Bad boys

What-ya gonna do? In order to properly start this sordid tale I feel it's best to go to its beginning - like the start to almost any story. It's around three in the afternoon on a Thursday when I arrive at a local liquor store. After carefully browsing the store's selection for the cheapest liquor I could find, Mr. Boston's Riva Vodka, I made my way to the counter to complete my purchase. Shortly afterward, I arrived home. I subsequently questioned my sister Colleen on whether or not she possessed any shot-glasses as my entire collection - which was quite substantial -  has apparently been lost. Alas, she informed me she did not. Being the resourceful individual I like to think I am however, I simply cleaned a scoop for an empty protein-powder jar to make-do. Apparently this make-shift shot glass was more resourceful than I intended. Taking several back-to-back shots while playing Tekken Tag Tournament 2 were my last memories of the afternoon.
Coming out of a blacked-out state is similar to emerging from underwater, in the dark, after diving in from a decent elevation. You remember diving and surfacing relatively clearly but the trek into dark territory, to deliberately reference Under Siege 2, is often mysterious. It's around ten o'clock on the same Thursday. I'm in the upstairs kitchen and I'm angry. Oh and I don't remember one minute of the entire last six-plus hours. Apparently my father's solution to an alcoholic's supposedly angry tirade is to pour out said alcoholic's entire bottle of liquor. Shortly before-hand my first memory after emerging from a blacked-out state was looking for and failing to find my half-gallon of vodka. Now I'm not implying that drinking more at this point in time was the right or even a good decision, I'm simply stating that taking a supposed addicts "supply" while said individual is already supposedly enraged seems like a recipe for disaster. In this 'case' I know it was. After scouring both floors for my lost vodka I decided it was time to take my 'investigation' to the next level: interrogation. I 'questioned' my sister and father regarding the location of my lost love. Shortly afterward my father revealed to me he had poured out the entire bottle. And off the cliff I go, predictably. It's probably pertinent to know that at this point in time I'm entirely convinced he is simply hiding my liquor. In my irrational reasoning I've convinced myself that if I just push him to his breaking point, he'll reveal its location despite the fact he's already made it quite clear where it's located. After around what I think to be twenty minutes of failing to 'break' him I retreated downstairs and made an important decision. It was time to start trying. I exited the backdoor of my home, jumped my backyard fence and got into my car. A few minutes later I arrived at the gas station and bought two 24oz Four Loko's, each of which contain 12% "straight alcohol." As I approached my driveway, which for the uninformed reader consists of a long plant-lined tunnel, I noticed several squad cars awaiting my arrival. Without missing a beat I drove right past them and my driveway toward the neighboring development of Birkdale. From a satellite view of my home on Google maps it's quite evident that the neighboring development is simply waiting to buy my entire property. Aside from the street and one side of the property I currently reside in, Birkdale surrounds me. They obviously have no qualms making their intentions quite clear as there are two streets whose marriage seems inevitable, which stop right at my property line on two sides. So picking the tale back-up I pulled into Birkdale and traveled down one of the streets lining my property. I parked my Tercel - from hell - at the very edge of one of the dead-ends near my lot's territory. With my two Four Loko's in-hand I jumped my property's barbed-wire fence and trekked into my thickly-wooded backyard. Convinced the police wouldn't hear me, saddled in their cozy cruisers, I quickly and probably somewhat noisily approached my home from the back. As I got closer I attempted to mask my approach using stealth... slick. I got close enough so that I could see what wasn't going on inside my house while keeping an eye on both police cars. Ultra-confident in the security of my current position, sitting in on the ground in the woods beside my house, I decided crack open one of my Four Loko's. After several minutes of sitting out in the dark drinking, I decided it was time to investigate the police's intentions. I called one of my family members inside, my sister, on my cellphone. For some reason, she picked up. Making sure not to communicate my location I asked her why the cops were parked outside. She informed me my father had called them to arrest me for "communicating threats" and that I should stay the night somewhere else. Great advice to a drunken man sitting in the woods although nonetheless advice I should have taken, in retrospect. Instead, I decided to wait-them out. A smart decision from an idiot sitting outside at night... out-wait people on-duty sitting inside heated vehicles.
Yet somehow... my strategy succeeded. Around forty minutes later the police cars left. Told. From a strategic standpoint, whenever you're the most confident you're generally the weakest. For me that point was approaching imminently. After attempting to get back inside my house I realized that all the doors were locked. Although I had a key to my front-door, I 'reasoned' unlocking the font door would alert my father to my presence; so I took a different approach. Then after kicking in my back-door I again decided to change strategies. After finishing my first Four Loko I walked upstairs... beaming with victory. I waisted little time allowing said 'victory' to go unnoticed. I approached my dad to ensure his awareness.
With a smile from cheek-to-cheek I quipped "nice try."
"Thanks." He quickly responded.
"How many times do I have to tell you that the police are all slow, dimwitted idiots?" I asked. "They can't catch me, they're all fat, slow, lazy fucks."
"Congratulations, you win," he replied.
Around this time, my glorious victory rant was cut short as I looked outside my window to see blue lights  blazing down my driveway. Slick. I headed toward my backdoor as rapidly as I could. Apparently it wasn't 'rapid' enough. As I exited there were immediately several flashlights on me along with voices instructing me not to move. Aforementioned voices then demanded I jump my back partially barbed-wire fence to slowly approach them. An interesting instruction but one I nonetheless complied with.
"What seems to be the problem officers?" I asked jovially as I walked closer.
I was immediately cut-off with the curt response of "don't talk." I was subsequently shoved against one of the officer's cars, searched and cuffed.
"What am I being charged with?" I asked.
I was met with the same response.
"I'd like to know what I'm being charged with," I persisted. To his lack of credit, the officer who detained me appeared to be somewhat of a newbie - or perhaps a savant playing his cards the smartest way he could by withholding any kind of information whatsoever. Apparently "communicating threats" is a relative term. For example, if I communicated any kind of threat in front of him I'd be charged with another crime (despite lack-of-evidence for the initial one). Shockingly the opposite did not apply as upon my insistence of asking my charges he proceeded to communicate probably a dozen or so threats toward me. One of which was related to the tightening of my handcuffs. The marks evident on my wrists afterward were clear indications they weren't very empty threats. After he had tightened my hand-cuffs and I continued to question the nature of my supposed crime he grew increasingly angry - as did I. After spending some time in his backseat to ponder my next move I came to yet another important conclusion. Once again, it was time to start trying.
There was a partition dividing the squad car's backseat into two sectors. I positioned myself as to use my head against the partition as leverage in conjunction with my feet pushing against the car's window to attempt to break the partition if he continued my silent treatment. Believe it or not, this was a decision he neither liked nor agreed with. Go figure that after having the cops called against you for communicating threats (not that any of them ever informed me of this charge at any point) communicating additional threats via body language isn't a great idea. I suppose hindsight is 20-20. Also go figure that he didn't notice anything I had just done despite the deliberate inordinate amount of noise I had just made in doing-so. My perceived power play not having been noticed by its target audience bothered me. My successive actions apparently made this clear.
I began pressing outward with my legs against the car's window, kicking it meanwhile. I'm not totally clear of what happened afterward as I suspect that you lose memory and consciousness after you're tazed (one of the threats that had been communicated to me earlier). Of course this also happens to be the case if you're really drunk. The fact that my entire body was sore the next day makes me somewhat unsure of the truth here. Regardless, the next thing I remember is pulling up to what I later learned was Mecklenburg County Jail-North (the recipient of the inaugural NC 2001-2002 “Large Jail of the Year” Award). Apparently I arrived several years late for the party.
After being "processed" for several hours, predictably without hearing any charges, I was sent to what appeared to be some type of jail counselor. I answered all of her psychobabble-related questions honestly, which was probably my first and only smart decision of the night, which was now the next-day. Afterward I was released into some type of prisoner containment room lined with cells on one side and phones on the other where you're allowed to make calls. Of course they were all pay-phones and all I had was $5 in paper-money. As a former NC "Large Jail of the Year" recipient it's surprising that it had no change machine. It wasn't surprising however, that after taking all my possessions I wouldn't have been able to use my aforementioned fortune anyhow. An interesting part of the mobile-phone revolution is that it's largely made pay-phones useless. To anyone who remembers 90's commercials it's evident this has also made collect-calls useless as cell-phones cannot receive collect calls, technically. I'll elaborate: by technically I mean cell-phones can, technically, receive a collect call - they just can't respond or hear who it is from. So what will happen is a person will receive a phone-call, then have no idea who it is or where it's from and be disconnected - but not until you can hear them pick-up and say hello, luckily. I wonder why that would be the case? I can't imagine who is benefiting from allowing that to happen while simultaneously using time which costs money. Anyhow... after failing to connect with anyone in my allotted time to make a call - between 3 and 5AM - the peak hours to connect a call (to Australia), I'm placed in one of the many cells lining the room and fitted with the traditional jail-bird attire. A trusty orange jump-suit which is surprisingly uncomfortable. Luckily, it made a terrible blanket in a room placed right under the vent-duct which was seemingly blasting air conditioning in March on an already cold night. Breaking character however, I was able to pass-out on the cold, hard floor for a much needed and frequently interrupted hour-and-a-half nap.
Unfortunately my stay at the former "Large Jail of the Year" was nearing an end. I was awoken by the sound of breakfast being served. Fortunately I was able to trade most of my breakfast to other inmates for their slices of white bread, which I devoured for their apparent entertainment and disbelief. After the breakfast festivities had concluded it was time for the chain-gang to start marching. I'm proud to state that I, along with another guy, were first in-line to get into the police van that would take us to jail central. Upon entering the locked and enclosed lack of space in the van, many of my van-mates began to complain about the temperature. Many felt it was too cold, which it was but were somehow shocked at how 'aggressive' the van's heating system was. Soon enough, however our journey to jail central came to an end. The van pulled into a highly secure facility in central Charlotte equipped to the teeth. After several more hours of 'processing' I was put into one of the jails many medical wards as that was apparently where I belonged. Although in retrospect this probably turned out to be a blessing in disguise, this decision dismayed me. I had high hopes of being put in some type of solitary confinement so I would have fewer friends to talk and listen to.
The medical wards are pretty much the opposite. They're large communal rooms with lots of cots, two bathroom stalls, several tables and even a flat-screen. They have large front windows that open up to the front guard station so that the guards can supposedly continually watch-over the enclosed individuals.
Immediately upon entering my designated chamber I was greeted by a seemingly more experienced inmate named Jack. Although it's not very difficult to describe his appearance, his character is even easier to describe assuming you've seen the movie The Shawshank Redemption. After several hours inside the ward to observe his behavior I'm convinced I'm being punked and he is Morgan Freeman made-up as a white guy. He is a born helper. As frequently as all of the other inmates turn to him with questions he doles out the sound advice of a veteran beforehand. One of the other inmates who was calling his mother later in the day during the phone-call grace period even asked him to come over to talk to her for him, which he of-course did. Gold. Anyhow, after being assigned a cot upon entering he instantly approaches me with his name and a hand-shake, instructing me to exchange cot-lining-pillows with the empty one next to mine because it's the 'comfortable kind.' Despite the fact I'm writing it, it goes without saying that he was utterly correct. Charming motherfucker! He proceeded to give me the "lay of the land," the "in's, the out's and the in-betweens." I proceeded to take nearly all of his advice like a love-sick teenage girl. He even alerted me up at every meal-time to make-sure I didn't miss it, despite the fact I was in cot #1, nearest to the door. I also continued to practice my bread-trade much to my ward-mates delight. They received the 'good' food while I received yeast-soaked flower and people-points, win-win. After I was able to manage a few hours of sleep Jack proceeded to query me about the nature of my detainment. I informed him of the situation: that legally, it was my first offense and told him what had happened. I had finally been informed of the charges slightly earlier after a meeting with a different jail-counselor individual, so I was also able to 'communicate' that aspect of my detainment to him. He proceeded to tell me that 10-days was the most you could get for a first-offense so minor and that I'd probably be out of jail today if it weren't Friday. I asked him why the day being Friday mattered and he told me that my arraignment would usually be next-day if I had been arrested earlier in the week. However, given that it wasn't, it would probably be pushed back over the weekend 'til Monday. Sweet. He also said that given the space issues in our facility that the judge would probably let me out after my arraignment given the 'weekend vacation' I had already served. He instructed me to go into the arraignment and after assessing the judge's response (assuming he hadn't already said to let-me-out) plead guilty to expedite the legal proceedings. His reasoning being if I had plead not guilty and claimed the authorities had no proof I would most likely be held captive until my court date: which predictably is 5/13. The 'beauty' of our legal system knows no bounds. A prisoner pleads guilty and gets out of jail more quickly than the same person who pleads not-guilty. Meanwhile any sensible person knows 'justice' is ultimately determined my money. Anyway I thank him for his advice, thought and candor. It's around this time where I come to the conclusion to change mind-sets given I haven't successfully gotten in-touch with anyone and have no realistic recourse. I decided to stop trying. Clearly I'm going to be there at least a couple of days. I made this decision around 3 o'clock just prior to when the phone-call grace period begins at 4:00PM.
After hearing the aforementioned phone call with Jack attending to a fellow cell-mate and his mother the phone is free. I again attempt to make several collect calls and subsequently fail every one. It seems my ironic talent for never forgetting has failed me yet again. Little did I know...
Apparently someone on the other end of one of said failed calls was doing some searching of his own. After receiving my call only to be disconnected, an individual with a seeming affinity for making big plays was concocting yet another. He reverse-traced my phone-call from the internet and discovered its origin. Upon realizing it was from jail he instinctively performed a quick mental analysis of suspects. Apparently my reputation proceeds me as I was either at or near the top of it. After an online search of recent detainees my name was discovered. He then made subsequent arrangements for me to be bailed out by another friend who came through in-the-clutch. Slick timing given that at the time I was watching March 'madness,' on the cell's flat-screen during the allotted TV-time for the night. At this point it's around 9:30. I'm watching some basketball game when I hear the guard calling my name and instructing me to "get my things." Still having little hope at this point-in-time I rise from my cot, put my jail-sandals on and collect 'my things.'
"Should I bring this box?" I ask referring to the bin we're handed upon checking into the ward.
"Yeah... bring it," he tells me. Against my best instincts I begin to have a glimmer of hope despite hearing from Jack earlier that it takes 7-hours or so to be bailed out anyhow. The cell door opens and I exit with my bedding and other supposed binned-belongings and follow the guard. He proceeded to lead me to the intermediate locked-down area between the ward and the long hallway where the other wards are located. My hope is somewhat quelled after sitting there for around 20 minutes. Government efficiency at work. Even when being released the psychology behind the process is designed to break you. After what seemed like an eternity I'm finally taken down two floors to a similar transition-type room outside of what I later found out to be one of the many infirmaries. I proceeded to sit in the pre-infirmary room for another annoyingly long period. Then did the same thing inside the infirmary once entering. After probably another hour-or-so I reached the ground floor of the jail and was put into a large mass-holding cell alone. Finally, after more than a day of wishing for it, my goal of solitary confinement was realized but my mind was racing too much to appreciate it. Typical.
Not a short time later I was transported back to the NC 2001-2002 “Large Jail of the Year," where I had initially been taken into custody. I was not surprised when the proceedings there took an inordinate amount of time. After being processed for the umpteenth time and subsequently being continually questioned about the processing details from the prior facility I was held in, my actual belongings were returned. My excitement is  curbed when I realize that it's close to midnight on a Friday and the prospect of finding a ride home isn't very great. Auspiciously, I also notice my cell-phone is completely dead after several attempts to turn it on. Apparently luck and I just don't play well with one another. A short while later I'm inevitably released into the jail's "arrest processing center." Ironically enough the same type of pay-phone which I had felt betrayed me earlier would serve as yet another life-line. A key point at this juncture is the fact I still have no idea who bailed me out. As I did not yet think that anyone aside from my father and sister knew about my incarceration, I thought the identity of my saviour had to be one of them. Soon thereafter I realized this wasn't the case. By chance, someone in the lobby happened to have change for a dollar as the officers behind the counter refused my plea for assistance. Once again all of my calls fell on deaf ears, except one.
Somehow my "last call" was received by a friend who was awake and aware but unable to drive in his current state. He was gracious in giving me the information on a calling card he had so I could make other calls though, along with assisting me several times in communicating with other friends who were apparently aware of my predicament.
He also informed me as to the true identity of my bailer and the aforementioned process which resulted in my release. As I did not currently have the fiscal ability to get myself home I initially attempted to catch a bus as there was a stop just outside of Jail-North. The bus driver did not provide much assistance, as despite my frantic gestures to entice him to stop or even slow-down were evidently of no use. Fortunately I was able to get back in-touch with my friend and again he provided me with a way out in calling me a cab. Fortuitously though, the cab never came.
Later, I overheard the conversation between two fellow detainees who had similar mobile-phone power issues. A Hispanic woman who had been released earlier mentioned that she was awaiting her boyfriend's release and that he might have a charger that fits a droid, which the other male detainee she was conversing with could use to charge his phone if she could use it too. Luckily for me, shortly thereafter said male detainee lost his temper with the perpetual lack of assistance from the officers working in the arrest processing center.
"You better pray I never see either of you on the fucking street god damnit!" He shouted at the officers behind the counter. "You better fucking pray! I'll put a bullet right between your fucking eyes." I laughed inwardly as this was ironically enough the exact same reason I was supposedly arrested to begin with despite the fact that it wasn't witnessed by any members of the law, a large room full of people or myself. After he proceeded to state he was walking home and stormed out without consequence my laughter was quickly replaced my unbridled rage before I quickly realized the incident could potentially provide me with a charged phone. I then used the situation as a segue into conversing with the Hispanic woman about potentially charging my phone which she agreed to assist me with if her boyfriend indeed had one.
A couple of hours later her boyfriend was released and by some insane stroke of luck did have in-fact have a droid charger which I was able to charge my phone with and subsequently use to contact the very same individual who I found out was largely in-part, responsible for my release and somehow still awake close to 5AM. Big play. After contacting said player I was ready to make arrangements for a cab ride home. As I walked out into the parking lot to see a taxi already waiting I was speechless. So was the Hispanic woman and her boyfriend as they walked outside right behind me asking to use my phone. 'Generously,' the driver was more than obliged to take all of us to our destinations in the same cab.
Sometime after 5:13AM I arrived back in Huntersville at a friend's residence where I proceeded to savor my freedom 'til the next morning when I realized the additional consequences of my...
Reality Check.

Life on the inside

Yeah... you've been had by C4 w/ yet another lame April Fools prank.
Worry not victims, as relief is coming tomorrow in perhaps my most massive post since Road Trip; the tale about my 20-hour trip from (tr)Asheville to Huntersville.
The title is the 'clue' as to what its content will entail.

Lost Reality Check #2 - Jury Duty

So one random day several of months ago, I'm sitting around participating in my usual routine (doing nothing) and my dad calls me about something. He seems pretty 'chipper' on the phone, which I initially found strange, so I question him as to the nature of his call. He was fairly happy to inform me that I, or one of us, was selected for jury duty, given we have the exact same name and the post office doesn't seem really care about discerning between people with the same name and the same address. I, of course, wasn't. For some reason he seemed to be under the impression I'd be happy about serving jury duty because I could make money by doing so; probably the thing he, along with most of white collar America, views as the most important thing in this world. "How do you know it isn't for you?" I asked. A fair question given we have the exact same name. "I just figured you'd want to go so you can, you know, make some money," he replied. "It pays $12 for the first day, which is hardly more than the gas money to get there and back, why would I want to make significantly less than minimum wage when I could be inside my own house sleeping?" He replied, "well, then I'm going to tell them (the courts) it was you regardless, so you better get ready to go unless you want to have a county sheriff throw you in jail." It is at this point in the conversation where I revealed the actual reason I didn't want to go to jury duty.
"I think I might have a bench warrant out for my arrest," I informed him. Over a year ago I was supposed to drive across the state to Raleigh for a second time because of a drinking ticket I had gotten over 2 years ago on the previous Halloween... by a douchebag cop. Apparently I had qualified for some kind of immunity program since my record was clean (not really) so all I had to do was attend a certain amount of documented AA meetings and present them back in court several months later and I would be scott-free. Needless to say, I did not attend or even attempt to attend one AA meeting. So I was clearly concerned about the fact that if I showed up in court I might have a bench warrant and arrested on the spot, even though it was from a different county. Especially since the last time I had appeared in court the exact same thing had happened to me; being arrested upon arrival. Chuck was definitely mad but that was the end of the discussion for the time being.
A few weeks later he had finally spent some time figuring out which one of us actually had to attend since I clearly wasn't going to do so and discovered it was, of course, me. I asked him if he'd be willing to bail me out of jail if I indeed had a bench warrant like I semi-suspected. "We'll see," was his answer.
The night before my duty was to be fulfilled I made sure I was supremely wasted to make sure I could pass out early enough to subsequently get enough sleep for enduring an entire day of jury duty. Not a bad idea, in retrospect. Not a good execution of said idea, in any respect. I ended up finally falling asleep around 2:30-3:00am, not optimal time for getting up at 6 to beat or should I say beast, the traffic.
It's before 8:00AM and I arrive at the parking garage near the courthouse. It's rainy, shitty and cold weather, so I actually had the heat turned on in my Tercel, from hell. Unfortunately for everyone else, this meant anyone driving near me or especially behind me got blasted with a shitload of exhaust fumes and limited visibility - which is only intensified being inside a parking deck. I get out and begin my journey across the street, to the courthouse and I'm the only person without an umbrella. What a bunch of faggots.
After walking inside, taking off my shoes, and asking a few security guards for directions I had finally arrived at my destination. The room where you wait to be 'called' for jury duty. It wasn't too bad honestly. But it still really sucked. After showing us these retarded videos about the American legal system, they started calling people about 15 minutes later. This was when my stomach started to churn. They always called the (randomly selected) names in alphabetical order. Then I heard someone named McGregor called. I laughed. About 10 minutes later another announcement came over the intercom. Once again, they started calling names. Unfortunately this time I was not so fortunate. This time McGovern was called. The only bright spot was that a girl whose name happened to be alphabetically closest to mine happened to be moderately attractive I guess... but that didn't last long. After taking us up several floors they realized they had taken about twice times as many jurors than they could possibly use. So around half of us had to return downstairs and I was separated from the aforementioned juror. Luckily, I was able to spend the next two-to-three hours in a room with the most entertaining program about civic duty that I've ever witnessed. I was legitimately impressed with the clear message from the instructional 'film' - set on repeat - at how intimately the government realized how fucking stupid the average person is. The delivery of this message I felt was almost stone-cold to anyone with an IQ above the bell curve. Despite this appreciation, the instructional film only made me incredibly angry - how surprising. As I sat in the utterly unstimulated room and began to read one of the books I had brought along in my backpack - which is never short of any unnecessary necessity, EVER - the voice over the loudspeaker began to list names once again. I listen intently dreading the sound of my own name, a statement I can rarely make. The woman finishes listing names and transitions into giving instruction. I'm utterly relieved and my heart-rate begins to slow - in an awesome way.
I begin to read once again. Just as I am able to ignore the voice over the loudspeaker, she besmirches me: Charles McGovern.
I accompany my fellow jurors to the appropriate room, whilst hearing them categorically denied by the D.A. Apparently she was looking for individuals whom had nothing against the city of Charlotte. Despite my soliloquy regarding Charlotte traffic, I was selected.
Luckily the judge gave me one more reprieve.
"Is there any reason you don't believe you'll be able to serve, Charles?"
Me: "Yes. I'm an alchohlic going through terrible withdrawals. I can hardly concentrate."
The judge and the female lawyer couldn't have been nicer when dismissing me. Perhaps that might not've been the 'case' if either of them 'witnessed' the massive grin on my face leaving the courtroom.
Lost - Reality Check

Fore, Fat Fucks

Several days ago I was partaking in one of my favorite outdoor activities for the first time in far too long. This activity being frolf - not to be confused with disc golf, its bastardized commercial whore of a cousin. Anyhow, this had been the first time my partner and I, who shall only be referred to as "Big Play," had played in some time. So despite the fact that we were both self-admittedly rusty, we were still enjoying ourselves... initially. Now I consider the both of us quite considerate when it comes to frolf etiquette. If a player or group behind us is constantly on our tail or waiting for us, we'll let them play through and just hang back for a moment to give said party its necessary space; accordingly we hope to have this same attitude "payed forward" toward us. Unfortunately - mostly for the other party involved - this was not the case on this given day.
We didn't get more than three holes in when a group of the most insidious nature started to "throw us off our game," pun intended. We were constantly being bombarded by the sounds of several fat, loud and annoying individuals. In all fairness one of them wasn't fat but he was equally obnoxious so I don't feel particularly bad lumping him in with the rest of the swine.
Just before we eclipsed the half-way point, hole 9, we'd noticed that the aforementioned group was constantly on our tails. It's worth noting that even Helen Keller couldn't have missed this group coming. I have no issue with people playing quickly - just getting up to the tee and chucking without a second thought. However that usually means you're either really slick or really terrible, oblivious and/or apathetic. Given the placement of the swine party's discs I noticed, terrible and oblivious are the superlatives that best apply. Big Play and I had talked about letting these guys play through just so we wouldn't have to hear their every stupid word with every terrible shot they took, however we both decided that in principle they didn't deserve any special treatment. Ironically enough, one of them would later receive some anyhow.
Around hole 13 one of them finally decided to halt his ongoing nuisance of a soliloquy to ask us if they could play through. The verbal exchange that proceeded probably didn't go as he had expected...
Annoying guy: "Hey, would y'all mind if we played through?"
I immediately shouted back a fairly curt "YES!"
"Yes we can play through?" the annoying faggot asked.
"No!" I shouted back. "Yes I mind if you play through you dumb fuck."
"What the heck man there's no need for that kind of language," he retorted.
Said idiot and his swine brigade began to talk amongst themselves, clearly trying to formulate some kind of plan of action. Big Play and I took the opposite route and continued to play in the most nonchalant manner we could muster whilst totally ignoring them. I notice the one non-fat guy emerge from the group and start walking toward us, near the end of the hole. We of course continued to ignore him, never once turning our backs to acknowledge his presence until he was within touching distance. My favorite part of his impending approach was that just as he had finally reached us I made a fairly bad-ass long range putt. The chains rattled as my disc hit the disc-catcher utterly perfect - in trajectory and timing - and interrupted his initial attempt to open his maw. Afterward I turned around like it hadn't been the best shot I'd made all day to face him.
"So what's your problem man?" asked the swine party representative.
"My problem is that you faggots have been loud and annoying the entire fucking time you've been here," I immediately replied.
"Wow man, who uses that kind of language, think about the integrity of the game," he said.
"I do." I instantly replied, with a smirk. It was already abundantly clear that my totally unnecessary normal level of rage had intimidated him.
"Well whatever man, I'm not trying to get the police involved out here," implying that he was going to fight me.
"You wouldn't have to worry about them anyway, you'd be dealing with people in a hospital. Would you like me to remove my sunglasses so you can see my eyes?" I asked him with great anticipation. I, of course, had found the perfect opportunity to rip off my sunglasses - a la The Rock, the Great One, The People's Champ, the Most Electrifying Man in Sports Entertainment - and then deliver one of my own favorite trademarks: the stare-down. Unfortunately, he indicated that I should leave my glasses on and my heart subsequently sank. However when he proceeded to turn around to walk back to his group without saying another god-damn motherfucking word, I cheered up a little - and then burst into laughter with Big Play, who had been playing it cool as the silent, distant enforcer lurking in the shadows several yards away throughout this entire exchange.
As we continued to play through the rest of the course, we never heard nor saw the swine party again. Imagining what this guy said when he went back to his group of friends after venturing out so boldly pleases me in a way that can only be described as a Chasexual climax. Reality Checkmate.

Son of Anarchy Online

Earlier today I happened to be driving on a fairly high-traffic boulevard at probably the worst time of the day. There is no getting out onto this road without some give-and-take, to quote a skilled Nascar orator. Essentially unless you're a huge pussy and/or you feel like being an inconsiderate asshole and holding up anyone who may be behind you indefinitely, you're going to pull out in front of someone. This isn't to say that you have to cut someone off but if someone behind you doesn't lay off the gas a little or show the least bit of courtesy and perspective, you're going to have someone on your ass. And since apparently the Southern population of the United States is largely comprised of god fucking awful drivers, you're always going to have someone on your back-bumper. On this day the individual who felt I had cut him off was a fat black man on a hog. The word hog describing his motorcycle as opposed to who he probably spends his private-time with. It's pretty common knowledge that if you drive a motorcycle you're automatically hard and a total bad ass. Somehow this logic applies universally despite the fact that I could kill him at will with my '91 Tercel - from Hell.
Clearly displeased he pulls up next to me and gives me a dirty look and waves his index finger, trying to tell me no, no, no you just don't do that to a biker. He is probably equally displeased at the fact that I'm wearing headphones, and those pseudo-clear douche-bag-esque sunglasses - but hey they're the ones I leave in my car for sunglass-less emergencies, so I wear them with pride - after I clean them off. Anyhow, I subsequently held a hand up and made a shrugging gesture toward him, trying to communicate that I couldn't care less, then drove away. As we approach the next red light, I notice he and a fellow biker bad-ass were sitting right behind me, clearly gesturing toward me and gossiping like a bunch of housewives desperate for Bojangles. So as I notice them looking at me through my rear-view mirror I begin to make nonsensical hand and arm gestures, attempting to indicate I am fully aware of their conversation and they can both go fuck themselves. To make sure my point wasn't lost on these two sons of appetite I concluded my performance by immediately stopping my frantic arm movements and giving both of them two very clear middle fingers. Apparently they got the message but weren't very happy about it. We're still sitting at the same red-light, so one of them pulls up beside my driver's side door. I had both windows up at the time and I briefly considered just leaving it up and acting like I couldn't hear what he was saying. However in the end I gave in to my temptation of a possible verbal sparring bout, in which I seem to have difficulty using self-restraint - and just frankly enjoy.
"Do you enjoy living?" the biker asks me. Little did he know how terrible of a target he had chosen for such a question. With my headphones still on, I replied "not particularly," half-way laughing in my delivery. The light had turned green by this point and cars were finally starting to move. He was clearly struggling with a reply to my light-hearted response so I simply quipped "See ya!" and drove off, never seeing the bikers again throughout the duration of my trip home and also feeling somewhat smug knowing that I had delivered some dimwitted bikers with a much needed... Reality Check.

Security Tard

So I figured since it's been about a year since I've blogged about anything (and I'm not counting the Reality Sec post which seemed like a great idea stoned but I immediately regretted publishing the next day and have since deleted) and my massive reader base has been hounding me to write something, I'd try and salvage the remainder of 2012. Additionally I'm thinking this might serve as a nice distraction while I countdown til the apocalypse. If that doesn't pan out at least this could help to get my momentum going for a more productive 2013 - which seems nearly impossible not to accomplish at this point. I'll begin with a recap of a temp. job I got through my sister, which as you might be able to guess, was working as a security guard around the week of the DNC - with other intelligent, dignified and overly qualified individuals.
After accepting the position my first task was to complete (although I'd say endure is more appropriate) a 4-hour training course of the basics. Upon being seated in the training room and having a quick glance around, the first thing I noticed was the fact that I probably weighed about half of what the next-closest classmate did. Not that I'm not used to being the most "concentrated" person in any given room at any given time, however this was a bit more excessive than usual. Our instructor was a middle-aged guy named Brent who seemed pretty down to earth and looked in pretty good shape for a guy his age, juxtaposed to my classmates. Right off the bat he won me over with his announcement that he doubted the training session would last 4-hours and we'd probably get out early. One of his first questions was to asking if anyone had any prior experience working security. A few of the other class-members did and raised their hands to indicate this was the case, with the exception of one guy who decided he'd rather enlighten us first-hand with a verbal account. To say he was overt in his attempt to impress both the instructor and the rest of the class would be an understatement. I was immediately perturbed. I also noticed that he had something that looked like a cross between poison ivy and herpes around his eyes. As strange as it is that I should be so quick to point out a fault of someone who rubbed me the wrong way, I attempt to regain my composure and remain calm and open minded. Unfortunately this was made difficult by the fact that he perceived any feedback by the instructor as encouragement to continue with these ad-lib accounts of his experience both as a security guard for another company, which supposedly worked in close conjunction with the police and a volunteer fireman. I honestly have nothing but respect for firemen, even volunteers; I do not share this sentiment with members of the police or their acolytes. As more and more time is wasted I quickly found these outbursts as legitimate reason to despise this fat fiend whose name was Adam. My hatred grows with every word this obvious cop-reject says. It also becomes increasingly obvious that not only were we not going to get out early but that we'd soon eclipse the 4-hour barrier because of Adam's stories. At this point I'm equally impressed with both the level of anger I'd achieved within and the fact that I'd managed to retain my outer composure. Finally, a little after 4-hours a cessation; the class ended. I took solace in the fact that I'd never have to deal with Adam again.
A few days later I received my schedule from my boss, Emma. I had instructed my sister to relay to her that I preferred to work long hours as to cut down on gas cost and travel time so I wasn't shocked to see I had several 12-hour shifts and I was actually glad when I noticed they were all in the same location. I was informed of my duties which would be working as concierge at a high rise uptown in-which many tenants had rented out their normal apartments for absurdly high prices to people coming into town for the DNC. I get to sit at a desk inside a nice building - awesome. My enthusiasm was immediately curbed when I discovered I'd be working in association with Adam - every single motherfucking god damn day. Not that this news was in the least bit surprising - I literally laughed when I was informed, much to her confusion. I was - and am - totally used to situations just like this one on a regular basis. Up until this point I had been under the impression I would be working solo. Solo guard-work was apparently the norm, just that this week, with the DNC in-town, things wouldn't be normal. I rationalized the scenario that I was essentially being paid to endure Adam's company for the week, as I reasoned working as concierge during late-night hours would be fairly uneventful. So I went into the situation with a surprisingly good attitude knowing that at any time if I felt annoyed I could fall back on the logic that I was being paid somehow for just being there. And after being given a tour of my nightly responsibilities for the week on my first day by a more experienced guard who had worked there before, I still felt my logic was intact. One of us was to remain at the lobby front desk at all times while the other could patrol various other parts of the building and keep an eye on the side entrance. We were supposed to check DNC-members in who had rented rooms through the appropriate channels along with building members who either lived there year-round or were already checked in had a key-FOB which opened the door electronically and alerted us with a beep. Anyone who did not have a FOB but wanted access to the premises had to be verified via a list we were given - which we later discovered was never up-to-date, predictably.
The first night on the job went relatively quietly, much to my pleasure. Among my first observations was that this wasn't the case for Adam. He obviously wanted something he deemed important to do - ironic given the nature of the security guard position. He also furthered his case as a cop-reject by continually going outside to try and converse with the plethora of police officers on the street, not that I was complaining. Adam talking to someone else meant he couldn't be talking to me and that I'd get to access the front desk computer. Also strengthening my resolve that he was indeed a wanna-be cop was the fact that every time I pulled up a browser he hadn't closed I'd find him looking at things like Tazers and handcuffs. Additionally he always had at least two radio-scanners going at all times (one would normally be on the police channel, the other his volunteer fire department despite the fact it was located over a county away and he was on a job he couldn't drive to or from), one of which he'd sometimes plug-in some ear-bud headphones to and run one wire up to one of his ears, under his security guard shirt, which fed out his neck as to mimic some kind of blue-tooth, douche-bag secret service look. Simultaneously both hilarious and pathetic. Another observation was that despite the fact that I was getting paid more-per-hour, unbeknownst to him, he clearly thought he was lead-dog in our security tag-team and would try to "take charge" of any and all situations. I had no problem with this scenario however, as whenever anything actually occurred which required our intervention I'd immediately defer and let him deal with it, while continuing to do absolutely nothing but occasionally surf the web or make rounds patrolling the building and delibarately taking an inordinate amount of time to do-so. To make the situation even better (for me), it was fairly evident members of the building were annoyed with him constantly harassing them in one way or another. I consistently parlayed this obvious sentiment into a good-guard, bad-guard scenario, in which I was - of course - always the good guard. Evidence my plan was working was the fact that on several occasions when we were separated I had members of the building spontaneously coming up to me thanking me for helping them with either him or some aforementioned situation they were both involved in. In a select few cases in-which the building members were approaching the both of us asking questions they would immediately defer a look to me, even while he was talking to them or when asking a question and/or awaiting a non-retarded answer. After such situations would occur, he'd consistently ask me if I had a minute to chat with him, then either wait til coast was clear of people or pull me into a back room. He'd then try to either advise me of what I did incorrectly in said situation or give me what he viewed as constructive criticism. "Now don't take this the wrong way..." Playing my part I would always nod or act like I cared about anything he had to say, only to do the exact same thing as before the next time an opportunity would present itself.
On the last day of our assigned concierge duty the tension came to a head in a way that pleased me more than I could have possibly imagined. There was a small group of protesters coming down the street toward the intersection our building was located on. To their credit, the police were more than ready for this despite the fact that it was pretty late at night. There were easily thrice the number of police officers as there were protesters and they lined the streets ushering the protesters in a specific pre-determined direction. When the small group of protesters grew nearer, Adam predictably jumped at the opportunity for some "action" and went outside to join his fellow officer faggots (meant in the general pejorative sense - of course). I was off "patrolling" at the time it approached but was called back to the lobby when Adam called my phone alerting me I was needed. I quickly returned and manned the front-desk PC. Just as the protesters reached our building Adam opened one of the front doors informing me he needed me outside. I reluctantly walked outside to join him. He immediately instructed me that the police had told him not to let any protesters walk past the inside of one of the massive pillars which surrounded our building and that I should stand guard there and not let anyone past. All the while we're surrounded more cops than I've ever seen anywhere, ever. So I did what I'd done all week and completely ignored him, letting the very first person who approached the inside of the pillar where I was located walk right past me. Not that it was our job to protect the outside of the building in the first place. The police immediately contained the person and blocked said pathway, instructing the protesters of the pre-determined path they had to follow. Adam was obviously embarrassed by my marked disobedience, especially in front of the police buddies of whom he so desperately wanted the approval. My apathy clearly demonstrated, I walked straight back inside to the front-desk to finish my Freecell game and man my post. A short while later when the protesters had all finally dissipated from our building's proximity, Adam came back inside looking like he had something to tell me - shocker. Once again he asked me if he could talk to me in one of the back rooms and once again I reluctantly followed him.
"Now don't take this the wrong way..." he begins (like he had every time, all week)
"No, you don't take this the wrong way..." I interrupt. "But I don't give a fuck about the police. I don't give a fuck about anything the police have to say and I honestly hope they all fucking die - which they will."
It's clear from Adam's reaction that he wasn't expecting this.
"Now don't take this the wrong way..." he repeats for the umpteenth time. "But I work with the police when I'm on fire duty and I take offense to that."
"I don't know what to tell you," I reply. "No offense to you or anything but most police are a bunch of pieces of shit. I can give you multiple examples right now of how they've literally fabricated evidence against me with no proof whatsoever. I have no respect for them, the law or our legal system. Firemen actually provide a needed service. What do police do? Have you ever honestly witnessed one of them stopping a crime that wasn't traffic related?"
Adam looks incredulous. It's as if I'd just told him there was no Santa.
"Now don't take this the wrong way..." he says AGAIN as I realize the gravity of his stupidity. "And I'm sorry for what's happened in the past but when an officer tells you to do something, you're supposed to listen."
I realize how hopeless the given situation is and almost feel sorry for him. Though as long as I perceive he has the ability to breed almost feeling sorry for him will have to suffice.
"No I don't," I retort in the most authoritative tone I can muster.
"Alright. Fine then," he replies in a manner that makes it clear the conversation is over and he's angry.
"Alright," I pop back in a chipper tone and turn march back to the front desk as he opens the side-exit of the building and steps out.
Instead of returning to the lobby I used the exit on the other side of the building, as I suspected he might do something rash and didn't want to draw attention to myself using the main entrance doors. I notice him on his cell-phone and then return to the lobby desk without being noticed. A short while later my boss, Emma, calls my phone. She asked me what happened and I break down my aforementioned side of the story, which also happened to be true. She informs me that he had called one of the other security guards to lodge a complaint against me via proxy. What a dumb fucking pussy, I think to myself. As if anyone wouldn't realize the source of the complaint given we were the only two guards at that building. I'm on the verge of breaking down every single thing he did wrong the entire week, including when on several nights he'd disappear for periods of over an hour, stretching to several hours a couple of times and I'd suspected he was in the fire control room sleeping (There's only one key to the fire control room which he'd always grab when he'd show up. Since I could use the PC and I didn't have to deal with him if he were in there sleeping, I didn't care - not that I could've or would've slept anyway.) but I keep my mouth shut and let her continue. Not only was she angry that he had bothered one of the other guards just to complain in a passive-aggressive way, she was furious at the actual content of the complaint. Furious at him. Security guards have no legal jurisdiction outside of their given area and would be subject to legal action, putting the company at risk. So the very nature of his complaint automatically put him in the wrong. Additionally he had apparently been making up stories about me complaining to her the entire week. Stories which were repudiated by a more experienced, trusted, non-temp. employee in my sister, as I'd talked to her a few nights that week and briefly explained to her how dumb and annoying this guy was. This repudiation was verified when I gave her the same account of every side of the story my sister told in my defense, almost verbatim. I'd noticed him staying behind to talk to her in the mornings when we were relieved. By then I was so desperate to get home that I couldn't have cared less what they were discussing. He was now the sum of a liar, a tattle-tale and an idiot utterly in the wrong, in addition to being a fat wanna-be cop retard with ocular herpes.
The car ride back to the security firm was gloriously quiet (she'd pick us up and drop us off along with the guards responsible for relieving us as many of the streets were blockaded to civilian traffic). Once again I drove off in my Tercel seeing them "talking" in my rear view mirror; this time Adam was doing a lot more listening than talking, though. No sooner did I return home to enjoy my first and only day-off of the week than did I see my boss calling me. Upon answering she informed me that Adam had been fired and apologized for his behavior. A fat, dumb and possibly infected cop-reject had just been served an indelible... reality check.

Per Normal Activity

Some time ago, probably about a month or two ago, I was having a conversation with my father about my insomnia. This is already a subject that's touchy enough between the two of us, as on several occasions he's quite candidly told me he doesn't empathize with my condition at all and that he's never had trouble sleeping a single night in his life. A statement I'm sure is full of shit, although sadly I do believe he has an utter lack of empathy in my plight as an insomniac. Regardless this conversation wasn’t aided by the fact that my dumbass slut sister and her bastard child were buzzing around the kitchen, in close proximity to our conversation. The aforementioned dumb slutty sibling, Colleen, wasted little time in interrupting our conversation to inform my dad and I that she too, had insomnia. I immediately chimed in that she didn’t, however if she did, the last thing people with insomnia are supposed to do is drink caffeine. Given she’s a daily coffee drinker, I figured this would shut her up enough so that she’d back off and mind her own business. Of course it wasn’t and only added fuel to the fire, as she was now claiming that not only did she have insomnia but that I did not; and then went on to tell my dad how all I do is sleep all day. Needless to say what little patience I possess was now desolate.

“Bullshit,” I screamed out. “The only reason you say that is because when I finally crash and am able to sleep it’s usually in the day-time hours. That’s beside the fact that the primary reason you ever come downstairs in the first place is to pawn off your kid on me because you’re a terrible parent who ignores her the majority of the time.” “Don’t use that kind of language in front of Kadence,” my dad sternly warned me. “Well then tell this ignorant idiot to shut the hell up. She has no idea what real insomnia entails. And if she did, she’d know she’s doing the exact opposite of what any doctor would suggest, sitting a room all day doing nothing, drinking caffeinated beverages and not exercising. Since this point forward she’s continued to insist she has insomnia, whilst her habits have remained stagnant, unlike her weight.

Jumping forward to a time closer to our present, about a week ago I was looking for a large glass pitcher, which I use to refill the dogs’ water bowls. I scoured the kitchen but couldn’t find it. My dad and I agree on few things however one exception has been our intense displeasure with the way Colleen “re-organizes” the kitchen. Her methods of sorting make little sense and genuinely just annoy my dad and me. Out of my frustration it was at this moment I decided to take some vindictive action. I hid her coffee pot, displaced all her types of coffee and coffee related condiments in various locations. For the last week or so, she either hasn’t noticed or has made her degenerate baby’s daddy who had been hanging around the house buy her pre-made coffee elsewhere. This week however, he along with their kid is back in South Carolina, which means as a broke jobless bitch without a car or a license, she could no longer outsource for coffee and was finally forced to look for her missing coffee pot. Last night I heard her questioning my father about the location of the coffee pot and I was impressed with his Clinton-esque manner of speech. I had previously told him I intended on hiding various things from Colleen to deliberately annoy her, so he knew full well that the coffee pot was deliberately hidden, along with the identity of the perpetrator. Yet he was totally forthright and honest with her that he didn’t know where the coffee pot was and tactful in his responses, none of which even hinted toward incriminating me.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011: I run out on an errand at the request of my youngest sister to pick up a prescription from a doctor’s office roughly 5 minutes away when I’m approached by Colleen, inquiring about the location of her coffee pot. And the game begins. “Have you seen my coffee pot?” she asks me, in a neutral non-accusatory manner. “Yeah,” I reply. “I’ve seen it.” “Oh, do you know where it is?” She eagerly asked. “Nope,” I immediately responded. “But I thought you said you’ve seen it?” She questioned. “It’s in our kitchen on a daily basis of course I’ve seen it… just not recently,” I said as I subsequently slammed the front door in her face before she could inquire any further.

I returned roughly 10 minutes later and laid the prescription I had been asked to pick up on the kitchen counter. As I opened my door to head downstairs I notice Colleen is in the kitchen, frantically looking for her coffee pot. So far so good, I think to myself. “So… you really don’t know where my coffee pot is?” she asks me in a suspicious tone. “No,” I reply. “And if I did, I wouldn’t admit it.” “So then you hid it!” she exclaimed. “I never said that, I simply said if I knew where it was, I wouldn’t tell you. Don’t waste your time, you’ll never find it.” I closed my door and walked downstairs, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

Our kitchen is only one room and although it has significant storage space in it’s amplitude of kitchen cabinets. I knew it was only a matter of time before she found the coffee pot, given that I had hidden it along with all of her coffee related crap in there. I also knew after finding said coffee pot, that I claimed she’d never find, she’d feel a sense of victory, of indomitability. It was inevitable, predictable and of course only a ruse to cover up its true genius. I’d hidden all her coffee condiments in places I knew she wouldn’t have bothered looking; especially after she had found her “holy grail” that was her coffee pot. The only condiment she had left was a bowl of sugar, which I replaced with salt, which lay innocently the entire time right next to the coffee maker. Thus, she’d victoriously make her first batch of coffee, pour salt in it and ruin it herself.
A short time later I ventured upstairs to get a vitamin supplement from my upstairs cabinet when I notice my top step is soaking wet. Immediately I look toward Yago, whose been locked down the basement with me since one of our bitches is in heat. Whenever he does something wrong, he immediately bows his head and avoids eye contact with me. Then I notice this liquid is browner looking and partially splattered on both sides of the wall. Given how narrow my basement stairwell is, this would’ve been a very impressive urination display, if it were in fact urine, which of course it wasn’t. I come upstairs and my sister is beaming with victory. “You think you’re so smart. You said I’d never find it. I found it in less than 5 minutes,” she proudly stated. “Then you poured a bunch of salt in your coffee and ruined it, just like I had planned all along, dumb bitch.” And just like that her face turned from victor to victim. No doubt aided by the smile spread across my face and my pleasant demeanor despite just having coffee poured all over my top basement step. Having already cleaned up the mess which was obviously the bad coffee she had made, I trotted down the stairs whistling along the way. Despite the fact that she was no-doubt left in an angry state, the fact that she had the last word by soaking my top step, I’m sure was enough for her to feel that we were even. Perhaps if she had read the motto of some of the Morton’s salt I replaced her sugar with she’d have seen the foreshadowing: When it rains, it pours.

Still in a fairly good mood about what had just transpired I contemplated my next plan of action. I initially thought of dumping a large pitcher of water all over her bed. But the ramifications of such would just be her monopolizing the laundry machine – as she often does anyway – and really that’d be more of an inconvenience to my dad. As I brainstormed about various things I could perhaps dump on her possessions and which of those would be most fitting I realized I glanced over a much easier and more effective solution. The answer lied in the source: where the problem had started: the kitchen. Of course this answer lied in my kitchen. And it had been lying there, covered in black mold, filled with green-yellow opaque water which had been sitting stagnant and smelling foul for months. It was a medium-sized Tupperware bowl with once-unfinished food lining its sides, which had long since been overtaken by mold, bacteria and fungus. So I nonchalantly walked upstairs and grabbed a pair of latex rubber gloves and put them on. I poured a slight amount of the putrid water out so I wouldn’t spill it on my trip upstairs and subsequently to Colleen’s room. I also took the liberty of cleaning all the most disgusting parts of the bacterial growths, located on the bowls outer rims and placed them inside the tepid repulsive liquid, where they’d serve my purpose perfectly. Once I had finished the task at hand I wasted no time. I slowly, carefully and deliberately walked up the stairs, right past Colleen who was in the kitchen and shouted “Hey what are you doing!?” and poured the entire bowl of filth in the middle of her carpet. The putrescence splashed anything in the vicinity and foul odor engulfed her tiny room. “Oh okay!” she shouted. “Well now I’m just going to do something to something of yours again,” she said. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?” I ask in amusement. “When you’re not here I’ll just go downstairs, she says.” “I have a lock on my door, thanks for the warning.” “Fine then your car,” she says. I briefly laugh for a moment then reply, “I’ll just lock that too.” “Just face it,” I say. “You can’t win.” “Yes I can!” she immediately exclaims. “I’m smarter than you, faster than you, stronger than you and most importantly better than you,” I calmly state. “You’re a piece of shit, you have nothing on me, and you can’t win.” She walks away her head still held high, the typical response of denial for a victim of yet another:
Reality Check

Chuck McG Flees

The night before I recant this events of this morning, my father Chuck McGovern aka Chuck McG 3 inquired about any possible plans I had for the next day. That day being a Saturday, he told me he had some work for me to do. To anyone that knows even the slightest information about Chuck, myself obviously included, this was no suprise. Pretty much any remaining time he has between his full-time job as a CFO and his part-time job as a dance-instructor, he will fill with meaningless, tedious tasks. While some would call this "busy work," he would probably call it "free time." To put a little more emphasis on this point, he will go well out of his way to make sure he spends most, if not all of his free time engaging in such tasks I've often labeled, satirically so, as "Chuck McGovern's weekend projects."
Getting back to the story at hand, I told him I had planned on probably reading most of the day, but that was about it. Essentially my docket was wide open. I'm sure this came as a shock to him... "Well he repeated, I have some work for you to do if you're interested. What time do you plan on getting up?" "I have no idea," I replied. "I just told you yesterday one of the new perscriptions I picked up is supposedly an 'oldschool' sleep aid. Meaning it's supposed to knock you out. The doctor told me don't make any plans for the next 6-8 hours after taking it. So... yeah, I have no idea. I plan on getting as much sleep as my body allows me to."
He shrugged and briefly outlined for me some his plans which included driving the F-150 to downtown Charlotte so one of us, presumably him, could drive his other car back. I contemplated asking him a snyde question about his confidence in my ability to drive one of his vehicles, given his utter lack of confidence in my driving style but in the end I decided perhaps it was best to leave this for another time. A time when I'm not basically broke and relegated to taking any odd-job he will throw my way. "Alright," I say. "I'm not setting any alarms so I guess I'll talk to you when I get up."
I get up around 11:30AM. As I walk toward my light switch it's already evident that I was definately still feeling some of the physical effects of the sleep medication, which frankly suprised me. I'm also hungry as hell. So the first thing I do is head straight toward my kitchen and make a protein shake. I figure getting something in my system would be the best way to solve both problems of my hunger and lingering drug effects. I make a shake, grab a multivitamin and a fish-oil supplement and proceed through my typical morning routine. This usually consists of pulling up My Yahoo! homepage and then checking fagbook for any possibly entertaining updates or friends in need of my social signature; meaning people who have posted something I deem as 'stupid' that I will add my 51.3 cents to. Usually insulting or satirical in nature; often both.
After consuming about half of my shake I feel both my grogginess and hunger will quickly be resolved so I called my dad. Asking him if what the status was with his daily plan and if I had missed my window of opportunity. He told me I hadn't, he was on the way home in the F-350 and he'd see me soon. So I hang up and pick-up where I left off, purusing various articles that struck my eye on Yahoo!. Roughly 10 minutes later, my dad opens my basement door and shouts down "Are you ready to go?" As if he had mentioned any detail about being in some sort of rush or meeting some time-frame. "Uhhh.. almost" I yell back. He slams the door and I jump into action. I was already dressed so my answer was essentially true. Although it's noteworthy I didn't have my contacts in and there was an imminent need for me to defecate before I left on whatever dumbass errand we were running. As I didn't see either of these tasks as very time consuming, I headed straight to the source: the bathroom. I popped both my contacts in relatively quickly then sat down to complete the task at hand. No sooner does my ass hit the seat til I hear my dad's voice shouting out my name in an annoyed tone. "CHASE?!" "YES?" I shout back in an more annoyed tone. "What are you doing!? It's been 8 minutes already." "I'm going to the bathroom." I respond. "Come upstairs when you're ready," he replies. I hear him subsequently stomp up the stairs and slam the door.
After finishing my business I grabbed my wallet, phone and of course - my sunglasses - and knocked on his door. I notice all three of the dogs look toward the front door. Meaning he had definately already left the house. I open the front door and notice the F-150 is already gone and I'm immediately perturbed. I call his cell-phone. He doesn't answer and it goes to voicemail. I repeated this three times til I realized he probably wasn't going to pick up. Typical Chuck McGovern behaviour; act like a teenage girl. So I sent him a text, despite the fact I was relatively certain he wouldn't read it til long after he reached his destination or perhaps indefinately.

Me:Wtf is your problem? You said "come upstairs when you're ready." Not hey Chase I'm gonna come downstairs act like a jackass and leave.

Me: Way to act like a 3 year old.

Knowing full well these text messages probably wouldn't be read only fueled my anger at getting ready in such a rush only to be ditched without warning. So once again I call him back. Once again he doesn't answer. And once again I get his voicemail. This time I decide to leave a message. "Hi, this is Chase McGovern," I begin. "Since you've decided not to answer my calls, I'm going to keep calling you back and fill up your entire mailbox," then hung up. I then proceeded to keep calling him back repeatedly going through the alphabet as I left messages. I got about half-way through til I came to the conclusion I was probably only annoying myself much more than I could ever annoy him. Unfortunately for me, this is often the case regardless of who I am dealing with.
So I retreat to my basement, knowing he'll be back eventually, unable to avoid my impending confrontation. As I settled back down in the dark solitude of my basement my mood quickly followed suit and I was very quickly overwhelmed with feelings of tiredness. Perhaps it was my anger slowly diwndling, the darkness of my basement, the lingering sleep-drug effects or the most comforting fact that I'd probably annoyed him somewhat - just in the fact that he got mad enough to leave so quickly, thus disabling him to fully accomplish whatever his total plan for the day was, given it required two people. So I went back into the total abyss that is my bedroom and fell asleep for a few hours.
I woke back up and immediately listened down the hall, to see if I could hear his TV going. I could, so I wasted no time in going straight up the stairwell to confront him. "So... what's the deal?" I asked him. "What deal? There is no deal. I didn't feel like going down to Charlotte today." Total bullshit. "No I mean why'd you come downstairs and say "come up when you're ready," then just leave?" "I was in a rush, I waited and waited and waited. Then I decided to finally leave," he said. "Oh really," I replied in the most sarcastic tone I could manage (which, for the record, is ultra-sarcastic). "What exactly was the time period between these supposed 'ands'? If you were in such a rush, why didn't you even ONCE mention that to me? Don't you think that'd have been at all pertinent? Instead you tell me come up when I'm ready then just go? Who does that?" "I was already past exit 23 when you first called me," he replied. "Sounds like you were driving pretty recklessly, and you think I drive too fast." "Listen," he says. "I don't feel like arguing with you right now." "Arguing?!" I exclaim. "This isn't an argument. This is me asking you why you always have to behave like such a jerk. While you have no comeback whatsoever." He starts to laugh slightly. This means he's getting really annoyed. Before my dad completetly erupts, sort of similar to the fashion I often do, he always tries to laugh off the agitation at hand. "Don't you consider anyone else when making any decision? And you think Colleen is selfish... and you wonder where she gets it from?" "No I don't," he replies in the same half-laughing manner. "Good," I say. "Because it's pretty obvious."
He then got up and slammed his door and my face. "Typical behaviour for someone who has no comeback and nothing to say... or for a 16 year old girl," I shout through his door. I hear him laughing, probably half-laughing, half-fuming on the other side of the door. Also the typical behaviour of someone who has just been served up with a rather harsh: Reality Check.

End of the Road...

Most people who know me well know that there is one thing that annoys me above all else. When people break constitutional laws that our forefathers laid down for us in hopes of better, more fair lives. Well roughly a month ago I was taking one of my dogs for a walk down to the end of the street, where Lee Dukes Water Treatment plant happens to be located. It was a nice day out and I was in a fairly good mood until something vile caught the corner of my eye. I did a double-take and unfortunately but predictably, my eyes had not deceived me. It was a cross on public property. Being the upstanding citizen I am I decided the best plan of action was to turn it upside down. That way it would no longer be a religious symbol on public property. Happy with my good deed for the day, I walked back down the street to my house.
The next day was a hectic one for me but being the concerned citizen I am I managed to clear some time in my schedule to check if the rules of the United States of America were being upheld. Much to my dismay when I returned to the end of the street the cross was "right side" up and wedged further down in the ground. Initially I was confused. Who would want to blatantly disrespect America? A few minutes later it dawned on me this must have been the work of some type of evangelical terrorist cell. I knew I had to take action first before this situation escalated any further.
Jumping forward to about a week later, during each day of which this battle of the cross continued, I managed to procure what proved to be a decisive tool. The tool was none other than a huge red thick-tipped permanent marker. With my tool in hand I once again made the trek to the end of Babe Stillwell. I pulled the cross up from the ground, then shoved it back in upside down as I'd normally done. Then I wrote 9 9 9 in massive letters across both sides of it. Needless to say, the cross has never been back seen since.

Short, Cold and Sweet
On a totally unrelated note yesterday night I was driving down my driveway for a Slushy run. Anyone who has been down my driveway knows that it's basically like a tunnel with an overgrown fence on one side and overgrown bushes on the other side. So driveway drivebys being somewhat close encounters are a very regular thing. Although I suppose my perspective is somewhat limited because I'm not a fat fuck, which brings me to my next point... my fat sister Caitlin is motioning something meaningless to me as I am approaching her in my car. An even more rotund individual and my other sisters bastard child are accompanying her. So as I have notoriously done before, I ignored her and drove past her to attain my slushy. I arrive back home and walk in the door and my fat sister, her horizontally similar friend and my dad are staring me down.
I shut the door calmly all the while savoring my slushy as deliberately as possible. Caitlin immediately starts bitching at me about how I almost hit her and BC. It's worth noting at this point that basically for the duration of this slushy run I'm so high I was having enough trouble keeping a straight face. All 3 of them stared me down for around 5 seconds before I asked, struggling not to laugh
"Are you joking right now?"
"No! I'm not joking you almost hit Kadence [aka BC(the rest of the family uses her 'given' name)]" Caitlin shrieked back.
"Oh I'm sorry, I figured you'd have to have been joking to think anyone could ever miss you."
Not one of them said a word. So after the appropriate amount of time to let my comment sink in I walked past all of them through my basement door. Then I slammed it and my straight-face-demeanor instantly caved in as I laughed hysterically the rest of the way down the stairwell, my laughter echoing in the ears of the victim of yet another, Reality Check.

Basement Invasion

As of late my basement has come under attack of a new pest. Every night for the past two weeks probably, I have had to eliminate at least a dozen millipedes that for some reason keep crawling into my basement. Tragically I can empathize with their cause, because the basement is indeed a great breeding ground for vermin; probably the reason my dad wanted his daughter and grandaughter to live here. Chuck McMillipedionaire. Great minds. Anyhow as serious a problem as this millipede invasion has been, the basement has been invaded by a different pest this past night. The end of June is here and apparently it's that time of year when The Man's Charm shines it's brightest, or so I've come to experience.
Jumping back to last evening I had just awoken from an afternoon-turned-evening nap. I had been out in the sun earlier relaxing on my beach chair earlier in the afternoon after I finished my workout, so when I noticed it was darker outside I immediately went up to move my chair out of the driveway where I left it, because my dad would - and has - run it over. As I walked outside my dad was moving something in and out of someones car - the details of which I couldnt care less, and he informed me that someone was nice enough to move my chair or he'd have ran it over. My sister, her apparent boyfriend and "bff" Whitney were sitting on the steps, smoking cigarettes. "Well... Thanks someone." I replied and went to pick up my chair and go back inside. As I picked up my chair and wrapped the towel around it so that I was able to carry both more manageably with one arm I received an unprovoked but coy "hey, Chase," from my sisters friend Whitney who shot me a look. Looking back on the incident now I fear I may have inadvertantly given her The Man's Look here, the truth of this incident will probably never be known. So I did the only thing to do in such a situation and replied back with a "hey," of my own. Slick. "It's been a while since I've seen you," she said. I then walked back past all of them, back into the house and back down the basement. My libido having had successfully filled its quota of sexual tension for the night, I proceeded to take a GB and play some video games for the next 2 hours or so until I fell asleep once again on my couch.
It's 1:24 am when I wake back up. I was starving so I made myself a "Total Sickness" shake and browsed Anarchy Online forums while casually walking back and forth between my bathroom preparing my next GB. No sooner did I finish my shake than was I startled by some rustling and slight tapping on my basement back door. Yago and I both look at one another as another knocking comes, this time slightly heavier. He barks and I go to answer the door. I open it and it's Whitney. We exchange heated "heys" once again as Yago barks at her like he is going to kill her. I calm him down and ask her whats up. "You locked me out!" She exclaimed. "I just woke up. What are you talking about?" I reply. "Oh. The upstairs door, you locked it,' she said. Which I had for some odd reason earlier. Normally the door itself isnt even totally shut, by slightly ajar so the dogs can roam the entire house. "Well are you going to come in?" I ask, "I can't stand keeping this door open." Just as she starts to come in I notice my sister coming in right behind her. Luckily, once they both came inside she (my sister) proceeded to walk straight past us and went back upstairs. How unfortunate. "So what's up?" I ask. "Well how are you I haven't seen you in forever," she says. She then proceeded to hug me and then subsequently criticize my hugging method, or lackthereof - like ALL girls do. I explained to her that I had been out in the sun earlier and I was probably dirty. "So what? Everyones dirty. I'm dirty," she says. "Interesting," I replied, as I shot her a look. We proceeded to talk for a little while about nothing in particular. She asked me what I had been up to and I explained to her the various subtleties of my daily existance. One of the details we discussed of course was my GB and proper it's usage; something I proceeded to demonstrate. After we sat on the couch and she giggled for a little while I decided maybe I should take some conversational initiative. So I asked her what she had been up to? "Nothing," she replied. The perfect reply. The very thing I say to everyone else to instantly dismiss any encouragement of a conversation I feel is going in that 'usual' or 'typical' direction I'd like to avoid. "Really?!" I reply. "So really nothing like me then?" She shook her head. "Haha. Awesome," I said as I was truly appreciating this situational irony in its moment. Then she asked me what the story was with my drinking situation or lackthereof. Filling me in on the details she had received from my sister; all of which were incorrect. When I inform her of my pancreatitis she asked me several questions regarding it and then suggested I get a second or third opinion before I decide to doom myself with this diagnosis indefinately. She said as a nurse, which I just discovered she was, you really couldn't trust most doctors. I told her I was pretty certain to her dismay while she continued to try and convince me otherwise. For some reason or another the conversation then shifted to me feeling I'm always the exception to the rule. To plead my case I explained to her a quick breakdown of my eating habits and lack of family or really any social structure. Then the conversation takes an unexpected turn.
"So, where should we go out on a date?" she asks me, smiling. I sort of freeze and smile uncomfortably. "What?" "Yeah, where are you going to take me?" She asked. "Uh.. I don't even know where I would go that I could actually eat anything around here," I replied, honestly. Her eyes get sort of wide for a second. "No, I meant that literally. I really don't even know anywhere around here that I would be able to go and eat food I like... unless you like pizza?" "I don't like pizza," she quickly replied - of course. "It's the sauce." "Oh you don't like tomato sauce?" I ask. "Not unless it's the really meaty kind," she says - to which I start to laugh while she looks puzzled til I inform her that's the exact type I dislike.
A little more time passes by and just as the conversation is beginning to completely fade my sister comes back down, nodoubt curious of her friend's whereabouts and if she is ready to start watching some movie. She starts talking about her kid and how impressionable it is and we begin to talk about memory and I mention that children really won't remember anything before the age of 3 anyhow. She disagrees of course and we begin to talk about genetics. Of course the conversation thereafter mostly entailed me telling her she had no idea about genes, and then asking her if she knew what DNA stood for. Neither she nor Whitney did of course and when I told them it was acid they both agreed I was talking about something different, although neither wanted to consult Wikipedia. I then made a snyde comment directed at my sister about gene expression to which she said she was glad she didn't have my genes because Im not social enough. I replied that people are stupid and I was comfortable with my level of sociability. Just then Whitney asks if I thought my sister was stupid. I immediately replied "yes," much to her dismay and then my sister proceeded to say she didn't care. Then Whitney insisted upon me giving them both grounds for my claim. "Are you serious?" I replied. "She didn't even graduate from highschool." "Yes, I did," my sister informs me. "That doesn't count." The that I'm referring to in this case was her 'special' highschool where people who drop out of real high school go to make up time at their own pace. "What do you mean that doesn't count?" Whitney exclaimed. "I mean it's not even real high school," I said. "I graduated from that school too," she informed me. This was something I had not anticipated. "So are you calling me stupid too?" "Hey I didn't call anyone anything." I said. "You kind of threw yourself under the bus on this one." Having clearly had enough of this discussion, my sister got up and walked back upstairs, leaving both of us alone once again, lying on my couch.
Somehow the tension of the previous moment had evaporated. Part of this was no doubt due to the fact that I took another GB break at this point. So I continue to play music while she shoots down most of my song selection. At this point I was getting bored and I no longer felt like putting forth any effort whatsoever into entertaining someone. "Well, what do you want to do?" I ask her. When she says she doesn't care I suggest we watch a DVD and ask her if she likes "Sunny" to which she replies that it was "gay." Provoking a brief subsquent discussion of the usage of the word "gay" as a general pejorative. As one would probably guess the conversation did not involve the actual use of the word pejorative. It was at this point I got up the courage to just blatantly suggest we should just make out instead. A suggestion which unfortunately never came into fruition as she laughed and never replied. Slightly tired, annoyed and no longer willing to attempt to make any further conversation I slowly start to overtake the portion of the couch we're sharing in an attempt to encourage her to leave. In a minute or so she relocated to my computer chair, subsquently telling me it was uncomfortable as she tried to lie down in it akwardly. She then informed me that she was going across the room to my leather couch, where she fell asleep almost immediately and remains now. Once again I remain both the victim and author of... yet another,
Reality Check.