PSYCHOTIC CHURCH MEMBERS AND SCUMMY WHOREBAGS

Hi!

Mind if I bitch for a few seconds?

No??

Great!!

OW!!!

OWWWWWWWWW!!!!

OWWWWWWWOWOWOWOWOWOWWWW!!!

OW OW OW OW OW OW OWWWWWWWWWW!!!!

So I went to the church yesterday ... 9 a.m. ... to help move stuff from the old part of the church to the new part of the church.

We've just built an addition to the church (Well...."We" didn't do it...a construction company did it. I have a feeling if "we" had built it, it'd look a helluva lot worse than it does), and yesterday was "moving day".

A plea was issued, begging everyone to come help us move the stuff. Desks, file cabinets, bookcases, nursery stuff, tables...etc.

Okay.

I'd say a good 60% of our church family are people over the age of 110. They're so old, their skin is basically dust particles. You touch them and they crumble.

THEY'RE OLD.

So you can count on AT LEAST 60% of our church members not showing up.

Twenty percent of the people left are the type that come to church once a month and really don't have anything to do with extracurricular activites such as ... ohhhh...moving shit from one end of the church to the other.

The other twenty percent of the church are the twenty percent that make things happen, baby. We've got the power of GOD behind us, dude ... we can do ANYTHING!!!

....About 18 percent of those people didn't show up yesterday.

Which left me and about six other people standing there in a semi-circle with our thumbs up our asses, each of us thinking "Holy shit...you mean...we've gotta move all this stuff ourselves???"

Yeppers.

So we started lifting, hauling and moving.

And we got it all done our DAMNED selves, thank you very much, you other 98 percent bunch of LOSERS!!

But today...me be paying for my oozing machismo.

My back feels like the Atlanta Braves used it for batting practice.

I rolled out of bed this morning, hit the floor and laid there until I was positive that I still had vertebrae. Then I pushed myself up with my arms that feel about as strong as angel hair pasta, peed and wandered over here to the computer where I forced myself to sit upright.

I just took a pain pill left over from when I chipped my elbow last summer.

Church should be a blast today. I think I'll take a few more pills before stumbling into a pew.

I did get the opportunity during this moving fiesta to experience something I've only heard of up to this point.

The frightening anal retentiveness of Diane Peterson.

Diane is a church member who is widely known for her psychotic demeanor. Every time I've ever spoken to her, she's always been very cordial and polite.

But many other church members have told me that she's verrrrry strange. She's in her 40's ... never been married ... probably still a virgin, because most guys have a hangup about screwing psychos.

Anyway ... she had the entire church library in her home and needed some "strong men" to go out to her home, load up the boxes of books and bring them back to the church, where she would unload the boxes and stock the library.

Errrrr...okay. As long as you don't hit me over the head with a club, drag me into your basement, chain me to a wall and make me eat my own feces ... I'm game.

So me and two other guys go out to her home where she has boxes labelled VERY CAREFULLY stacked up all over her home.

"DON'T get the boxes out of order," Diane warned us. "I stayed up until 1:30 last night, putting all these boxes in order."

Okay ... first off....stupid move, you crazy bitch.

When guys are moving stuff, we don't give a flying shit if boxes are in order or not. The name of the game is loading up the trucks and moving on. We don't feel like doing puzzles.

At first, we carry the boxes out and tried to keep them in order.

Then it just became fruitless. It was 94 degrees outside...heat index of 101 ... we were sweating, the sweat was in our eyes, we were suffering from the initial symptoms of heat exhaustion...and we were just putting the boxes in the truck the best way they would fit.

"Are you keeping them in order," Diane asked me as I walked back into the house.

"The best we can, Diane," I replied.

That's when Diane came unglued.

"I stayed up until 1:30 last night putting those in order," she said. "You men were SUPPOSED to keep them in order!!!"

Sam spoke up.

"Diane, we're doing what we can," he said. "But a few of them are out of order."

Diane may as well have started pulling her hair out in clumps. Because she had definitely gone over the edge.

"I don't know what we're going to do with these boxes back at the church," she said, pacing around in a small circle.

"I bet we can put them BACK in order back at the church where it's air conditioned," I suggested.

A logical choice if you ask me. Take the boxes to the church and stack them back the way she had them. Wouldn't take more than five minutes.

But Diane was FREAK FUCKING OUT.

"I can't believe you guys couldn't keep them in order," she said. "They were all clearly marked."

Apparently the other two men had seen this side of Diane before and knew better than to reason with her insane ass. They just kept carting books out to the truck quietly.

We loaded up the books and got them back to church, where now the boxes were being taken off the trucks by several helpers who had arrived in our absence and didn't really give two shits if the boxes were in order or not.

Meanwhile, Diane is almost in tears in our new library.

EVERY SINGLE TIME someone walked into that library carrying several boxes of books, Diane made a smart-assed comment about how she had stayed up until 1:30 and we had all ruined her hours of hard work.

Outside that library, we were all giggling like schoolboys at Diane, reminding each other how late she had stayed up and to MAKE SURE we kept those boxes in order.

Anyway...it was funny.

And obviously ... you had to be there.

Because you're not laughing right now.

And I apologize for going into detail about the psychotic tendencies of a fellow church member.

I think my pain pill's kicked in.

Went to Toys R Us last night to play "Poor Man's Christmas".

Poor Man's Christmas is where the parents take the baby to the store and let him play with toys that are still in the box, changing the toys out every few minutes. Then you leave without buying anything.

Andy seemed to like it. He got to hug a HUGE talking Winnie The Pooh which he fell in love with until Daddy put it back on the shelf. Then he fell in love with a symphonic piano with five keys that lit up when you pounded on them for all of 30 seconds, until Daddy snatched it back up.

Actually, we gauge his reactions to the toys and then we plan on buying them for his birthday or Christmas.

And his reaction to all the toys is usually wide-eyed surprise followed by the biggest grin he can get on his face.

So he likes everything.

And so he gets everything at Christmas.

Works for me.

I cannot WAIT until Christmas this year. I can't wait to see the look on his face as he slowly opens his presents.

Gawd.

I just cannot wait. I'm gettin' all misty-eyed just thinking about it.

I love my kid.

This is going to be soooo great.

Alright...back to hardassed Uncle Bob mode. How dare you watch me get all sappy, you ingrates.

Hmmmm.

Actually...there's not much else to say.

Oh...after Toys R Us, we went to the grocery store.

Andy started chewing on the grocery store's ummmmm...you know...the sheet you get at the front door that has all the sales on it? Kinda like a really small newspaper dedicated to the store's sales??

What the hell is that called anyway??

So anyway...he's chewing that which doesn't make Mom happy.

So I grab him a box of animal crackers. This intrigues Andy as he shoves it into his mouth and begins gnawing on it like a hairless, 20-lb rat.

Okay. I had NO IDEA that Andy was capable of chewing up a box like he did.

By the time we got to the checkout lane, Andy had that box so soggy and full of holes that the cashier didn't want to touch it to scan it.

I told her the Animal Crackers cost 99 cents. I have no idea how much they really cost, but I wasn't about to go running to the back of the store to find out either.

Andy starts coughing and his face turns red.

I open his mouth with my fingers and his tongue is all gray.

I scoop out some chewed up cardboard and fling it on the floor with a flick of the wrist.

He's still coughing.

I put my finger back in his mouth and wiggle it around. I feel something near his throat.

I pull out a three-inch long piece of cardboard that was wedged in his throat.

Yep.

I'm Father of the Year over here.

Today I'm going to see how he likes chewing a box of rat poison.

That's it from me...pretty boring...I know.

It's the last day of my "vacation". Tomorrow I start the new job.

OH!

An old co-worker from the paper called me yesterday and said he had heard that I quit the paper.

I said I had and wondered how he found out.

The sales manager from the paper had called him. A woman that I THOUGHT was my friend.

She told him that now that I was gone things were going to get "a lot better" around there.

HA!!

Actually, I think what she meant was that I was the only one left from the old regime who had more seniority than her. Now that I'm gone, she has the most seniority in the building and there's nobody there that remembers how she got her job as Associate Publisher.

She was able to put the fear of God in everyone else because she was second in charge.

I knew better. I knew HOW she got to be second in charge.

I was there. I watched her threaten and bully her way to the top.

Anyway...yeah...I'm DYING to see just how much better that paper does without me.

Bitch.

Now I finally know why everyone else hates the scummy whore while I still tried to treat her with respect.

"A lot better".

Hell, they're not even replacing me which means they have NO WRITERS on the staff of a newspaper now.

NONE.

What good is a newspaper if there's nobody there to write stories???

"A lot better".

Eat my ass, scummy whorebag.

We'll just SEE about that.