I‘m not sure where this one is headed, but it doesn’t sound very encouraging. I was watching one of these detective shows the other night in which a family of four was murdered execution style. And after the detectives followed their leads, they arrested a group of teens being misled by a girl who started mutilating (cutting) herself, then became a Goth, then became a Wiccan and ended up as a full-blown worshipper of the devil. Cute kid.
Then we came to learn that my niece, a former cutter, who also dresses as a Goth, has now gotten into this Wiccan thing in the hope of resurrecting her dead grandfather from the grave. Yikes! Still a teenager, she has had her scrapes with the law, and also did a stint in some sort of juvenile facility. Wearing shackles to grandpop’s funeral was real nice touch.
In her defense, she was treated to year’s worth of physical, mental and sexual abuse at the hand’s of her immediate family, with a goodly dose of poverty thrown in. Basically, she was screwed over by the people she was entrusted to. And from what I’ve seen, she is probably beyond help because she sees no need for any help or intervention. It’s horrible to watch from afar, but it is long out of my hands. I tried.
Anyway, I have no idea where she’s headed, but I hope I won’t see her doing a “perp walk” on WNEP anytime soon.
So, my question is: When your kid starts crossing certain disturbing thresholds, are they still only “expressing themselves?” Or are they headed in the completely wrong direction?
When the political get-together at the Ramada was winding down the other day, I asked someone to take a picture of Tom Leighton and myself together because, as I told the guy holding my camera, “This will piss off at least one of my anonymous detractors.”
Sure as sh*t, it worked like a charm. I knew it! I frickin’ called it! The long-dormant blogger who inanely blogs about my blog (very effeminate, I know) roared back to life with a fresh new batch of it’s predictably myopic twaddle. The anonymous would-be assassin is back to tell you that I wholeheartedly support Tom Leighton. Hey, you figure it out. You don’t need a license to fu>k up your kids, so why should we expect any better on the internet? They’ll let any mental incontinent on this Web thing. There ought to be a law about talking sh*t while cowardly clinging to complete anonymity. But, alas, being effeminate is not illegal.
Yeah, so I support Tom Leighton. That’s not exactly breaking news, but our anonymous dingle-berry stubbornly hanging from the internet’s hairy ass belabors this point mistakenly believing it to be of any interest to anyone of note. Yawn.
Like diminutively proportioned marionettes hanging from my strings, I pull the strings and they flap around like grossly obese women wearing string bikinis during a footrace to the chow trough. And I must tell you, when those so totally estranged from the clutches of reality are consumed by their hate for you, you must to be doing something right.
Breaking news: I support Tom Leighton. (?)
I knew it. I called it. It’s too easy. Like a helpless kitten stuffed into my hamster ball, I fu>ked with you. I pushed your one and only button. Jeez, will you Reilly and O’Donnell supporters ever get over it?
They flush dingle-berries, don’t they?
How are we supposed to pronounce Wilkes-Barre? How was that again?
I was reading about how this local guy needs an arm transplant, or perhaps a bionic arm or something, when I came across the following story from the San Francisco Chronicle.
|Traveling across the United States has, among other things, gently taught me that the residents of Wilkes-Barre, Pa., pronounce their town's name WILKS-bree, not Wilks-BAR; that the good citizens of Vermont call their capital MontPEELyer, not MontepeLEER; and that the lovely town in Southern California is called LaHOYA even though it's spelled La Jolla. These are nuggets of everyday wisdom that book learning can seldom impart but that being on the spot can teach one in a hurry.|
Hey now! This is the area that says Acme with all of three syllables, right? Ac-a-me?
Back in my restaurant days, we had a complete breakdown of our soda dispensing system that was beyond the help of the local Coke distributor‘s repair guy. And for the first time ever, I was told I had to call some 1-800-COKE line to get any kind of satisfaction? Heh? 1-800-WHAT?
So, I dialed the number and got through to some corporate office of some sort down in Atlanta. And the lady on the other end of the phone had such a thick southern drawl, it was almost impossible to understand what the hell she was saying. When we finally got to the point when she had authorized a work order, she needed a name and an address. And she requested that I spell Wilkes-Barre for her, as she had never heard of such a place. So, I spelled it out for her, and she shot back with, “Is that Wilkie‘s Bar?”
I thought to myself: Wilkie’s Bar? No, it’s not a saloon, it’s Wilkes-Barre!
I told her that was the correct way to pronounce it and she told me to have a nice day.
As always, whatever.
Sounds like a plan, but the logistics of such an historic gathering might take a while to work out. Kayak Dude grew up in the Heights, but these days he lives many moons from the old neighborhood. Now, if the beer was free…
Caffeine Free Diet Pepsi? Oh, man, I feel for you brother, I really feel for you. I’ve tasted more exciting crunchy water (ice cubes) than that sort of gunk. Although, diet soda intake keeps the instances of domestic disputes down. It does have it’s merits, I guess.
Keep that video handy.
Why pick on a defenseless elderly woman?
A winter storm watch with a projected 10-15 inches of snow on the way?
Cool. To hell with the milk and bread, bring it on!