Rock Meets Window. My Foot Meets Ass

By, Tresckow-

For decades, hell, for centuries adults have uttered the same phrase over and over again.  For the Greeks it was Εκείνοι δεκάρα παιδιά κάθαρμα! For the Vikings it went a little like Þeir sem fjandinn börn fantur! The Germans, the planet’s nation of Hallmark card poets gutturally spitting out their words use the phrase  Jene verdammten Bastardkinder! We English speakers just say:  Those damn bastard kids!


I hated it when “old” people told me to do shit.  “Don’t run.”  “Don’t play in the street.”  “Don’t smash a land line telephone junction box.”  And my favorite, “Don’t gouge obscene messages on someone’s car,” even though you assumed it was a gesture of trust and understanding.

A lesson the Mooninites did not learn, much to Carl’s dismay.

But, then I grew older.  I’ve matured.  More or less.  OK, I still think it’s hilarious when I shove someone’s [read:  Ren] camera into a mini bar fridge and lock it.  I still giggle like a 5-year-old when I watch Adult Swim.  And, as you read this, my latest mission in life is to see a movie about a supernatural, mass murdering tire.

A complete and utter conspiracy that this  movie wasn’t even nominated for that piece of shit farce that is the Academy Awards.  It’s because Robert the Tire is black, isn’t it?  Fucking racists.

One of the reasons Robert went on his bloody, head exploding rampage.

But, I am fully aware that in the eyes of the US federal government that I’m an adult.  I’ve got a mortgage, car payment, gym membership, and all that good shit grown ups have to shell out money for in order to sit comfortably with society.  Hell, even if you wanted to start your own militia in the middle of Montana somewhere you would still have to cover your initial expenses.  You work hard to set up a state-of-the-art security fence with sensor flood lights and barbwire.  That bunker isn’t going to dig itself.  Next thing you know, some jackass is going to charge you $50 a gallon to haul all the necessary armor and collapsible guard towers to your Bartertown that will surely be a feature story on CNN one day (if you play it right).

Look, Master Blasters arent cheap.

Apartment or estate, condo or compound in the middle of Idaho; there is one common denominator.  Everyone is protective over what they have.  Stuff breaks.  Sometimes it’s shit that can wait a few years until it REALLY has to be fixed or replaced (screen doors, toilet seats, starter motor).  Other times it’s shit that needs to be repaired ASAP.  We’ve worked hard on our hovels and already have two strikes against us.  With all the snow storms, heat waves, floods, and Yeti attacks, the last thing any of us needs is to have some snot nosed little bastard breaking our shit, because he’s bored.

Bored? I will personally drive your ass to the Virginia Military Institute for four years of hilarity.

One fine morning in the Tresckow home (read:  way too fucking early) I was woken up out of my normal drunken stupor after a night of mixing whiskey and vanilla extract. Apparently, our kitchen window was broken.  OK.  Fine.  I’ll do something Roode never does and take a deep breath.  I won’t jump to the worst conclusion.  There was one hell of a windstorm the night before.  Shit was flying everywhere.

Something like this, only not as subtle.

It was completely reasonable that the wind from hell slammed something into our window just so Mother Nature could have a good laugh.  Suck a dick, Mother Nature.  I had hope that was the case and I wouldn’t have to start hating so early in the morning.  I mean, if I start hating before 10 AM I get burned out by 3.  It throws me off kilter.  But, I should have known better.

It was, definitely, a Captain Picard facepalm moment.

I went outside to find the branch or squirrel, or whatever that the wind sent smashing into our window.  My plan was to set it on fire and damn it to hell.  Sifting around through the rubble of broken glass and morning sleep, I saw it there.  Staring at me.  Mocking me.  It was a big ass rock.  Not just any rock.  It was a throw’in rock.

Let me clue you in on some of the mouth-breathing fucktarded children that roam around the neighborhood.  They do not deserve to exist.  They walk in the middle of the street, laugh at on-coming cars (surely 2 tons of SUV can’t hurt them), and break shit when they’re bored.  You know those big boxes Verizon uses to carry land phone lines and the internet?  Those shit grinning dicks demolish them on a weekly basis.  Writing racial epithets on the side of someone’s house?  We’ve got that too.  Throwing rocks through car windows?  We fucking have that!  In fact, the first week we moved into this little paradise, one of those snot flinging dipshits broke the rear window of our truck.  And, before you smartasses say something about my winning personality being a magnet for rocks, keep in mind that we were in the house for less than THREE DAYS when this happened.  Trust me, three days isn’t enough time for the Inner Tresckow to shine. Mother f’in Theresa could have just moved in.  Those shit stains didn’t know either way.

WELCOME TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD!

I know what you’re thinking.  No, I don’t live in downtown Beirut or somewhere along the Gaza Strip.  It’s your average neighborhood filled with a mixture of hard-working people, retirees, assclowns, and bored groups of free-range children.  These ape shits wander around the neighborhood like it’s their job.  Their parents don’t seem to give a shit.  Ma and Pa are nowhere to be found when little Jimmy is taking a nap in the middle of the street or when Leroy is playing a rousing game of “dump the trash cans.”  Nice parental guidance, cornholes.  Prepare for the day when the only time you get to talk to your delinquent is through a sheet of plexiglass while he’s sporting an orange jumper.

So proud.

The rock still sit there.  I’m not sure why.  Maybe as a reminder that the next generation is full of assholes.  Maybe I’ll use it as a weapon.  It’s quite possible that I’m too lazy to pick it up.  If I knew how Voo Doo worked, I’d stick it with pins or something on the off-chance the jackass who threw it end up in blinding, mind crippling pain.

It’s not just the damage to the window that put chocolate pudding in my trousers.  It’s the fact that I had to call all God’s creation to report it.  I’m not paying for this shit.  You have to call your homeowner’s association, insurance company, the police…   Oh, yeah.  The police.  Maybe, if they applied themselves and really worked hard, they could give even less of a shit.  Here’s a hint that the police have no interest in your little vandalism problem:  they take your report over the phone.  You don’t know what the hell is really happening on the other end.  For all I know, the desk jockey was washing his taint while occasionally saying, “Uh-huh.”

“Sir, can you tell me at approximately what point in time you thought we’d give a shit?”

I, suppose, the lesson I learned is that today’s kids can roam free and do whatever they want without any consequences.  And, I’m still not allowed to shoot them.  How is this fair?

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Posted on April 21, 2011, in Bastard Kids, Family, In the news, Life Lessons, Observations and aggravations, Society, Tresckow and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 1 Comment.

  1. Im getting a teeny issue. I cant get my reader to pick up your feed, Im using msn reader by the way.

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