Category Archives: Holidays
The economy sucks a pair of used transvestite thongs. Trust me, I know. I’m a poor law school student. Well, “poor” is a relative term. I’m on a scholarship, my parents help me out, and I bleed my husband dry. Fucker got to marry ME. The least he can do is sign his pay check over to me. HA! Perpetuating female stereotypes is FUN!
So, what can you do about Christmas presents when you can barely feed yourself or can’t afford to put a dent in your three-bottle a day whisky habit… I mean indulgence?
You don’t want to be “that guy” during the family Christmas gift opening extravaganza. You know, the stupid shit getting gifts while NO ONE seems to be able to find ANYTHING under the tree from you. Normally, I advocate the getting without giving scenario. But, it’s Christmas! Even I can’t stand to phone it in on this one.
So, I figure there must be a shit ton of other people out there in the same boat. In the spirit of giving, I decided to give you poor schleps some help. These ideas have worked for me in the past… just not well. Who cares? It’s the thought that counts, right? Well, prepare to have that adage stretched to it ever-loving limits.
Look, we all have gotten gifts that were on the meatier side of a shit sandwich. “Oooooooooo! School supplies!” How about that box of socks from Aunt Mimi? Don’t even get me started on that goddamn tub of Oxy Clean I got when I was 16. Just what the fuck were you trying to imply, Uncle Merl? Such an asshole.
This doesn’t even have to be stuff that you, outright, threw into the “reject” bin. But, let’s face it, it’s going to be. Just mix it up a bit. Don’t give Aunt Hortense the leg wax she gave you last year. Give that gem to Uncle Pete. Remember that box of bath beads sitting in the closet collecting dust? Well, hell, that’s a great gift for you 15-year-old cousin. Kids huff bath beads these days, right?
Free stuff you got at work/school
If you travel around for work and attend various useless trade shows or subject yourself to the joy that is a vender show at a university campus, you know what I’m talking about. These places are teeming with useless bullshit people can’t stop taking. Little flashlights with their company logo. Knock off Beanie Babies with their company logo. A travel mug… with their company logo. The whole point of this is to plant your company in the subconscious. What better way of doing this than using free shit no one has a need for?
If you look hard enough, you’ll find some practical shit mixed with the fake beanie babies and mini Breathalyzers. Who wouldn’t love to get a USB drive with almost no space? What kind of loved one would not want a leaky travel mug with the Halliburton logo? Take it a step beyond and mix and match. What cousin wouldn’t be grateful with a hand sanitizer/hand lotion combo? Come to think about it, that sends out a bunch of messages not association with the Christmas Spirit.
Stuff from around your house
Are you a shut-in? Do you want to be? Are you too poor, cheap, or lazy to actually step foot outside your house to go to conventions to get free shit? Does the thought of another year of mall shopping for people you barely like sink you into a deep depression? Well, good news Droopy! There’s not need to mingle with the rabble! Just look around you house. Do it! You live in a fucking sty. You should be ashamed of yourself. God I hate you.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I hate you. No! Wait! Oh yea. Christmas presents. My article about icky shut-ins is next month. Anyhoo… your house is a treasure trove of goodies. It’s a time capsule filled with outdated interests and failed life goals. Just because you failed doesn’t mean others will. Give that pair of roller blades to little Jimmy. That calligraphy set you never opened? Well, wrap that sommabitch! Remember that typewriter you use as a door stop? Give that ancient bastard to your nephew and call it an antique.
Stuff from around other people’s houses
Okay, look, I’m not advocating the act of breaking into someone’s home and stealing their shit to use for Christmas presents. I’m merely suggesting you do it when you’re already in the house for a visit. Let’s face it, you looked around your house for things to wrap up and dump on loved ones for Christmas, but your junk is sad. YOU don’t even want it. Maybe it’s not even that. Perhaps you’re a scrappy little transient without a permanent residence. Well, jingle balls! That’s what friends are for!
Odds are that your friends’ place is a considerable upgrade from the hovel you live in. There’s no shame in that. Remember, you don’t have to enjoy the finer things in life in order for you to find good Christmas gifts. Your friends do. Next time you drop by, bring an empty pillow case. Come on, they won’t miss it. That neat little cat statue would be perfect for crazy aunt Sofia. The commemorative plate they got on their trip to Pearl Harbor? Whammo! Instant collectors item for the history buff in your family. It’s Christmas. They’ll understand. It’s all about giving.
Wait a second there, partner. Don’t forget to get something for that someone special, too. There you are, thinking about others and you plum forgot all about yourself. Awwww. That’s so sweet. Tis the reason for the season! Treat yourself. It’s alright for Santa to take a kick back every now and then. Go on, treat yourself. After all this Christmas shopping you deserve a little present of your own.
Yeah, it’s almost December and we’re just now putting this into the AMNESIA LANE chute. Don’t care. READ IT! Who wouldn’t want to read about Roode’s pumpkin carving inadequacies?
*Editor’s note: Ren was last seen preparing for her Saint Patrick’s Day dumbassary Thursday morning. She instructed us to publish this “farewell” letter in the event of her disappearance. Since we haven’t seen her for well over 24 hours, we figured now is as good of a time as any. That and Roode wants to get started deleting all her articles as soon as possible.
Dear friends, admirers, worshipers, family, and the various stalkers I’ve grown fond of,
If you are reading this, then I am already (circle all that apply) gone/dead/passed out/in Yakima/detained by Canadian authorities. I assure you that I was awesome until the very end. But, you would expect nothing less of me, your reason for living.
Saint Patrick‘s 2011 feels different from all the others in the past. I feel that I may not make it back. There is something in the air. Some sort of morose stillness envelops the town. It’s as if fate is telling me that this may be the Normandy of Saint Patrick’s Days. That and the $2 Jameson and $3 Guinness special I saw in the paper. Let’s face it, that’s just putting a lit match next to a whisky soaked powder keg.
As I prepare for what may be my last day (circle all that apply) on earth/ in Montana/in the United States/in the Pacific Northwest/outside of federal custody, a calmness washes over me. This is something I must do. If not for me, then for my Irish ancestors. Saint Patrick’s Day was never an Irish holiday. No, Micks don’t need to have a “holiday” as an excuse to drink. I mean, I’m drinking right now. Even so, the Irish are under a lot of pressure to show you wannabe Irish how it’s d0ne. We have to kick it up a notch. While you swill on Coors, we gulp Guinness. While you drink your Jack Daniels, we up the game with Shannahan’s. Long after your sorry asses are carted off to the ER to have you stomachs pumped, we’ve tapped our fourth keg. You’re fucking lightweight Irish posers is what I’m saying.
Sure, many of you will end up with a skull shattering hangover the next morning. I assure you, my kind is still fucking drinking. After you’ve spewed the technicolored yawn into your toilet (or in your roommate’s shoe), we’ve had our fifth bar fight… that morning. Your mortal way of killing your liver and drinking years off your life means nothing to us. We, as a people, need more. Much more.
Quick, ,where is the strangest/most awkward place you’ve ever come to after an all night bender? Shut up! I don’t need to hear it. I already know it’s lame. Unless your story includes ice skates, a Canadian Mountie, or something with a tennis racket and the windshield of a car, spare me. Amateur.
Anyhoo, what the hell was I saying? Oh yeah, I’m better than you. But, you already knew that. Don’t get me wrong, I love you little people. The obscene letters help get me through the day. I know it has been your privilege to know, nay, LOVE me. My absence will make your lives shallow and meaningless. Quite frankly, I’m not sure how you can go on without me.
Alas, I enter this Saint Patrick’s Day wide-eyed and packing a ton of Excedrin. It will be a battle of wills. On one side you have every drop of alcohol in the county. On the other, me; a little blonde Irish girl with big dreams. If I go down, I’ll go down fighting. Or, I may go down on one of those hot bartender chicks. I’ll do that before I go down fighting. Shit, I lost my train of thought now.
So, as you hear the news of my (circle all that apply) death/detainment/immigration/enlistment/crime against humanity by way of (circle all that apply) family/friends/co-workers/classmates/CNN/Interpol, please know that I went out MY way; yelling Gaelic curses and double fisting whisky bottles. Maybe there was a moose involved? I don’t know, my track record for drunken chicanery is pretty extensive.
So, always remember me. Don’t just remember me as a writer, a student, or a sex object. Remember me as awesome. And as a sex object. I like that one, too.
Póg mo thóin!,
PS: Of course, I could have just made an ass of myself and woken up in the lap of a mime (again). If that’s the case, disregard all the above. Well, except for the parts about me being awesome and a sex object.
Lest we forget:
FWTC Amnesia Lane: A Girl, Her Whisky, and an Irish Holiday
P.S. We are obliged to publish Ren’s emergency article in case we don’t see her again after this year’s Saint Patrick Day’s shenanigans.
First off, let me tell you how happy I am that the end of this godforsaken year is in sight. I am sure I can speak for my wife when I say 2010 has been ten pounds of shit in a five-pound bag. Of course, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. I have no doubt that many of you were slapped in the face with the used toilet paper of life. Somehow, that makes me just a bit happier. Not that misery loves company (not JUST that), but because I generally wish ill upon mankind. Hey, the ill will has to start somewhere. Why not with people I know?
Before I go on, let me just say that I apologize for sending a form letter. Everybody that writes one of these year-end Christmas letters says that. I mean it. I didn’t want to write a letter at all. I, personally, don’t want you people in my shit. The only thing I care less about than your life is telling people about mine. While I’m apologizing, I might as well say that some of these letters are printed on the back of some old STD informational forms and flyers from World War II I found in a dumpster. I don’t have the money to spend on neat, clean sheets of paper. We’re not all made of money. I think you’ll find the ominous VD exam posters particularly festive.
I suppose this is the point where I have to offer updates on my family and such. In order to avoid typing more than I have to, I’ve put it all in bullet point form.
- I was laid off by my employer
- My previous place of employment burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I, recently, ran for public office- running on the “pistol whip your child” platform
- I was beaten soundly by my political opponent
- My political opponent’s home burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I applied for several jobs in the area, but nothing panned out
- Several places of business in the area burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I’m working on becoming an alcoholic
- Tried to join the fire department, but didn’t make the cut
- Ironically, the local fire department burned to the ground
- I was arrested for suspicion of arson
- I joined the police force.
- The local police station is standing and fire free
- We got a cat
The only good thing about 2010 is that it was full of valuable life lessons for me. For instance, did you know that most convenience stores hand out free packs of matches? They’re great for a multitude of things; lighting candles, making campfires, and burning evidence.
Another important tidbit of knowledge I gathered is how to properly make a Molotov cocktail. It’s easier than you think. It’s amazing what you can do with packing peanuts and the proper mixture of kerosene and tar.
Perhaps, the most amazing thing that has happened in 2010 is the fact that I’m still married. Aside from the wife’s annoying tendency to be a perfect human being, she has been very supportive of my struggles this year. She has also been quite useful for the occasional alibi and no longer bothers asking questions when I come home covered in soot. Although, the internalizing of all that stress could, conceivably, manifest itself into some sort of brain tumor down the road. I guess we’ll find out.
This year has been the Road Runner to my Wile E. Coyote. And that fucking Acme mail order company keeps screwing me over. But, ultimately, I am to blame. I keep ordering their defective and fucktarded products thinking that “THIS TIME” I’ll finally get that feathered road running fuck.
Earth Day. This is the day I’m supposed to prance around wearing shorts made of hemp and make out with trees. Right? No? No, wait, that’s Arbor Day.
… a day designed to inspire awareness and appreciation for the Earth‘s environment.
Frankly, I’m not sure how we couldn’t be “aware” of the Earth’s environment. It slaps us in the face every minute of every day. Driving to the store: environment. Cutting the grass: environment. Smoking a cigar while burning a pile of bald tires: environment.
The other part of the definition is “appreciation.” That’s not going to happen. Sorry, but appreciating something more than internet porn and schlitz with today’s society is too tall an order. The most recent generation doesn’t appreciate the gut-wrenching bullshit previous generations went through to ensure they can act like pretentious emo pricks. Little things like abolish slavery, win World War II, the Civil Rights movement, and the Industrial Revolution. We’re in the era of “Gimme Now, Gimme Fast.” For shit’s sake, kids, today, don’t know where the goddamn milk they put in the mochiatos comes from!
Hey, I’m AWARE that grain alcohol will make me go blind. I just don’t CARE. Awareness, from cancer to butt crack exposure, doesn’t accomplish shit. Great! Now people are aware that the environment exists and taking a dump in someone’s well water is a bad thing. So, what now? Being “aware” is more useless than having Ellen Degenerous judging on American Idol.
The trick is to get people to give a shit. I’m not talking about giving a shit on the same level as Ed Begley Jr. or the environmental equivalent to the Irish Republican Army, Greenpeace. There is a line between giving a shit and being an outright annoying and insufferable asshole. Especially when it seems like the biggest advocates are full of crap. We’re looking at you, Al Gore.
The preachers of green doctrine want us to believe that the individual has the power to reverse global warming, heal the rain forests, and re-freeze glaciers.
Get ready, here it comes; I’m going to rain all over your environmental circle jerk parade.
I recycle, because my wife is annoyingly saintly. As a single man, it was perfectly acceptable for me to use my apartment as a land fill/future archaeological artifact pit. Most people won’t recycle unless they legally have to. In areas without mandatory recycling, people seem pretty content mixing their plastics with used condoms and broken dreams.
Pabst Blue Ribbon fueled disappointment.
Take a look at your local airport next time you’re being pissed on by an airline. Most will have recycling bins next to regular old trash cans. People chuck their plastic bottles and paper in the trash can. The recycling bin is literally 1 inch away, but they STILL dump their recyclable shit in the refuse. Why? Because mankind is a species of lazy and thoughtless fuckers. Alright, MOST of mankind is a species of lazy and thoughtless fuckers. A healthy portion is just plain rock stupid. Even with step by step instructions, colorful maps, and cheerful muppets some people are still confused about the whole brown glass vs. clear glass deal.
You can completely green–out, reusing bacon fat and building a Rube Goldberg machine to separate your plastics from your used toilet paper. There is absolutely no guarantee that smelly mess you so painstakingly separated will make it to a recycling plant, let alone not be exported to a third world country with a healthy helping of medical waste. Take this epic bullshit play a couple of British recycling contractors [allegedly] pulled on Brazil. Worldwide Biorecyclables Ltd and UK Multiplas Ltd are accused of being liberal with their definition of plastic recyclables. In an alleged international act of douche-baggery, the companies threw in bags of blood and dirty syringes to round out the shipment. Hey, a little bit of medical waste never hurt anyone.
Back to the “awareness” vs. “giving a shit” issue. There is no contest. “giving a shit” is the only savior the green movement has. Look at this way: the U.S. was quite “aware” that the Japanese bombed the shit out of Pearl Harbor. If this country stopped with “awareness” Hawaii would belong to the Japanese today. Standing around the shipyard pointing as you mumble to your adjutant, “I am aware the Arizonais sinking and there are tons of men trapped,” won’t really help the situation “Why, yes commander, we are aware Japan has kicked us in the nuts and declared war.” See how being “aware” absolutely didn’t do a fucking thing? You know what did? “Giving a shit.”
“Giving a shit” isn’t content to point its fingers around and count the damage. “Giving a shit” wants, no, DEMANDS we get off our asses and do something about it. While that “awareness” pussy is sulking on the dock, aware that another cruiser is on fire and sinking faster than a fat chick from a Tru TV reality show in a tub of fudge,”giving a shit” said, “Mother fucker! Find out what’s going on, who did it, and their home addresses. Let all of us work as one to a common goal. We will be strong in our unity and resolve!”
No, man. “Giving a shit” needs more. Don’t get me wrong. To “give a shit” you have to, first, become aware of the situation. Then you move the fuck on to constructive action. If your first urge after absorbing the Earth Day doctrine is to show up with a bunch of sandal wearing, hairy, slacked jawed, wannabe hippies toting signs, then my friend, you are part of the problem. FWTC can’t help you.
Continuously bitching while holding signs and throwing environmentally friendly red paint on people to raise their awareness of animal abuse and shouting “You’re murders!” isn’t a way to make friends. It’s no where near the way to garner support for your cause. Especially if it’s during a thousand man BIKER RALLY. You, my hippie friend, will not accomplish jack. I mean other than getting your asses handed to you over and over again or being duct taped to the bitch seat of a biker’s ride, because his old lady couldn’t make it and you’re “close enough.” Ask this group what it got them.
Instead of regrouping and examining where they went wrong in their lives, the animal rights group became whinier and more self-righteous. In addition to the above treats, the soldiers in the “war against leather” found themselves being used as urinals, duct taped in fast food dumpsters, and encased in a silvery cocoon of duct tape in a tree (They truly are the Renaissance Men of duct tape). No, this is not a segment of Sons of Anarchy. If it were, it would be one of the coolest scenes ever! Shit! I just stopped writing to give myself a high five out of the sheer awesomeness a scene like that would bring. This shit went on for real this past January at the Johnstown, PA biker rally.
“But, Roode” I can hear some unwashed, meatless diet following, red paint spewing asstard say. “How can you say the individual doesn’t matter? Some of the greatest events in history have happened, because of 1 person.”
First of all, shut the fuck up. I don’t even know you, but I can smell you over the interwebs. For the rest of you, NO. Individuals haven’t made a shit sack worth of difference. On their own, that is. Caesar didn’t change ancient Rome by himself. He had an ass kicking, ball busting army to help. Harriet Beecher Stowe may have written one hell of a tome about the injustice of slavery, but it was a shitload of individuals that fought against it and, finally, a government that had to outlaw it. Lincoln may have wanted to outlaw slavery in the second half of your Civil War, but if he was the only one, his ass wouldn’t have been elected in the first place.
Not only does one person have to give a shit, tens of thousands have to. Finally, enough people will give a shit that the government HAS to take notice. This is the tricky part. The government can be “aware” of things until the sun turns into a bran muffin. They need to give a shit too or at least pretend for re-election. Or, in the case of the American Revolutionary War, get tossed out and replaced by a government that makes “give a shit” their motto (well, for 80 years or so). See? Giving a shit is a lot harder than it looks.
Let’s face it, giving a shit requires too much energy for most people. It’s a lot easier to bitch and moan while holding a protest line in front of a Carl’s Jr. You just stand there, chant ridiculous rhyming tag lines, and endure the police beatings that follow. So, you protesters and activists can go back to your display of awareness and hand holding. Maybe I’m wrong about all of this. I’m sure the Earth will be just fine for future generations with awareness, alone.
- 10 bottles of Gatorade
- 1 Pair ear plugs
- 1 box of Saltines
- 20 pre-penned letters of apology
- 3 extra dark sunglasses (to be worn at the same time)
- 2 bottles of Kilbeggan Irish whisky
- 1 bottle of Excedrin Migraine (to be taken with the whisky- 2 pills and 3 shots every 2 hours)
- 1 twenty gallon bucket from Home Depot
- 1 Box of adult diapers
- 1 Whisky Makes Me Frisky tee shirt
Having made sure my recovery kit was packed and stowed in a safe location (behind the toilet in the second floor bathroom) I was ready. Ready for what? Damn if I know. I still don’t really know what the fuck happened for those three days. Whatever happened, it was enough to make me swear off drinking Sunday. That’s saying a lot for someone who comes from a nation where bar brawls and domestic abuse are the national past times.
I laid there waiting for someone to rush over and help… or yell at me. Whatever. One of the dogs meandered over and sniffed my face. He was judging me. I know it. Fucking dogs. Ooooooooooo! They have paw-eye coordination and can walk in a straight line! Big deal. Show offs. I could walk just fine if I had four legs too. As it stands, crawling on all fours isn’t quite the same thing. That’s how rumors get started.
As the dog walked away I say where one of my adult diapers went. I guess I thought it was a good idea at some point to put one on the dog. HA! I’m hilarious! I could safely assume that four diapers were accounted for; two dogs and two cats in the house. I’d never stop with diapering just one animal. That would be half assed.
I decided to concentrate and do my damnedest to piece together the jumbled jigsaw puzzle that was the last 72 hours. Based on the evidence and the strange fact that I had bird seed in my pocket, I came up with this cobbled together time line.
Wednesday, March 17- Noon
Pre-programmed local area blood banks and hospitals into my GPS. Ate a nutritious Saint Patrick’s day lunch of black bread and Guinness. Either that or a severely moldy slice of bread I found behind the toaster… and Guinness.
Wednesday, March 17- 5 PM
Polished off a case of Smithwhick’s and bummed a ride to the pub. Now, from what I can put together, I either had a friend pick me up or I hitched a ride with a clown. I did find a rubber nose down my pants at one point.
Wednesday, March 17- 11 PM
Sang some Irish karaoke, even though the bar didn’t have a karaoke machine and I was, apparently, singing into an empty toilet paper tube.
Thursday, March 18- 10 AM
Have the feeling I was in Yakima for some odd reason. I don’t have much to base this on other than the appearance of a brand new “I Heart Yakima” t-shirt that I was suddenly wearing.
Thursday, March 18- 1 PM
Something to do with a zoo…
Thursday, March 18- 4 PM
Had a quickie wedding with the bottle of whisky I was drinking.
Thursday, March 18- 4:15 PM
Divorced said bottle of whisky due to irreconcilable differences.
Thursday, March 18- 8 PM
Signed up for the Peace Corps
Thursday, March 18- 9:23 PM
Realized I didn’t sign up for the Peace Corps. It was a waiver for a wet t-shirt competition.
Thursday, March 18- 11 PM
Inexplicably wearing a soaking wet “I Heart Yakima” t-shirt.
Friday, March 19
It’s said that every little girl’s dream to have a storybook wedding. Ignoring what some would call an obviously sexist ideology, we’ll agree with this to avoid any argument to the contrary. Take one for the bloody team for the sake of this article! I don’t have time to cater to every bleeding feminist war cry out there.
So, if a storybook wedding is every girl’s dream, then the one I just had must be the anomaly. I’m not saying it was bad. Quite the contrary. The result was the same; the groom was blessed with me as a wife until he dies. That’s how I understood it, at any rate. There was something in the ceremony about loving, honouring, and cherishing me. I am pretty sure there was an “obey” in there somewhere.
Not being the stereotypical fairytale wedding, mine was unique. Not jug band, hillbilly unique, but a definite type of crazy one usually has to tune into the tele for some sort of Gary Busey fix.
It was a peculiar mixture of me looking absolutely stunning in my dress, the bridesmaids being beautiful, (but not on my level of beauty, of course), Tresckow attempting to kill one of my bridesmaids, and mini bar shenanigans. This concoction still isn’t volatile enough for you? Well, add a healthy dose of motorcycle gang and ex-IRA and you have the uranium core of a marital super weapon that could take out most of the Pacific Northwest.
As you may remember from Tresckow’s article he bitched and moaned about traveling to my wedding. Piss off, mate, it’s a small price to pay to get a front row seat to the performance of a lifetime. Tresckow and Ren have a type of antagonist relationship that could, possibly, end in the death of small children and the elderly. Don’t get me wrong, it’s cute. She constantly bugs the ever loving shit out of him and he prays for death. Awwwwwww.
Tresckow is my self-adopted brother. Yes, I admit that. Don’t try to understand it, just accept it. When it is all sussed out, we’re family. Ren, being my husband’s sister (poor bastard), believes that she and Tresckow are brother and sister-in- law via some sort of muddled drunken Mick logic. Whatever the whiskey induced mathematical equation she used to arrive at that conclusion, the result ends in constant emotional and physical pain for Tresckow. It makes me laugh. What? Siblings should revel in each other’s misery.
With the combination of Ren, my mother, Tresckow, Roode, a plethora of alleged “one percenters,” and visitors from the UK (Northern Irish and British- another explosive combination) the event had no choice but to be the Poseidon Adventure of weddings.
It’s no secret that my wedding exploded beyond control. What was supposed to be a small, quiet affair ended up in the newspaper and a blip on the local news. Half of Northern Ireland attended (those legally allowed to leave British soil and otherwise) and a might more bikers showed up than originally thought. To top it all, I actually had a good turn out with my family. That was a surprise. Oh, and Tresckow, my self-adopted brother, was there to be my therapist, confidant, and giver-awayer [insert another obligatory mushy “Awwww” here].
So, out of all this beautiful mess, what have I learned? I’m so very glad you asked. I’ve broken it down into 15 short tidbits of knowledge you may not have known. Also, for my enjoyment (and I suppose for some of you), each lesson is presented by a woman wearing the naughty teacher outfit I wore on the wedding night. No. There will be no photographs of that anywhere near this website.
Hitting someone in the head with a hymnal during a wedding ceremony will make a significant sound that echoes. As will the “Bloody Mary, OUCH” that follows.
You would think this is common sense. Ah, but common sense took a vacation during my wedding ceremony. Long of the short of it, some of the boozed up Northern Irishmen got into a Three Stooges-esq slapfest towards the end of the wedding vows. I hope God laughed, because I did not. Wankers.
It’s not the best idea for your (soon-to-be) sister-in-law to give directions to the groomsmen and have them repeatedly lead to a strip club.
Ren, fancies herself a funny girl. She’s good for a chuckle, I’ll give her that. I suppose that’s why she doctored the directions to the after- rehearsal boozing to lead Tresckow, Roode, and the others to the “Gentleman’s Club” in town. Did I mention they were on foot, hoofing it through a town none of them were familiar with? After the first hour of wandering through the streets, repeatedly passing the same strip club, they started to catch on. In, yet again, another page from the Three Stooges play book, they blamed each other and started a street by street snowball fight. From what I’m told, it was a slightly less organized, slightly more destructive Battle of Berlin. What IS funny about all of this? None of them wanted to call for directions. Why? MEN DON’T NEED TO ASK FOR DIRECTIONS! Bloody retarded.
There’s really not much more to say about this. All out brawls should be done in the privacy of a back alley or in the elevator in a hospital. Come to think on it, ANYWHERE that isn’t in front of a police patrol car is a better place for a fist fight. Why in crikey fuck couldn’t they wait ten more feet until filling the air with fists and broken whiskey bottles?
Do I really need to go into further detail on this? Here’s a simple mathematical formula:
Drunken Micks + hungry motorcycle enthusiasts + ham sandwich x 15th floor balcony = very surprised octogenarian on the ground.
Two 90 pound Malamutes WILL sleep in your bed, regardless of your personal preference.
This is true no matter who you are. It will happen and you’re powerless to stop it. Keep in mind, if you protest too much, they can crush your windpipe.
Your brother yelling “It’s show time!” before rushing your (soon-to-be) sister-in-law in her father’s bar for giving him directions to the previously mentioned strip club instead of the correct location is entertaining, if not slightly psychotic.
Again, there really is no call to go into this any further. Ren cannot be stopped. Tresckow was a fool for trying.
This wasn’t my room. Quite frankly, I would have tossed her off the balcony. This was, once again, Ren’s attempt to be sisterly to Tresckow. Of course, the sisterly thing to do is steal a copy of your “soon-to-be sister-in-law’s self adopted brother[in-law]’s” room key. It’s also sisterly to empty the mini bar fridge, fill the empty alcohol bottles with water, and sneak into his room at 2:30 in the morning to jump up and down on his bed to check if he’s asleep. I’m not quite sure how that rowdy Mick survived. Tresckow must be getting soft in his old age.
When an Irish biker tells a bartender to give him the entire whiskey bottle, the bartender better do so.
This is just good self preservation instincts. It isn’t worth getting castrated, then stuffed in the trunk of your own car for a job that only pays minimum wage. Leave that to the executives.
No, no, a thousand times NO! Wedding receptions don’t have mosh pits for a bloody reason. I’m never going to get that deposit back now.
Repeated threats made against the groom by the bride’s brother as a warning to treat his sister right probably shouldn’t be made as part of a toast during the rehearsal dinner. Or in the church rehearsal. Or at the reception… or in notes nailed to his parents’ door.
It may not be a good idea to wake up at 3:30 AM the day of your wedding and make your brother go on a three hour drive to your house, “just cause.”
Let’s just say discovering the bride is missing on the wedding day puts a damper on things. I reckon it also looked like Tresckow kidnapped me. It’s the bride’s prerogative! I wanted to talk to my brother and go on a drive. That drive ended up being a three hour trek to my house, across the border, into Montana. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought I left the iron on. Just let it go. We almost hit a moose and, actually, backed into a big horn sheep. That’s penance enough. Besides, I came back; with an hour to spare, thank you very bloody much.
Need I say more? I’m not sure I legally can.
Never let your sister-in-law connect an iPod to the DJ’s computer.
“Detachable Penis” [music link] isn’t traditional wedding music. It just isn’t. Anytime a mother has to explain to her son the concept of a detachable penis during a wedding reception is just an investment in future therapy bills.
Songs about suicide probably shouldn’t be requested at a wedding reception.
I love Alice in Chains. I really like their new album. As much as I like “Black Gives Way to Blue” I wouldn’t say it’s ideal wedding reception music. Tracks like Check My Brain and A Looking In View cause the slam dancing/mosh pit I spoke of earlier. But, the depression filled, suicide mourning, melancholy lyrics of Your Decision and Black Gives Way To Blue probably won’t provide the appropriate wedding ambiance.
I really don’t want to talk about this one.
Oh, and just in case you were curious (I was), there is a Staring at your hot teacher during class Facebook page. You can find your own hot teacher related porn.
Let’s face it; no one wants to be with their family for the holidays. Anyone who says differently is a fucking liar. Each year many of us ruin a perfectly good Christmas by spending it with people we voluntarily severed ties with. Somehow, the rules change for the holidays. We have to be all nice and social and shit.
This is especially true during Christmas. Somewhere along the line Charles Dickens brain washed society into believing Christmas is a time for forgiveness and family. Well, I don’t forgive and family is the reason why I wake up crying at night.
There is no way I can avoid this train wreck. My wife is very traditional and… well, normal. She had a normal childhood with normal relatives. Her family seems to … um… do that love thing. She has two sisters, bringing the total to three girls in her immediate family. I don’t know what that was like to grow up with. I imagine it had something to do with holding hands, singing Kumbaya, and pillow fights in their underwear. Sorry. That sort of shit is in my head all the time. I mean all of them are smoking hot. Let a guy dream. Hold on. Now I have the most amazing picture in my head. Give me a minute.
I, on the other hand, grew up with two brothers. Three boys in one family spells clusterfuck. I’m the middle child, and therefore, the most awesome. Where there may have been tickle fights among the sexy sisters in my wife’s family, there were fist fights and constant emotional pain for us. Our childhood years were devoted to seeing how many swirlies we could give each other before one of us snapped. For the record, it’s eight.
There has always been a certain amount of animosity between me and my older brother, “Greg.” By animosity, I mean outright shit-tastic rage. Greg is a holier-than-thou fucker that lives to point out when I fuck up. Hey, asshole, I don’t need that. I’m married. That shit happens by default.
My little brother, “Gene”, is almost as awesome as I am. Being the youngest, he doesn’t feel the need to live up to anyone’s standards. It’s completely OK if he wakes up in a dumpster smelling of cheap vodka and Chanel. It’s Gene! He so crazy!
The wife makes me go home for a lot of the holidays. I guess it’s alright to a certain extent. Her family is nauseatingly affectionate. They’re so polite and sweet to each other. That shit makes me sick. There’s so much nice floating around, I usually have to step out for some air. Where’s the fucking animosity? How are you supposed to unwrap gifts without throwing a bowling ball at someone? This is just insanity.
We’re from lower/central Alberta. It’s a good twelve hour ride o’ hell from where we live in Montana. That gives me plenty of time to plan for the circus of horrors. At any given time it’s 5 degrees, but the rage Greg and I emit raises the temperature to a balmy 10. My loving and oh so naive wife gives me a pep talk every year. I don’t have the heart to tell her that it does nothing. The only thing that would truly help is a bottle of Windsor and a shit ton of explosives.
So, why do we subject ourselves to this bullshit? Tradition? Sentiment? The possibility of putting my Yule log in my wife’s fireplace? Yeah, it’s that last one. Like you’re above bartering for sex. Married sex is a game of Risk for the husband. You’re constantly attempting to figure out the other’s next move. For the wife, it’s more like a game of hitting a bunch of bottles at the fair, except instead of a little shit BB gun, she has a friggin rocket launcher. Husbands just aren’t hard to get. I’m proud of that shit.
Everyone has some issues. Some have enough issues to fill a fucking newspaper stand in Times Square. There are a metric shit-ton of dysfunctional families out there. Even the most functional suffer a core meltdown during the holidays.
In some families it’s sibling rivalry. In others, it’s the cold hard truth that your dad always wanted a boy. There are always those precious few that have an “uncle” no one talks about. Be it Uncle Joe and his disturbing obsession with women’s underwear or Uncle Sheamus who spent the better part of the 80’s building bombs for the IRA using alarm clock parts and road flares.
Yeah… One of Sheamus ‘ “novelty” alarm clocks.
So, again, why do we do this to ourselves? We all have our reasons. I already told you mine (married sex). Some of you have forgotten what hellish treats the homestead has in store and need a refresher. Either way, we’re all idiots.
After surviving the arctic tundra that is southern Alberta, well pulled into my parents’ driveway. My parents love my wife. She’s the daughter they never had; which is sort of disturbing, because that would mean we’re in an incestuous relationship. That shit may happen in Manitoba, but not here, Bub. Don’t believe me? This article (about inbred sparrows) says it all!
My record for the shortest amount of time between arrival and being fuck-shit pissed beyond belief is one hour. Sorry, it WAS one hour. Within thirty minutes the rage fuse was lit; middle son fighting oldest son while the youngest son eggs them on and takes bets. The mother begging them to get along and the father pouring himself another highball… that’s Christmas mother fucker!
Above: Means of escape.
I won’t bore you with the bullshit details. Let’s just say that someone assaulted someone else with a wreath and that someone else returned fire with a life sized baby Jesus.
After a fifteen minute bourbon break, we resumed the thirty year war. Efforts to barter for peace were futile. My nephew asked if I was “Going to kill daddy?” Being the great uncle I am, I told him “Yes.”
Yeah, I hear you judgmental pricks. “But, Roode, assaulting your brother with the baby Jesus isn’t the grown up thing to do.” Shut the fuck up! In familial situations like this, there are only three options.
1. Keep drinking Cisco until your liver literally punches a hole through your abdomen and leaves.
2. Lock yourself in the bathroom and assume the fetal position.
3. Assault your brother with a plastic baby Jesus.
At the time, number 3 (with a healthy dose of number 1) was the most logical choice.
Somehow, we made it through Christmas without sending someone to the hospital… again. No, I don’t hate Greg. I have been programmed to love my brother. I wasn’t programmed to like the son-of-a-bitch. I wouldn’t want to see him killed. That is, unless, it was by my hand.
After the goodbyes were said, my wife begged me to be the “bigger man” and let the ceaseless war drop until next year. So I did. To her knowledge, anyway. I may or may not have shampooed his car’s carpet with spoiled eggnog before we left. Suck on that fucker!
I don’t know if a full and real truce will ever be reached. At the moment, we’re more like Israel and Palestine; with a lot less ethnic cleansing and a lot more alcohol. I guess that would make my parents’ house the Gaza Strip.
Somewhere, in there, my dad is pouring himself another highball.
Who the hell enjoys flying anymore? Sadists, maybe. Big business, the federal government, and shitheads trying to get into some version of heaven by wearing shoes filled with poorly made explosives and kooky dreams have changed what was once a pleasant and exciting experience. There used to be a time when EVERYONE would get a healthy portion of peanuts and all the soft drinks one bladder could hold. Of course, this was back in the day when you didn’t have to wear a hospital gown and get felt up by some security guard drop out masquerading as 007.
Flying coast to coast is especially heinous (rhymes with anus). I used to do it on a regular basis for a job I had. A horrible, horrible job. One that was the modern equivalent of a sweat shop run by the Three Stooges… but I digress. A lot.
The flying cattle cars airplanes have become have put me off intercontinental travel. But, what can you do? You sure as shit don’t have any other options. How else are you supposed to get to the third world side of the US without investing a ridiculous amount of time? Conestoga wagon? I’m all out of oxen. Train? Hell no, that shit takes FOREVER and can be a poop sack of expenses making the outrageous airfare rape look reasonable. So, OK, I’m stuck. The travel Mafia’s got me. Assholes.
So I receive this mandate from Adel that I need to report to Northern Idaho for her wedding. Yeah, someone is self loathing enough to fasten that ball and chain around his ankle. Poor sommabitch. Can’t he develop a crippling alcohol dependency like a normal person?
As I was saying, I received my standing orders to report to Adel’s wedding. Aside from being forced to wear a tux I had to socialize with a motley crew of ex IRA, British blowhards, and a generous helping of motorcycle gang. You read that right. Guess which two groups are related to Ren? Did I mention that Adel’s hubby is Ren’s brother? That probably explains the self loathing thing.
Being the only FWTC writer not in the Pacific Northwest, I have to drag my ass to meet everyone else. Truthfully, this whole thing really should have been done to accommodate MY needs. But, noooooooo. The little princess has to have things HER way. Selfish. Just plain selfish.
Planning the flight itinerary is a pain in the ass, in its own right. Trying to find a flight that won’t require the sale of an internal organ on the black market AND doesn’t leave at o’dark thirty is basically impossible. It’s the travel equivalent of getting a boiling hot sandpaper enema. Take a bit to let that one sink in.
I wasn’t able to do either of the above. My flight was scheduled to leave at 6 AM and I did have to sell one of my kidneys to finance the trip. At least I have what’s left of my liver. I plan on killing that bastard before, during, and after the wedding ceremony. So, yay me!
I figured, what the hell, I might as well just stay up, since I have to leave my abode by 4 AM. I spent the night re-watching the Sons of Anarchy season finale, a ton of Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares, and the last half of Young Guns. Then I made like a tree and got the hell out of Dodge. After loading up on mass quantities of caffeine enriched goodness, that is. Guess what? It was a completely fucktarded idea to stay up all night. Chalk another grand decision made using my flawless logic.
After driving to the airport parking dealy I went to claim my boarding pass. One would think this would be relatively easy, since we live in modern times with technological marvels spouting from every orifice. I made the mistake of checking in from my home office. True to form, my printer decided to run out of ink, despite the system telling me that the cartridge was half full. Someone’s a liar.
I could, at least, pay for my checked baggage (read: bullshit charge) at a discounted rate. I had to argue with the self check in kiosk for ten minutes; it insisting I didn’t need a boarding pass, but the ticket agent telling me otherwise. The option she kept telling me to select simply did not exist on the damn screen. So, after a bit of cursing and slight computer abuse, I finally got the paperwork. My bag was tagged and it was on its way. I wouldn’t see that bad boy until the day AFTER I arrived. More on that joy later.
The particular airport I was departing from is a shit hole. They’re repainting it and attempting to make it look less like an inner city dump. But, as the old saying goes, you can gift wrap a turd all you want. Inside, it’s still a turd.
At this un-Godly hour of the morning, none of the eateries were open. I hadn’t had anything to eat since my dinner of munchkins and air. I figured I could iron man it. I’ll shell out some dough on the flight to buy infuriatingly over priced “breakfasts.” Guess what, United. A bagel that is french toast flavored does NOT constitute a french toast breakfast. For $4 I expect, at least, some sort of meat.
But, before the breakfast debacle, I ended up sitting at the gate with the millions of others waiting for the flight. Per usual, I scanned the crowd looking for people I have no desire to sit next to. This really doesn’t do much good, but imagining their heads exploding makes me happy. The odd thing was that I didn’t spot one single mullet. Coast to coast flights usually have one or two people that believe business should be in the front and the party, most definitely, in the back. I was a little disappointed.
I did manage to sit near a young couple with a kid that couldn’t have been more than a year old. The kid looked at me as if to say, “I am going to ruin your shit the ENTIRE FLIGHT!” I knew this was a bad sign. The lack of the mullet people surely meant that the travel gods had something even better in store for me. The lack of rotund passengers meant that this kid was going to be the problem de jour of the flight.
Herded like cattle onto the plane, I was grateful that my row-mates were little women. Not midgets, but small. One was Chinese and the other about 300 years old. It was just awesome that the old bag had no idea how to turn her cell off. The entire plane had to friggin wait until grandma figure out how to cut the power. I was seconds close to just ripping the battery out, but someone managed to complete the complicated task of pushing the RED button to shut the damn thing off. Damn these new fangled gadgets!
The plane was roughly 40% Chinese passengers. I hate Chinese. No, I’m not spouting racism. I’m talking about the language. I don’t really like or hate the Chinese, as a people. I’m sort of indifferent. Alright, that whole “Great Leap Forward” thing was a joke. I mean, come on. Willing an entire country stuck in the 1800’s to be technologically advanced doesn’t make it so. Then again, any governmental policy the results in thousands of deaths is one I can get behind. And I’m not sure that laying concrete in the rain is going to do wonders for the Three Gorges Dam (We WILL be technological savvy TODAY!).
So, I guess I’m really a language-ist. I hate the Chinese language. It doesn’t sound as subtle and romantic as German or as elegant as Icelandic. Each syllable is a finger nail on the proverbial chalk board to me. Yeah, I said it. I hate the Chinese language. What are you going to do about it, China? I hate the romance languages too. Don’t like it? Piss off.
Once the flight took off and the normal bullshit was completed, the little meal cart came out. At least United gives you the entire can of soda. I’ve been on others that pour your drink into a Dixie Cup filled with ice. I’m an adult. Give me the whole can! How much money are you actually saving by rationing soda like that? I hear the next step is using pay toilets. All I have to say about that is: ASSHOLES!
Remember that kid in the terminal I told you about? This is when his diabolical plan comes to fruition. As soon as everyone gets into that feel good “We’re staying in the air and not going to crash” zone the kid starts to cry. OK, fine. It happens. Whatever. I’ve heard that the difference in air pressure can do that to a rug rat. I noticed something, though. The kid only cried when a passenger fell asleep.
I know what you’re thinking. I thought it was coincidence, too. So, I did a Jane Goodall with the chimps type thing and observed the little monster from the safety of my duck blind. When everyone in our section was awake, the kid was sleeping like… well a baby. As soon as some poor bastard in row 22 dozed off, BAM! Screaming kid. I don’t know if this was the work of some sort of infant evil genius or if there were more sinister factors involved. Either way, the parents didn’t appreciate the Jack Daniels/NyQuil cocktail I sent over.
Take the thirty minute window I had, smash it with a sledge hammer and set it on fire. I barely made the puddle jumper to Spokane with NO TIME TO SPARE. I was the last one on the plane. If I had missed it I would have had to spend time in San Francisco. Who the hell wants to do that?
Here is where the real airplane joy began. I had a window seat. No big deal, it’s cool. That just means I don’t have to get up to accommodate some ass clown’s bladder. I can just listen to my iPod and relax for two hours. No. There would be no relaxing. There would be no joy. There would be no personal space. As if to get even with me for not sitting next to one of America’s spherically challenged on the first flight, I was consigned to airplane hell on this trip. Some vindictive SOB sat me next to either the worst Gallagher or the best David Crosby look-a-like in history.
After two hours of snoring, sweaty fat hell, I finally reached Spokane (because no airline goes to bumblefuck northern Idaho). Remember that checked luggage I mentioned at the start of this article? That bad boy was back in San Francisco. I waited at the luggage carosel for a while, watching others get their bags. Fewer and fewer bags were left, until the damn thing just stopped rotating. WTF? In their infinite wisdom, United left my bag at SFO. Why? No one knew. There were no notes, no red flags, nothing that said it was blown up as a security precaution… not a damn word. The customer service rep just shrugged and made me fill out a form. Now, I was in Washington preparing to drive to my final destination with the attractive aroma of travel stink and David Crosby funk. Whooohoooo!