is a much better place to be. I promise.
I wish, for a day, I could live inside my son's head, feel the world through his tiny fingers, see me through his eyes, and exist as freely as he does.
I wish, for one year, money didn't matter.

If wishes were fishes, which wish would you fish out of the fishwishing sea?

Raymond's Scholarship

If you know me, you know about Raymond. If you don't, here's a quick re-cap. Raymond was my younger brother. He was a hilarious, high spirited, crazy-fun, and amazing human being. During his short life, he struggled with many things, but ultimately used his time to make the world a better place through his art, his work, and his contributions to the goodness that makes up humanity. He was an art therapist in the terminal ward for Stanford University Hospital, and he was set to enter the Peace Corps as part of their art therapy program where he would go into post-war zones and help refugees come to terms with their trauma through art. But he died. The details of Raymond's death are still somewhat of a mystery, and not at all the point of this post. After his death, those of us that knew and loved him decided that the best way to honor his life and memory would be to set up a scholarship in his honor at the two schools he loved. First, we established a scholarship for graduating seniors at Enterprise High School in Redding, California, where Raymond spent his high school years and received his high school diploma. The scholarship at Enterprise is open to any student graduating who wishes to attend college to pursue a degree in art. Second, we established a scholarship at San Jose State University in San Jose, CA,Ray's alma mater, for students currently attending the University with a declared art major. Ray graduated from SJSU a few months before his death.
In order to fund these scholarships, my mother has been making and selling these good luck charms she calls 'dangles'. Though the name is goofy (sorry mom!) the charms are beautiful and well constructed. She's set up a blogger page to help distribute them and raise money for the scholarships. If you love me, and I know you do, and have a few bucks to spare, please visit her page and buy a dangle, or at least make a contribution to the scholarship fund.
Rearview Dangles

An Open Letter to the Assholes Infecting My 'Hood of Late

Attention You: You there, living in the 5000 sq. ft. McMansion. Yes, you, the one having the garage sale to raise money for your "sick child". Yeah, you. Maybe you should put a for sale sign on the Escalade in your driveway. No? How about the BMW parked next to it? No, again? Hmmmmmmm, maybe the Audi in the garage then? Not that one either, huh? Maybe you could take the Juicy Couture purse off the arm of said "sick child" and toss it up on Ebay. You could toss in the Rolex dangling from your wrist and all that bling dripping off your trophy wife, too! No? How about you slap a for sale sign on that McMansion then? Ah, no, of course not. Well, then, sad as I might be for your "sick child" in her Apple Bottom jeans and her Baby Phat hoody, I'll have to politely decline the opportunity to buy any of the wares you're peddling. Oh, and I'll take a pass on the store bought cookies and that plastic punch you're selling, too. If I want store bought, I'll waddle up to the corner grocery store and pay for them there, and it certainly won't cost me $2 per cookie, but thanks anyway.

And you: Yes, you with the hell hound you try to pass off as a child. Yeah, you, the one who sits at the back of the karate class and laughs every time your little shit acts out and gets one of the other kids in trouble. Some day, when our kids aren't watching, I'm going to kick your ass. Your kid has obvious developmental delays. He's not just a "boy being a boy." He struggles. He hurts. He needs your fucking attention and intervention on his behalf. He needs you to stop being a mindless whore and to start being his mother. His tantrums are not cute. They're not funny. They're symptomatic of his disorder, whatever it is. My money is on something in the Autism spectrum, despite the fact that you've shared loudly that you don't "believe in Autism." In case you haven't noticed, no one is laughing with you during class. No one. At this point, we're all too sick of you to even laugh at you. Deal. With. Your. Kid.
PS- Buy some pants that fit because an exposed ass crack is never cute. Never.

Dear Geriatric Gigolo, Hi! Remember me? Probably not, but that's ok. I certainly remember you and your Depends ruffle using my machine at the gym as an arm rest while you flapped your gums at the twenty-something child on the machine next to me. Despite not being able to actually USE the machine I was on because of your presence, I have to say you made my day. I have never heard pick up lines like you were throwing down that day, and may never hear any so great again. My favorite is STILL "Baby, I'm so sad I gave up sugar for Lent, because you are SWEEEEEEEEEET!" Your yellow mullet wig, John Deere mesh cap, mom-jeans, and orthopeadic shoes made it all the better. So, thank you GG. You made returning to the gym a real treat! And don't let those young bucks discourage you. A true swinger never gives up!

Dearest Neighbour, Our children play together nearly every day. Nearly every day I feed your children a snack. For us, a snack is a piece of fruit, perhaps half a ham sandwich, or some pretzels. Nearly every day, you feed my child a pile of sugar and fat, which he happily inhales and then bounces home. Your children are pale, stick thin, and sickly. They need real food. They need real food more than once a week. Please feed your damn kids something other than the shit you've been sharing with mine! Thank you. See you at the park!

Attention Shit Head: Yeah, homie. I'm talkin' to you. No one's buying your tough guy act. You live in the 'burbs homie. You drive your mom's car Ese. Orale, huey, you have blonde hair and blue eyes. You'd probably piss yourself for a week if you saw a real Vato. Take off the khaki pants, wife beater, and flannel shirt. Put your mom's seat back up, like she likes it. Turn that radio down. Those stock speakers are just KILLIN' that beat you stole off the net. And for the love of Pete, stop trying to be someone you're not. There's nothing wrong with being a good kid. In fact, it's been known to get people pretty far in life. Acting like an asshole though, that's got a pretty short path leading directly to a life full of suck.
PS- Slow the fuck down or I'll pop your mama's tires and tell her one of your "gang buddies" did it.


Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, that's better!

I'm lame sauce.

And totally last in posting this tagalicious blog, but here ya go.

The rules in this game of tag are simple -- once you have been tagged, you must write a blog with ten weird, random things, little known facts or habits about yourself. At the end choose 10 people to be tagged and list their names.

Thank MJ:

1. Brussel sprouts were my favorite food when I was a kid. I still love them, even though they smell like ass and give me gas.

2. I have a handful of secrets. I fantasize about making postcards for them and sending them to Postsecret, but I'm too much of a pussy to actually do it.

3. I have an uncanny ability to drive people away. I don't even realize I'm doing it until they're gone, or pretty well on their way and it's too late to change it.

4. I am amazed every.single. day. that I have friends. (see 3)

5. I need my alone time. If I don't get at least an hour by myself every day, I get very, very grumpy. I'm pretty convinced this makes me a bad mom some days.

6. I have a double jointed jaw.

7. I am an angry person.

8. I am more than slightly obsessed with the show "Ninja Warrior" on G4. The would-be ninjas are HILARIOUS!

9. If I have a day where I don't feel like going to work, I sing the Batman theme in my head while I'm getting ready for work and pretend I am Batman, preparing to battle evil. My car has been the Batmobile a lot lately.

10. I exist in a state of organized chaos. Everything goes into piles. It looks like a complete mess, but I know exactly where everything is and in which pile it's hiding. Except on my kitchen counter. That's a disaster area I have no control over.

Riveting, no? I'm not tagging anyone. If you feel compelled to do this, knock yourself out.