Tuesday, October 18, 2011

We put the "dis" in "dysfunctional".

Doesn’t it just fucking torch your poopchute when you’re making that obligatory (funny how that word rhymes with “purgatory”) that obligatory yearly trip to visit the family or in-laws that you never see except for that one time a year, because, let’s be honest here, you fucking hate them and the only reasons you show up are 1- to let them know you are alive and not writing from a padded 6X9 cell, and, 2 - to show off how much better/worse/non-existent your kids are than theirs - even though yours aren't there, because mommy doesn't want the spawn hanging out with "those people", and you can't really blame her for that- and you show up and some jerkoff who is possibly the 4th or 5th idiot to have been all up in your stupid tramp ever-knocked-up sister has volunteered you as chef because “hey - din’t he usta flip burgers er sumtin’?” (nevermind your 13 years ass-breaking professional restaurant experience - you “usta" flip motherfucking BURGERS), and so now you find yourself sweating your balls off in the world’s hottest, smallest, most inconvenient fucking kitchen where the only power source is an extension cord attached to a tiny generator and all water has to be hand-pumped at a pump located half a mile away, and where every fucktard you are related to and their idiot mother - who also happens to be yours - fucking drunken conga line through it, making stupid shit demands like “Timmy doesn’t eat meat that used to have hair” or “Suzy only eats ORGANIC Twinkies” or “this beer tastes like piss” (you don’t even care to fucking tell him he’s drinking out of your piss bottle, because there’s no fucking toilet in this godforsaken hovel) and so now you’re fucking twitching like a spastic colon every time someone comes through the door, 2 seconds away from making it a Donner Party fiesta, so you chop/stab a fucking butchers knife into the floor in front of the door as an emergency doorstop - and the next assdick who tries to come through the door breaks his fucking nose slamming into it, giving you a brief glowing moment of happy - and turn back to the shitstorm of slop you are preparing, and, on tasting it, immediately sense there’s something missing, and you realize the missing ingredient is love, because you fucking HATE every last one of the smeg-dripping twat-waddles that you are cooking for and so you add a shit-ton of alcohol to everything, including yourself, and, miraculously, it fucking fixes the problem? Yeahhh…I’m so glad I don’t do THAT anymore.

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