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Some Poor Bastard Married a Ren

By, Ren

Yeah, that’s right.  Read that title again.  It’s for fucking real, baby.  I is a married chick, now.  I have joined the ranks of domestic married women, everywhere.  I am one with all the Suzy Homemakers the world over!  Yeah!  Betty Crocker and some shit.

Keeping it real in the kitchen bitches.

Or, not.

I do make a mean cottage pie, though.

Alright, we all know I’m not the poster chick for domesticity.  When other little girls were planning their fairy tale weddings, I was drawing up plans to free Northern Ireland through a complex, yet sexy series of events.  I never really gave two shits if I ever got married.  Never wanted to, never cared, didn’t need the bullshit.  Some girls go through, “this is the one” syndrome with every guy they date.  Mine was more, “this is the one for now.”  No, that’s not a polite way of saying I was a super horny sorority vixen.  Fuck, it totally is.

Although, this was my frat party outfit.

Fuck it, whatever.  Who are you to judge me?  Damn it, stop being an asshole!  Son-of-a-whore!

OK, sorry.  I’m better now.

So, I’ve been seeing this guy for a good while.  He’s manly, hot, and hung (too much info?).  It started out as a semi-regular booty call situation.  I say “semi-regular,” because it started off as a long distance relationship.  He lived/lives in central Alberta and I live on the ass-end of humanity in Western Montana.  That’s a good ten hours apart.  But, Momma has a way of becoming a life crippling addiction to men, women, and a few transsexuals.  It may not be a record, but the Canuck would drive the ten hours every time I flashed the booty call signal.

It’s one hell of an app.

The Ren addiction became overwhelming.  The hoser fell for me.  That’s not anything new.  I can’t go a day without someone writing a marriage proposal in the sky via old-timey skywriting plane.

“Again? Who is it this time?”

What I didn’t count on and never really had to deal with was the addiction going both ways.  This is some sappy shit.  I apologize for being all lovey-dubby.  It’s out of character for me, I know.  Deal with it.  I’ll go back to the normal sexist, self absorbed sex kitten you all have come to know and love with your very being.

Again, there is no shame in admitting that I am your Irish sunrise.

I figured that after my long life on this planet, I might as well settle for this dumbass.  He’s already demonstrated his complete and baffling devotion to me.  Who hasn’t?  But, as I mentioned, I sorta kiiiinda liked this guy in more than just my pants.  Yeah, it’s the L word.

Not this “L Word,” but that shit would be hot!

The OTHER L word.  Momma fell in love.  Fuck you!  Why not?  Why can’t it happen to me, too?  Judgmental prick.

After some deep soul-searching, we decided to get hitched.  The reason being.. I don’t have to justify our decision.  Doode, I’m going to come through your computer and bitch slap you.

Sorry.  I’m defensive.  I apologize to all those reading who are not fuck shits.  What’s that, like 10% of you?  You know who you are.

We planned to spend a portion of my spring break in Las Vegas for a super-dooper romantic trip.  Hey!  Vegas!  Home of the drive through wedding.  No hassle, no complications, no fuss.  Just the two of us, a couple of witnesses, and an official that may or may not be an Elvis impersonator.

“Hunka-hunka burning MATRIMONY!”

We were sold.  What’s the point in waiting?  No, there is no point.  Momma knows what she wants.  If she didn’t want it, it wouldn’t happen.  I was determined.  He was ecstatic for the privilege and honor of marrying me.

Bing, bam, boom; we had our suite at the Luxor reserved, the 20 minutes at the chapel reserved, and a whole assortment of wedding night lingerie to make him praise God for the blessing of being in my life.  No wedding dress, tux, or reception.  Simple, baby.  Expressing our love by making the ultimate commitment in the eyes of our Irish Lord, Jesus O’Nazereth.  We know full well that, being both Catholic [IRISH Catholic for me], death is the only way out after the deed is done.

Till death do us part, motherfucker.

Knowing that this was the only thing that a couple can do in Vegas that will not stay in Vegas, we figured it was a good idea to keep all of this a secret.  Why?  Well, we didn’t want to put up with a bunch of bullshit from family, friends, my army of devoted followers, etc.  I say “bullshit,” to encompass all the possible reactions one can expect when proclaiming a quickie marriage in Vegas.  That’s something you want to do after the fact.

Dropping one of these on family and friends from a safe distance is advisable.

The whole thing was set in motion.  We were giddy, knowing the big secret.  Don’t get me wrong, no one was going to start a war or disapprove vehemently of our union.  Well, one person would.  But, more on that fucker later.  I wanted to do this on our own terms.  I guess that’s some of the reason we felt drunk the entire time.  That and, well, actually being drunk.  But, at least half of that feeling was the complete control of our destinies.  We had some awesome pre-wedding ceremony sex.  I mean, awesome.  Fuck…  earth shattering super banging.  I think it was the worst kept secret in the entire hotel.

That and I wore this t-shirt, constantly.

We went to the hotel chapel, had a short run down of what was going to happen, added the cost to our hotel bill, then pulled the trigger. It was easier than getting a gun permit in California.  We were Mr and Mrs Whatsits.  That intoxicating feeling we had before our wedding just EXPLODED to the nth degree.  The Luxor comped a dinner and $100 worth of gambling chips.  That’s it.  It was awesome.  We had rings and just glowed with excitement.  Oh yeah, we fucked each other stupid in private and public places.

It’s only a crime if someone turns you in. It’s sort of hot if they just watch.

It may not have been a traditional wedding, but it was OUR wedding set at our speed.  We partied everywhere!  We took in some burlesque shows, some dirty version of Little Bo Peep with Holly Madison, a topless comedy club, some gambling, and then more things that involved women without tops.  It was a recurring theme on our trip.

Didn’t take Momma long to talk the bartender out of her restrictive top.

Before I go any further, I feel the need to debunk any unauthorized rumors floating around.  I know “Ren got married,” means different things to different people.  This is rumor control; here are the facts:

  1. I am not pregnant
  2. He is not pregnant
  3. We were NOT drunk during the ceremony
  4. This isn’t part of a Witness Protection Program deal
  5. I AM NOT PREGNANT.  Drop it.  Fuck!
Our holiday of just married bliss started to show some cracks when we figured that maybe telling our friends and families would be a good idea.  Telling them while we’re still in Las Vegas, that is.  Give the bomb time to explode, its social faux pas shrapnel embedding nice and deep in the psyches of those we hold dear.  That’s the humane thing to do.  So, I used a simple, almost elegant, social bomb to start the chain reaction.
·

·
I think that may have crashed Facebook for a few hours.  The amount of cell phone and internet traffic coming from Edmonton, Montana, Idaho, Washington, and Northern Ireland was enough to completely jam up the works, A´ la major terrorist or natural disaster.  When  you get a bunch of Irish Catholics who have been duped into not participating or attending a wedding of one of their own; it’s war.

I’m sorry, Pacific Northwest.

We enjoyed our remaining few days off the grid.  That is, until my mother informed us that she took it upon herself to book a flight from Las Vegas to Spokane, the nearest grown up airport Northern Idahoans have.  I pointed out to her that we didn’t have a car.  We planned on flying right back home and get my ride from the airport lot.  No worries.  Once we land in Spokane, there would be “a car” waiting for us.  OK, fine.  I owe my family a little leeway here.  They want to meet my new husband; their new kin.  The husband, on the other hand, smelled a set up.

He went all Admiral Ackbar on me.

The Husband, some how, must have heard stories about my family that didn’t put us in a very peaceful and understanding light.  Every family has their history.  Some were involved in bootlegging during Prohibition.  Some were involved with assembling explosives and blowing up columns of British trucks.  So maybe there are still some out there fighting for the Cause.* Of course, it may have something to do with some of my family being members of a fairly known MC in those parts.  I grew up with bikers.  That explains my charm and precociousness.

*Editor’s Note:  No one in 21st century Northern Ireland can pinpoint what “The Cause” means.  There are a dozen or so out there.  Take your pick.  Find one that feels good to you!  Don’t like it?  Trade it in for a brand new cause!

The entire flight, The Husband was preoccupied with  facing his own death a lot sooner than he hoped.  Getting our bags at Spokane, we meandered to the ground transportation area.  A large man in a black suit held a placard with our names written in flowing fashion.  OK, so maybe a scene or two from “The Transporter” popped into  my head.

“The packages are here. Sticking with Plan A. Chloroform for the male standing by.”

We got into this black town car that drove us all the way to my parents’ house.  I spent the 45 minutes assuring him that he was creating a scenario in his head that couldn’t possibly play true in real life.  [note:  I was completely fucking wrong] I was excited!  I’m a newly wed and so pumped to show off The Husband, our rings, and share all the stories.  The house was coming in sight.  I guess my smiling and giddiness was a little infectious.  The Husband, for a moment, had forgotten to be scared.  Not to worry.  That wouldn’t last.

Our car made the last bend and my parents’ home came into view!  Wow, there sure are a lot more cars in the driveway than I thought would be in the middle of a weekday…  in the middle of the week.  Well fuck me running, there’re like a dozen motorcycles hanging around the driveway, too.  Oh, it’s a welcome to the family party!  We got out of the car and made our way to the front porch to find twelve angry-looking men in MC kutten with club colors standing on the porch like it was a parade review.  Among these big, angry cowboys of the road were two of my cousins, Reece and Aodh.  I knew The Husband’s train from funtown was now heading for Ass Beating Butte.

Oh, sweetie. I wish I could. But, Da already poured the whisky.

Nothing was said.  They grabbed Husband and threw him in a van, then took off like the wind.  A wind that just kidnapped my brand new husband.  None of us would see him for a good 24 hours.  But, whatever.  My Da was grilling steak and had an open bottle of whisky for his little girl.  I’m sure The Husband was fine.

He didn’t even have the chance to put me on his life insurance policies.

Oh, come on!  Stop thinking the worst.  He didn’t die.  They just pushed him off a bridge.  Come to think of it, that is something a guy just has to go through in order to prove his worth.  It wasn’t anything too illegal.  A long time was spent berating him and pissing all over his manhood.  Figuratively.  No one was actually pissing on his dick.  That’s just fucked up.

*Note from photo research staff:  There are just some illustrations we refuse to find.

They tied his foot to a cinder block and asked him if he could fly.  Their theory was, that if Husband really loves me, he wouldn’t be afraid to take a leap of faith.  Then, without an answer, they pushed him off.  Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrgggggghhh!  Splat.

No.  There wasn’t a “splat.”  With all the commotion, Husband didn’t realize that the brothers hooked him up to a bungee dealy and not a cinder block.  He bounced back.  His jeans may have been a little more urine soaked than normal, and I am damn sure the boxers he had on had to be burned.  They returned him the next day, drunk, sweaty, and dry heaving.  Back off, ladies.  He’s MY MAN!

My broken, soot covered, vomit spewing, shell of his former self man.

That’s sort of how it went over the next several weeks.  My mother is very adamant that we have a Catholic ceremony to “strengthen our … something or other.”  Something about getting officially married in the eyes of the Church.  Now, that will be fun to coordinate.  Good luck to them figuring out how to get two families 1000 miles apart to come to a consensus on something like this.  Oh well, don’t care.  Just more alcohol and meat products for me.  I did manage to spend a good week or so with The Husband’s family in Edmonton.  As expected, they fucking love me.  I’m so charming.  Tee hee.  Even one of his older brothers was completely enamored by me.    I fucking ROCK Alberta!

It’s just so hard leaving my adoring fans.

Oh, that guy I mentioned earlier in the article that would lose his shit when he found out Husband and I got married.  It’s the middle child of the family.  He is known by many names; newfie, tool, anger-man, the tirade king…  But, we here at FWTC call him Roode.  That’s right bitches.  I married into Roode’s family.  Try to stop me now, motherfucker!  Your nightmare is now a reality!  I’m on the inside, entrenched.  There is no way to escape me.  Roode, my big brother-in-law, life as you know it has ended.  Enjoy!

Consider your world officially rocked.

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Your State’s Department of Labor Hates You

Tresckow

I’m just going to come right out and say it.  I am out of work.  Got a problem with that?  Conservatives would say I’m just too lazy and spoiled by unemployment.  Liberals would say I can’t fend for myself.  I say eat shit.

Roode alluded to this situation late last year.  The difference is that Roode found a position that allows him to carry firearms and wield the law as his own, personal nightstick.  You got it right, he’s a guard at one of the many strip clubs in Western Montana.

He’s just waiting for some dumbass to touch the “merchandise.”

As “Chief Editor/Head Writer,” this whole situation is particularly aggravating.  I am supposed to set the standard for the FWTC writing staff.  You know, lead by example and shit.  Sorry, I had problems keeping a straight face on that one.  As long as Ren is on staff, I could live in a cardboard box while eating day old donuts slamming Thunderbird and I would STILL be the normal one.

It’s still better than where I lived in grad school.

Personally, I abhore  the welfare state.  I hate the nanny state, too.  There are some horrific ham-fisted deals going on behind the scenes (if Cracked.com can be believed).  Too many people take advantage of the system and take what they didn’t earn.  But, I can’t bring down my household because of my ideals.  Besides, it’s insurance.  I paid for it.  Fuck if I’m not going to use it.  Still, getting less than half your old salary is a nutshot to the ego and severely limits your ability to buy and stockpile weapons for a Red Dawn-esq scenario..

How the hell am I supposed to fend off a Russian/Chinese invasion with just this?

But, your state’s department of labor is there to help you!  Help you feel worse, I mean.  What?  Does your state actually help without inducing mind shattering shit-pissed rage?  Then, you’re living in a fantasy land!  Name one thing that government involvement has streamlined?  The department of motor vehicles?  Building permits?  Highway construction?  How about paperwork to eliminate the need for paperwork?    It’s pretty much a given that government intervention designed to make your life “easier” is about as useful as an overflowing toilet without the charm.

Somewhere in there your state’s budget is floating around.

Earlier this month, our president signed the unemployment extension legislation into law  (I’m not here to debate that, because I really don’t care what you think).  OK, great.  It doesn’t look like it really impacts me.  But, what the hell?  Every little bit helps.  Every state took the extension and ran with it.  Not only were there thousands of thousands of people already in the system that had to refile, there were thousands that needed to file for the first time. Something this serious and complicated needs to be thought out.  A proper plan needs to be drawn up so the state can wade through the throngs of citizens who were career raped.  So, LET’S SQUEEZE IT ALL INTO ONE WEEK!  It’s a raffle.  Everyone gets their ticket and has to show up on their designated day.  It’s sort of like jury duty, but less organized.

It’s like trying to fit everyone into a clown car with the doors welded shut.

So, I did what I was told.  I need, at least, some income.  Christ knows this website doesn’t pay dick and I’m not pretty enough to whore the streets.  I stupidly figured that the state had a plan.  Come on, with that many people in the system, they surely had some sort of efficient process in place.  It was as efficient as carrying water in a bottomless bucket.  I decided that I needed to play this well.  It’s like Christmas shopping on Black Friday.  Get there before the doors open and you’re golden.  WRONG!  The 400 people before me had the same idea.  There was a line leading all the way to the parking lot and little shanty towns set up under the trees.  Fine, whatever.  I’ll wait in the waiting area that smells like the steerage section on a 19th century steamer.  I was number 88.  They were on number 40.  It’s not ideal, but it’s doable.


What the staff failed to tell me and everybody else, is that they ran out of tickets.  They had to break into new rolls to have enough for the ever-growing crowd.  So, there were blue tickets, green tickets, pink tickets, yellow tickets…  it was a rainbow of pain.  That’s the sort of thing you want to keep a secret.  Instead of being number 88, I was 388 (pink ticket 88).  That number 40 on the little display screen?  Well, that was another color.  There were roughly 348 pissed off people in front of me.  Good times!

True to form, every chair had a sweaty ass in it.  So, I stood.  I’m a big boy.  Sometimes you just have to stand.  There were four staff members on duty attempting to process 500 people by 4:30.  I’m no math wizard, but something about that shit doesn’t add up.  Especially if you consider they were only processing less than 26 people an hour.  Good thinking state bureaucrats!

Two thumbs up for you!

After about two hours of this shit, I decided to get the hell out of Dodge.  I did some quick math and figured that I could leave, go back to my house, eat lunch, watch some Futurama, and be back roughly two hours later and my number still wouldn’t have been called.  By the time I returned, the crack staff at the Department of Labor should have gotten through enough mouth breathers to close the gap.  Why, I bet I’ll be back with 20 people still in front of me.  Weighing the odds and tired of standing in a strangely un-air conditioned building (it was only 98 degrees that day.  That’s window opening weather) I beat cheeks like BP dodging real blame.

Hey, I’m not above jumping on the bandwagon.

My plan was perfect.  I laughed to myself as I pictured all those suckers in the state run cattle car.  I’m the smart one!  The amount of time I had to spend with a room full of “colorful” people from around the state was drastically reduced.  I’m a fucking genius! I drive back to bureaucratic hell a little more energized.  I’ve been gone almost two hours.  They had to have made some serious progress during my absence.

Somehow, they seemed to have gone BACKWARDS while I was out.  There were still over 100 people in front of me.  How is that possible?  Oh, right.  They reduced the amount of staff on duty.  It seemed like the right thing to do.  It’s not like you need more than a few people to process a few hundred sweaty, annoyed, and smelly applicants.

Hey, by this time I wasn’t without my own funk.

At least this time around I found a chair.  Hoo-hah!  I get to sit down.  Now, do you really think it would be that easy or painless?  Not only do I have the worst luck with airline seating, my ass chaping misfortune seems to extend to seats of all kinds.  To my right:  an impossibly fat man that smelled like spoiled milk.  To my left:  an extra from the Road Warrior.  In the middle of that mess was me, trying like hell not to physically touch either ass clown.  I sucked in my extremities and got into what can only be described as a sitting fetal position.

If only this were an exaggeration.

What’s a long line leading to the mouth of hell without some dill weed throwing a monkey wrench in the gears?  It never fails, whether in line for the movies or in the bank, there is ALWAYS someone who has to argue with the ticket monkey behind the counter.  There we are, a shit ton of people waiting for our glorious turn.  Then the brakes slam and the car comes to a screeching halt.

Following the rules the state sets for unemployment paperwork doesn’t require a rocket scientist, believe me.  Literally, it’s:

  1. Fill out form
  2. Wait in line for as long as it takes for the earth to make one revolution around the sun
  3. Show your driver’s license and social security card (or something official with your name and the ssn on it)
  4. Say “yes” to a bunch of questions.

But, noooooooo!  An old fiber muncher was having a debate with one of the clerks.  I was close enough t o hear what was going on (so much for privacy).  The hag was quibbling over something that was written in black and white in front of her friggin eyes!  You know the type of person that just doesn’t get what you’re saying no matter how many different ways you try to explain it?  This crone was the queen of that tribe of retards.  It took three clerks to tell her that she needed her social security card.  Not satisfied, the blue hair demanded to ask for the person in charge.  So, not only was this jackhole tying up FOUR clerks, she wanted to sit there and argue with a fifth.  The crowd behind her started to collect pitchforks and torches to get this bitch out of the way.

There was a vat of boiling oil just in case the mob got out of control.

As the clocked wound down and the staff slogged through the numbers, all I could do was send SOS messages through my cell.  I normally keep to myself in situations like these.  I don’t want to talk to people and I sure as hell don’t want people starting random conversations with me.  Just because we’re waiting in the same line doesn’t mean we’re buddies.  Unfortunately, not everyone shares my cardinal rule.  The fat bastard to the right of me was yucking it up with an old bitty behind him.  It was like being a fly on the wall in a retirement home.  Ceaseless discussions on how the “new” generation doesn’t work as hard as they did and their baseless feeling of entitlement.  I wasn’t quite sure which generation they were talking about.  Both were old enough to be referring to the baby boomers, gen x, gen y, and whatever the hell the subsequent generations are called.  I managed to suppress my urge to slap both of them across the face, Three Stooges style.  I’m not saying I totally disagree with what they were saying (every generation has their group of whiny little bitches).  I had an issue with something else coming out of the rotund dude’s mouth.

I’m talking about the stench emanating from within.

Each stale word he pushed out of his mouth was accompanied by new levels of ass breath.  At first, I wasn’t sure what the hell it was.  Did someone leave a sandwich in the sun?  Did a dog take a dump in the waiting room?  Wait a minute, the putrid odor gets stronger whenever this dude speaks.  Son-of-a-bitch!  Really?  Who’s messing with me?  The smell was a cross between spoiled milk and dog ass.  How couldn’t he know?  This shit made my eyes water.  I’ve been near paper plants with more pleasant smells.  Good Christ, pop a Mentos!

Not to be confused with, “Manos.”

As the funeral procession of the damned waned on, they were slowly getting closer to my number.  I was hot, sweaty, and pissed off about the carnival of errors unfolding before my very eyes.  Twenty numbers away from mine, I got up  stand by the counter.  I wanted to be ready to spring into action as soon as they called sweet number 88.  Some people gave up over the course of the day and left.  At this point, they were sailing through numbers, skipping over the no shows.

A new crop of fucktards populated the waiting area.  As soon as I saw the douche wearing a wife beater, I KNEW he was going to fuck something up.  With the captivating scent of Marlboro and Wild Turkey, he stood there jawing with another member of God’s forsaken.  He was loud.  He was smelly.  He was a dick.  His voice boomed throughout the room, obscuring the voices of the clerks.  Number 85 rolled around.  This was it!  I’m three numbers away from ending this bullshit.  85 was no where to be found.  Neither was 86.  Well, wife beater douche thought it was hilarious that the clerks were skipping numbers.  So, in the classiest of styles, he started shouting out the next numbers.  For no fucking reason.  He was so loud and obnoxious, he drowned out numbers being called by the clerks and proceeded to yell out, “87, 88, 89!”  The problem was that either the clerks weren’t paying attention or they we confused by this tool bag.  Whatever it was, those assholes picked up where he left off and started from 90.  Wait?  What the hell!?  They skipped my fucking number completely!

I was “Coach Buzzcut” pissed!

To this day, I’m surprised I didn’t completely lose my shit.  I went to the chick handing out the forms and told her what happened.  The security guard reassured me and said he would take care of it.  Why the security guard was involved in the first place, I don’t know.  He was the only employee there that actually gave a shit.  The man actually handed water out to people earlier.  Somehow, the state hadn’t crushed his soul.

So, there I was, waiting.  Again.  At least I knew I was next.  There was an opening at the counter and the guard waved me to it.  OK, great.  Finally, someone was helpful.  he told me to sit tight and the clerk would be right there.  Oh she was right there, alright.  Right there and bitchy.

The shirt is dead on, but the clerk looked nothing like this. It would have made the wait a little more worth it.

With the eye of Satan and the attitude of a state worker on crack, she asked me what I was doing there.  I told her my sob story about being skipped.  Oh no, that wasn’t good enough.  She couldn’t believe that such a thing happened.  I must not have been paying attention.  I’m the asshole.  Who said I could sit in front of her desk, anyway?  She has important papers there.  I could have rooted through them and stolen social security numbers.  This shit was really happening?

Trying to be the good guy, I explained myself for a fourth time.  I told her the guard sat me here and told me to stay.  Oh, that unleashed a shit storm of cataclysmic proportions.  She then launched into this tirade about how the guard isn’t in charge.  He doesn’t call the shots.  Who does he think he is?  Why would I do what he said?  This turbo-bitch was on a Sherman’s March to the Sea type roll.

And I had “Atlanta” written all over me.

To show me who was REALLY in charge, she called the guard over and gave him a load of demeaning shit.  This took five minutes.  Five pain filled minutes.  For a person who goes all out not to be noticed, this was hell for me.  This shit was drawing attention.  After the spirited debate [read:  pissing contest], the security guard won a hollow victory.  I say hollow, because she was mumbling about putting him in his place.  Being that I was involved in the guard’s insubordination, I quickly became the focal point of her wet pants pissiness.

I waited in line (more or less) for seven hours, braved harsh odors, and sweaty numbnuts just to be cock blocked at the very end.  The only way I can describe this is by using the phrase, “paperwork rape.”  Don’t bitch that I’m making light of actual rape.  It’s the only term that comes close to doing justice to the sorry experience this colon puncher put me through.  She violently threw form after form at me while snarling, “Sign this!’  There was nothing I could do.  I was guilty by association.  All that time invested for five minutes of a Doctor Mengele– style review.

Yeah, rape, wife beaters, and Holocaust references all in the same article. I feel dirty, too.

I felt like the lone survivor of an A-Bomb attack.  I staggered to exit with a mix of Irish car bomb rage and car accident victim.  I had to go to, yet, ANOTHER office to wait in line.  This branch of the department of labor is responsible for making sure I am properly oriented to my jobless situation.  Properly oriented?  Assholes, I’m already in the program and have been sitting with my unemployed thumb up my ass for MONTHS.  None of this shit was new.  Alas, I had to go through the motions just to go through the motions.  I was ordered to create an account on the state’s job site, even though I already had one open.  That one didn’t count.  I had to open another one, because those were the rules.  I wasted my time and tax payer money to re-do everything I did eons ago.  WTF?

As if to make sure the sting from the state’s ball tagging was felt long after I left, there was a mandatory orientation to sit though.  Why in the hell were they putting me through a “welcome to unemployment” presentation so far after the fact?  I asked, but the only answers I got sounded a lot like the responses at the Nuremberg Trials.

Just unquestionably follow orders. What’s the worst that can happen?

We filed in the small room with no light and a running PowerPoint presentation.  Alright, it’s always possible that there is something to learn.  Maybe, I’ll be able to get some useful information.  I’ve had the luck of a one-armed paper hanger in the job market.  Perhaps, there is a nugget of information waiting to be mined.

It was 15 minutes of a job hunter special ed class.  Ten of those bile filled minutes were spent on explaining the technological innovation that is the computer.  I’m dead serious.  Most of the presentation revolved around basic computer skills.  It was designed for people who have never graduated to audio CDs, let alone realized that punch cards were phased out.

TECHNOLOGY!

This is what our tax dollars are paying for; hours of wasted time, useless resources, and state employee blood feuds.  As I said, I believe the majority of unemployment is going to the career-fuckedified.  These people don’t want to be on it, they were shit canned due to no fault of their own, and have the sad privilege of being a statistic for pro and anti government spending advocates.  Sure, I was up to my eyeballs in the vo-tech class at every high school.  I was also in the mix with former high ranking execs that were bounced out of their companies after 20 years of service.  Despite all our difference- wife beaters, misspelled tattoos, the smell of homemade alcohol- we all shared one thing.  We are are being boned by the recession/not a recession/kind of a recession/recession- rebound/ boarder line 1930’s depression.   It’s awesome being used as a data point in a debate!  Rest assured this whole thing is going to be written about and philosophized to death in future history books.

Not that our kids are going to be able to attend college to read them.  I’ll still be paying off my ridiculous student loans ten years after they put me in the ground.  I seriously questioned the quality of my education and its expense when my alma mater decided it was better to pass a clusterfuck tragedy of a student, because they didn’t want to deal with him anymore.

No, really, he was fucking awful with a generous portion of “don’t leave your children alone with him” creepy.

Halloween Pumpkin Carving: Gateway to Mass Murder

By Roode

Kids love Halloween. It’s the one time of year they can get free candy that doesn’t involve creepy old men in bathrobes. Adults love it, because it’s the one time of they year that dressing up like Tyra Banks isn’t exclusively for drag queens.

Remember when Jamie Fox was funny? Of course you don’t.
§

I don’t dress up. I don’t trick or treat. I don’t have kids so I’m not forced to pretend I give a shit. This may surprise some of you, but I’m not a happy go lucky holiday celebrating person. I wouldn’t put up that fucking Christmas tree if I didn’t get a guilt trip from the wife each and every “have to buy new strings of lights because the ones from last Christmas never fucking work” year. I suggested we just forgo the tree one year. It was like I proposed we put on cleats and go kitten stomping.

My bags are always packed for the latest guilt trip provided by The Wife Travel Agency.
§

Last weekend I hung out with Ren. I was bored and sober. I knew that belligerent Irish drunk had booze. I had wifey in tow for a low key Saturday evening. Adel was out of town making plans for her wedding (that’s right kids- more on that another time) and who the hell knows what Tresckow was doing. Maybe storming Poland?

Tank rental is surprising affordable.
§

I was quite happy to sit there, watch TV, and suck down Guinness. The hens were yapping in another room and Commando was on TV. Awesome! Beer, violence, and HDTV. I defy you to come up with a better combination. Defy you, I say!

Somewhere around the part when Schwarzenegger is slaughtering the island army lead by Nick Tortelli Ren had the most horrible idea since CNN’s coverage of the Michael Jackson funeral. “Hey! Let’s make Jack O’Lanterns.” Bitch.
Sure, I protested. You married guys out there know resistance is futile. Over the years my “Fuck it! Whatever!” switch developed a hair trigger. I learned about three years into married bliss that it’s the path of least resistance that gets you laid. So, when someone has a fucktarded idea like this and the wife is into it, fuck it. I’m as powerless as Valtrex is on TilaTequila.

This fucker is pretty much always set to “on.”
§
I knew I was in for a rocket ship to a ball taggingly painful night when it took the girls 30 minutes to find the right pumpkins. It was the like the Goldilocks of pumpkin searching. This one is too small. This one has too many bumps. This one has a funny looking stem… damn it! At this point I didn’t give a shit if the son-of-a-bitch was oozing blood while demonic voices chanted an ode to Satan. Why the fuck can’t women find ANYTHING in under half an hour? Holy yeti piss, the fucker’s going to end up a rotting corpse on the stoop anyway.

Pictured: Good investment.
§

After buying four medium sized pumpkins (four, because the odds of fucking up are excellent when you’ve been drinking since 3) we carted the orange bastards back to the house. First off, let me say it’s completely fucking ridiculous the amount of goddamn work you have to put in just to cut the top off. Then, there’s a shitload of stringy, gag reflex slapping innards that have to be scooped out. This shit looks, feels, and acts wrong. Not only does it feel like goopy, stringy shit from a camel with diarrhea, it’s nye impossible to keep it in one place. If you’re lucky, it just falls on the floor like so much spaghetti of the damned. If you’re not so lucky, it can find its way into your pants. Don’t fucking give me that look. It happens.

Look at this putrid, stringy mess and tell me you don’t want to blow chunks.
§

It’s not over yet. Oh no, there’s more labor intensive bullshit waiting to play ping pong with your dangly parts. Now you have to scrape the meat of the friggin thing. There’s nothing remotely appealing about that phrase. Scrape the meat? That conjures up all sorts of fucked up Donner Partyimages.

Delish.
§

Hold on! Before you start scraping chunks of pumpkin meat, you need to know two things; 1) No kitchen utensil in the known world is built for this and 2) if you take too much out the whole fucking thing will collapse. Who knew this was a science?

I don’t know, Bill. Maybe there is no cure for Jack O’Lantern carving rage.
§

Of course, my wife is a friggin genius with this shit. She’s the artsy crafty one. I’m the one that gets pissed off and dynamites random things in nature. Ren, the dumbass that came up with the idea, redefined suck. She bought one of those stencils that is supposed to help you carve designs. That fucker was too complicated for a drunken Mick. It didn’t end well.

After giving up on ever stenciling this thing right, she decided to carve the fucker with a hammer.
§

Well, that gourd was out of commission. Mine, on the other hand, was still in the race. Sure, it frustrated me a little…

The fucker had it coming.
§

This sucks! Who started this butt fucking tradition anyway? Liquored up, pissed off people shouldn’t be asked to hack the almighty shit out of produce. That’s how Bundy got started.

Bundy.
§

After another (4) beer, I went back to the taunting, round poop stain. OK, I just stabbed it a few times. It’s fixable. I’ll just get to work cutting out the nose and smile. This shit has to be getting me brownie points with the wife, right? RIGHT? Besides, I know I can do better than Ren’s second attempt.

I’ve never seen a Jack O’Lantern with Downs Syndrome before.
§

I decided, then and there, that I would not be defeated by a piece of fruit… or vegetable… whatever. With each slip of the knife and fucked up tooth, I started to fantasize about setting fire to all its smug ass brethren. All of a sudden I understood punkin chunkin. Its not a bunch of drooling momma’s boys who smell like a mix of body odor and Red Bull (not exclusively, anyway). It was mankind’s way of getting back at those sack lickers.

This may have cost more money and time than any sane person would invest,
but, it must be therapeutic to see that mother launched into the air and disintegrate on impact.
§

When the dust settled, there were three Jack O’Lanterns. Mine looked like it was married to Ike Turner. Ren’s did an amazing Sling Bladeimpersonation. My wife’s… that’s not important. Shut up!

One of these days she’s going to fuck SOMETHING up and I’ll be there to see it.
§

If the night wasn’t rage inducing enough, this Jack O’Cock Knocker saved the best for last. As soon as I picked it up to carry outside the asshole started to cave in. Remember that whole don’t scrape too much of the meat off thing? Well, guess what? I didn’t fucking pay attention to that at all. The face started collapsing faster than Michael Jackson’s cosmetic surgery (yes, two MJ references in one article. I’m not proud).

Stick a candle in his skull and it’s the spitting image of my imploding Jack O’Lantern.
§

It was over. The damn thing didn’t even stay together long enough for me to make it out the door. I snapped. To quote a great philosopher, “That’s all I can stands and I can’t stands no more!”

Wise beyond his years.
§

I bellowed “Fuck you gourd!” OK, so it was a bit loud and I’m pretty sure someone called the cops, but I didn’t give a shit. This sadistic orange fuck has toyed with me for too long! I let it drop to the ground and I nailed the mocking tea bagger in the mouth. That’s right, pumpkins everywhere can eat me. It’s on now. Every assclown pumpkin I find will die. I hereby declare my plan for pumpkin cleansing! Pumpkins, watch your backs (wherever the fuck your “backs” are). It’s war now!

He was, but the first to fall!
Sincerely,
Roode

A Half Assed Alcoholic’s Guide to Invading Canada

by, Ren-

You know where Canada is, right? It’s that giant wasteland north of Montana where they try to pass curling off as a sport and ham as some sort of exotic bacon. Yeah, that maple leaf flag place with pictures of the Queen on their money. It also happens to be where Roode is from. Yuppers, Roode is Canuckian. We all knew there was something wrong with him. I mean other than the whole rage-a-holic who sneaks into the women’s bathroom categorizing cartoon women he would lay watercolor pipe to thing.

The janitorial version of hockey, I guess. Next, the sawdust on puke competition.


Before some pug nuts accuses me of being anti-Canada and writing hate speech, let me set everyone straight. I like Canada. I’ve visited often. Some of my best friends hail from the Great White North. In fact, I love how some of Canada’s citizens celebrate their patriotism.


I’m an alcohol enthusiast. I dare say I can give Tresckow a run for his money; which is to say drink his Eliza Dushku obsessed ass under the table. Sure, he drinks a bottle of bourbon while watching Hell’s Kitchen. That’s kid stuff. My people refer to whiskey as “water.” You got it, my family is right off the potato boat. My Irish ancestors invented the bar fight, alcohol poisoning, and booze fueled domestic abuse. In short, Momma can drink like a champ. So, why not exercise my drinking muscles once in a while? Hey, I drink responsibly. I always cut myself off when I lose consciousness.

No, this isn’t me. I don’t drink shitty beer and I’m a fuckload cuter.

Not too long ago, my merry little band decided to go bar hopping. It’s the tried and true tradition of crashing a bar, drinking to the point of arguing with one of the bar stools, then moving on to the next pub before the cops arrive. It’s never a good idea to wing your itinerary. To hedge your bets, you really should plot out your drunken flight path with Google maps. It just helps avoid the inevitable geographical catastrophe. What about your cell phone’s GPS? Forget it. You can barely dial drunk, let alone use any application that requires more than just yelling at the phone.

And this is just using the key word “bars.”

Fridays bring out the worst in drunks. Especially if that drunk is a booze swilling, obscenity spouting, potato farming Mick. Hey, I can say that shit. I’m Irish. Not just Irish, but NORTHERN Irish. It’s not a racial slur if you’re talking about your own people. Your own smashed, whiskey gulping, fighting mad drunk people. Éirinn go Brách! Póg mo thóin!

We’re not exactly in the cradle of civilization over here. It’s an arctic tundra during the fall, winter, and spring and a sadistic Easy Bake Oven in the summer. As with most of this part of the country, civilization is completely spread out. If what you want isn’t in the town you’re in, you’re pretty much shit out of luck. You’re going to have to sit there and live without a Snuggie. If you can call that living. Or, you can suck it up and drive the two hours to the next town with a fully operational Bed Bath and Beyond.

Yes, I know this is just a backwards, terry cloth version of a Jedi’s robe
and it just might be the most ridiculous “As Seen On TV” product known to man.
Don’t ask a girl to explain. I just fucking want one!

A good, hardcore pub crawl in this area is only for the dedicated. I can completely use up all the bars worth going to in one city with ease. It’ll take your professional bar hopper no time to vanquish the worthwhile watering holes. Where do you go from there? You take your wasted show on the road. That’s precisely what we did.

Take that shit on the road!

Someone had the brilliant idea to just “head north.” Why not? Like I said, everything in this God forsaken state is a hundred miles away from everything else. Bars (the acceptable ones, anyway) tend to cluster in decent sized towns and cities. I’ve learned to keep the fuck out of back road shit holes with a flickering sign that simply reads “BAR.” I’m way too girlie, have too many teeth, and 200 pounds too light for syphilis rampant road houses.

.
Sorry, dude. Still no deal.

The only one of us not investing in a future case of Sclerosis of the Liver was the designated driver. That poor son-of-a-bitch had to drive our belligerent alcohol soaked asses from bar to bar. Before you start feeling too sorry for him, take this into consideration: 1) He’s one of those Canadian people, 2) he got to watch a couple of the girls play a drunken game of “make out and giggle,” and 3) I’m pretty sure I let him cop a feel a few times. That last part is a little hazy.

Bar by bar we worked our way North, hitting a string of towns and the only “city” in that area, Great Falls. Being nice and liquored up, it was decided that the trek North shall continue! Hey, our DD knows a pretty awesome bar a little further North. We totally should go! Fuck yeah! NORTH! BAR! GO!

Point that arrow thingy to N and move out!

This is when it all gets a little muddy. I remember a strip club that had some pretty rock’n wings. I want to say one of the girls ended up dry humping the stripper pole on stage (Jesus, I hope it wasn’t me). Someone brought a monkey, because the monkey knocked over the drink cart. What I clearly remember is our DD getting obliterated on shots of grain and Captain Morgan. Alright, whatever. So we’ll have to find a place to crash and sleep it off. After kindly turning down an offer for shelter from a nice man in a trench coat and sunglasses, we all decided to get a hotel room, collapse, and each engage in our own, personal vomiting ritual.

Post a sign all you want, society. I’m still going to do the Technicolor yawn in your bushes.
 

As pleasant as it may be to pack 5 people who smell like stale alcohol, vomit, and vanilla cupcakes (that one has me baffled), the first thing you want to do when you rejoin the world of the living is get the holy fuck out of that room and get some fresh air. Okay, I did take a few quick seconds to take a couple cell pics of the rest of my party in strange, passed out positions. What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t?Having no recollection of where we were, what hotel we were in, or why my underwear was now blue instead of green (I could have sworn I put on green undies before this whole thing began), I stumbled out of the building. Thank God. Finally, somewhere that doesn’t smell like a bus station in Belfast. Sun? WTF? Oh yea, I have a hangover. I scanned the area looking for someplace to get a few dozen cups of black coffee and more whiskey (hair of the dog and all). My poor eyes were just slits. They hated the sun too.

The sun is such a dick when you have a soul crushing hangover.

I started walking around looking for a combination Starbucks-liquor store. Hey. There sure are a lot of cars with Canadian license plates. Damn Canucks, always coming to this state, eating our food, breathing our air… Damn, Alberta? Most of the tags were from Alberta. What, is there some sort of Albertan invasion of Montana? Dude, take it.

I noticed something else that seemed strange to me. The speed limits in this town are absurdly high.

Holy vehicular homicide, Batman!

Oh, wait. The sign continues. Hmm, there is more writing under the numbers. Shit, I hate lowering my head. My eyeballs hurt. My neck hurts. If it was important it would be in my line of sight. Holding my chin with my hand, I slowly lower my entire head, using the least amount of neck power possible. I have no doubt that I looked like a little blonde mental case. This shit better be worth it.


KM/H? Canadian car tags? Alberta? The smell of cooked ham on pizza? Did I hear someone say “Aboot?” Aboot? Eh? Alright, let me do the math. Ugh, my head. No. Concentrate. Whose thong is this in my pocket? STOP! THINK. KM/H. Canadian tags. “Aboot.” This all sounds familiar. God, I want a slice of pizza. Maybe one with Canadian bac….. FUCK! It can’t be! How the shit did this happen.

I thought the US flag looked strange. It’s all maple leafy…

We went North, alright. The damn hoser DD did know of a kick ass place to party. He just left out the part about crossing international borders. Canada? The four of us from a country that’s had a flag for more than 50 years were a might concerned. Not so much about Canada; I mean who’s concerned about Canada? It was more about re-entering the United States and dealing with border security, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the fun time guys in Homeland Security. Did I mention none of us had our passports? I should have mentioned that none of us had our passports. Who the fuck takes their passport along when going on a bar crawl? Apparently, I should have. Come on. We managed to get into Canada without papers. Five sloppy drunks drove over the border without so much of a “Hey there,hi there, ho there, Eh.” How hard will it be to slip back over?

shit.

Canada is the roach motel of North American countries. I’m not comparing the nation to a poisonous roach infested trap, so don’t get your panties in a bunch, Canada. It’s more like Americans can enter, but they can’t leave sort of thing. Obviously, no one gives a flying fuck who enters Canada. But, when you want to turn around and drive the other way, there’s a problem. You see, the US is all bent out of shape about terrorism and terrorists sneaking past the border from Canada and doing harm unto us. Hey, that’s a legitimate concern. The problem is that its nyeim-fucking-possible to secure a 3,142 mile long border. In the good old days, if you lived close enough, you could pop into Canada and back, no questions asked. Today, fuck you! You’re a terrorist until we can prove otherwise. I sure as shit fit the profile being 5′ 1″ 100 pounds, pale, and blonde. I’m part of the little known Al Qaeda cell made up completely of angry Mick leftovers from the PIRA (IRA to you slaves of movie pop culture).

But, when the Irish found out that whiskey and Guinness were forbidden by religious law, they promptly gave everyone the finger and went to the nearest pub.

After the last of us came to, we decided to make a break for it. Our Canadian DD couldn’t remember exactly how we came in. It seemed like every secondary road was blocked from the Alberta side. Awesome! They’re just waving people through! We might just pull this off!

Fuck.

Before I knew it, a couple of officers from the Royal Canadian Mounted Police knocked on our window. Our ship was sunk. We were caught. Maybe it was because the car reeked of vomit and Irish Car Bombs. Maybe it was because I said the phrase “Irish Car Bombs.” Whatever it was, the Horsemen nabbed us and impounded the car. Why? Fucking racial profiling, man!

Once again, four out of the five of our little posse came from the States. Out of that four, exactly ZERO could offer any sort of paper work to the RCMP, let alone US border patrol. Our state drivers licenses were useless. My attempt to seduce my way out of Canadian custody fell flat. Great. Now I have self-esteem issues to boot. Fucking Mounties.

For the record, we were “detained” not arrested. There’s a mile of difference. Being arrested involves jail and a cavity search. Being detained entails a lot of retarded questioning, bad coffee, and constantly reaffirming that when you said “Irish Car Bomb” you meant the damn drink.

Don’t you Sasquatches mix drinks?

It was a chicken and the egg routine. In order to get past the border, we needed our passports. In order to get our passports, we needed to get past the border. Our options were:

  1. Have someone mail them to us while we wait in Calgary, in custody.
  2. Get shipped to the US Embassy in Ottawa.
  3. Have someone drive to the border checkpoint and bring them to us.
  4. Undertake a Steve McQueen type “Great Escape.”

We didn’t have enough shovels or Charles Bronson to complete number 4. Number 1 and 2 would just take us deeper into Canada; the OPPOSITE direction we needed to go. Not to mention staying longer than humanly possible. Number 3 seemed the most possible. I knew precisely who to recruit. My big brother! That’s it! He lives where this whole carnival of dipshittery began. That was only a mere… 1… 2… 4… 6 hours away! That’s practically down the road.

After some convincing, pleading, and threatening to tell everyone that he secretly watches iCarly when no one’s around (oops), he reluctantly agreed. It took him over an hour to locate and secure all four of the needed passports. A friend of his tagged along for the ride to watch the hilarity ensue. Joke’s on that asshole. He doesn’t have a passport, so the border patrol made him wait on the US side while my brother drove through. HA!

I was free! Even though, I’m damn sure I was entered in some sort of Albertian-Canadian-Canuckian watch list.

I’m sorry, Ms. Ren. You seem to be a person of interest…

I suppose I should be grateful that it was the RCMP that kicked up a fuss and not Homeland Security. I’m not sure I could take a stint in Gitmo. I guess I should be grateful that my brother made a 12 hour round trip to bail his little sister out of an international bind. But, dude, some of those strippers at the club were HOT!