VIDEO+PODCAST: “MEN” by Jean Marie Black

Jean Marie Black reads this fucking hilarious essay she wrote about all the many, many reasons she simply loves MEN! If you, too, adore MEN…have a listen!

This just in…you could watch the video if you prefer!

Jean performed this piece at the Rant & Rave show at Rogue Machine Theatre in Los Angeles on October 21, 2013.

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Coming Out to My Hyper Conservative Father

A few months ago I set about coming out to my angry, hyper-conservative, Rush Limbaugh loving father. Like so many other people facing the coming out process to conservative family members, I was scared shitless. Here’s how coming out was for me…

You could say I have father issues.

Things have been simply awful between he and I ever since he left me and my mother for some “pretty young thing” when I was still in high school. While he lived with us, he was mean and abusive and I can tell you we took a hell of a lot shit. A HELL of a lot of shit. When he left, I watched my mother disintegrate right before my eyes. Twenty something years later, she still hasn’t been able to put herself back together again. Who my mother was before was obliterated. Blotted out. It’s a mother fucking tragedy and I’m still pissed about it. Cause here’s the universal rule…

…you don’t EVER fuck with someone’s momma.

Throughout my adult life, I’ve been trying like hell to find forgiveness for the man I perceive to be responsible for it all. I’ve maintained a relationship with my father out of some warped sense of obligation. Never because I wanted to. “It’s my duty”, I’ve thought, “He’s my father. I love him.” I struggle with this shit. I don’t HAVE to love him. I don’t even WANT to love him most of the time. The rub is, despite myself, I do.

In spite of all my resentments, each time I see him, I go in hoping it will be different. This time, he’ll be kind. This time, he’ll apologize for wrecking everything down. For making everything hard. This time he’ll acknowledge he’s delighted in destroying everyone around him. Laughing and pointing at what he’s done. With him, I always knowingly walk back into the lion’s den with hope in my heart that things have changed and every time my ass gets torn to shreds. It’s madness. I’ve spent my entire life shapeshifting to please him. Reorganizing my molecules at lightening speed, finding the most acceptable version of myself, so that This Time I’ll get out unscathed.

But, somehow, I’m never acceptable. So, I smile through every new horrid event. I turn off. I go dead in the eyes when I witness him setting off the charges in new demolitions of the people in his life today. I watch him annihilate his newest wife, his siblings, even perfect strangers. I watch him wreck me. I invite it, even.

With no one else in my life do I tolerate such massive amounts of bullshit.

At my core, I am an artist, who used to paint big. And I don’t know what happened, but now I paint so small. I used to feel I’d give big to the world and I don’t know what happened, but now, I give so small. I used to think I’d die so big, filled up with infinite gratitude for my life well lived, and I don’t now what happened but I died so small. For you see, the last decade of my life has been spent self-destructing. I guess all this history finally caught up to me. Everything positive I believed about myself when into a vodka bottle. And everything sad, depressing, sick and angry came out of it.

Before I became small, back when I never questioned whether I would give big, do something of creative importance, back when I had courage and nothing could stop me, I fled to art school. There, I wrote in paint. Painting stories mostly about my father. Not that this is surprising. Every young art school bozo, who wasn’t painting images of Mickey Mouse with their own shit (really), was doing this same “radical” and “groundbreaking” familial work. Boo-hooing about their parents in paint, clay, metal, words, blood or shit. Mostly about, I imagined, how they didn’t get to borrow the Saab enough in high school. Me? I was pissing and moaning too, but my mom didn’t drive a Saab.

We traveled around in a cockroach infested utility van.

The last painting I ever did involved a kick ass rendering of Little Child Me. Small, in a great big world. Hefting an enormous boulder over my head. Teetering on rocky cliffs overlooking an angry, undulating ocean. It was disgustingly melodramatic, and assuredly stupid. Today, all that melodrama makes me shudder, but back then, I was proud of it. It meant something to me. A direct hit about my father and our relationship. For, that relationship was something to conquer. To surmount. To accomplish. A huge immovable mass, heavier than mountains, so futile to shove against. The weight of the Earth.

TWRECKS ocean Coming Out to My Hyper Conservative Father 

I decided to give this disgustingly, over-meaningful painting to my father for Christmas. I knew he’d be moved, and because it was so fucking literal, be able to understand all it represented.

Painstakingly, I wrapped it. Folding every crease into the cheery holiday paper with razor sharp military precision. The beauty of those crisp edges would’ve made a drill sergeant cry.

“What this will mean to my father!”, I elated. “How much he will love me, be proud of me, respect and even idolize me for my astounding abilities! Finally! I’ll break through! He would see the beauty I was finally able to squeeze from the dry, hard carbon bits of our relationship”, I thought. It would change everything. He’d see how well I had clamored over all the obstacles he had laid in our paths and pat me on the back for a job well done. On Christmas morning I brought it downstairs to set by the tree with the rest of the gifts.

WHAM!

My father’s fist smashed me right in the chest. The painting thumped to the floor. The blow or the surprise knocked the breath out of me.

“WHY DO YOU PAINT SO BIG!?”, he blasted into my face.

For an instant the world just quit. It was dead-still. Then, a roaring rage came racing up inside my ears. He stood there challenging me to have a reaction. His thick fist still gripped tight with his big fucking college ring. The one he had such a boner over for being the first of his clan to go to school. The one I wanted to now savagely gnaw off his fat fucking finger and shove up his ass…if only I weren’t paralyzed by the seething, red hot stinging humiliation and grief now burning behind my eyes. How could I fall for trying to make it okay with him AGAIN!?

“Don’t cry. Don’t let a single tear fall. Not over this son of a bitch”, I kept repeating to myself while those heavy, boiling tears rode the rims of my lids daring to leap. Clinching my teeth I willed their retreat back behind my eyes.

“He hadn’t even looked at it. He hadn’t even appreciated the wrapping”, I anguished.

This mother fucker.

I’ll tell you, I’ve never seen the painting since. I don’t know what happened to it. I assume it went into the trash. This was the last piece of art he ever got from me. And the last large piece I ever did. All of his requests since for me to, “do him a pretty naked woman to hang in the bathroom”, have been ignored.

A few years ago, I was resurrected when I met my girlfriend. When I was the biggest disaster, living the smallest life, trapped in a well of booze, she could see me down here in the dark. When no one should have loved me, she did. My light, I am convinced, was going out when she arrived.

It’s strange really. I was so accustomed to having important relationships be so incredibly difficult. Yet, whenever we were at a place in our relationship where I fully expected obstacles, the gates were wide open. It had an easiness about it that I had never seen or experienced before. I love her like I have never loved anyone else, and I am so grateful to have her in my life. She makes everything better.

I haven’t known how to tell my father about my girlfriend. A man whose social and political view points run tea party. A man whose television set blares Fox News all day every day. A man who has never had anything good to say about gay people. It has been such a frightening prospect, the idea of coming out to him, but I just couldn’t stand another fucking second of lying and shapeshifting covering up this part of my life…which is ALL of my life. So, I sent a letter:

“Dear Dad,

I have something I’ve been wanting to share with you, but I’ve been afraid. I’ve been working on being honest and authentic in my life and I want to have that with you too.

I want to tell you that I’ve met someone who makes me very happy. Her name is Ingrid. She is awesome. I love her.”

I was fully ready to accept an explosion or that my letter might have gained me a sad freedom, and that like my painting, I might never see him again. He could discard me. He could be the one to finally let this fucked up relationship go.

He wrote a letter in return:

“My Daughter,

I have wondered about this for a long time. I am glad that you finally told me. I love you and always will. You are my daughter. I am also, as you must know, very proud of you. You are smart, caring and sensitive. I would like to think that others recognize those traits in me. Your gramma always said she expected “kindness and caring from me, as anyone can be a bully”.

I would like to meet your friend. I would like that very much.

Hun — The worst fate any of us could have would be to grow old by ourselves. Put aside your concerns and know that I will love you always.

Dad”

Wham…

Like that blow to the chest, I was stunned. Out of breath. Everything was quiet. And then it roared back to me. Instead of expecting him to change, what finally caused the shift was me. What finally moved the immovable mass, was my own authenticity.

Today, I give big again. Today, I live big again. Today, I mother fucking paint big again.

 Coming Out to My Hyper Conservative Father Follow me on Twitter!

 Coming Out to My Hyper Conservative Father

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Oil

By T-Wrecks

If I wasn’t so pissed, I’d be bored to death with the whole oil conversation. I mean why in the fuck are we even still talking about this? I was here on The Planet Earth during the 70’s gas crisis when big boat cars were lined up for miles waiting to fill up their tanks. Listening to Karen Carpenter Sing, Sing a Song. Waiting for an hour or more to fume it to the pump, only to be turned away when what little precious gasoline there was got used up just before our turn. La, la, la, la, la. Try again tomorrow.

And Jimmy said, “We have to do something.” And everyone said, “Yes! We have to do something!” And in my school we learned all about saving the planet. And all we little kids said in earnest child voices, “Yeh! We have to do something!” Then, manipulated, we ran outside employing our small hands to pick up the garbage laying around our school campuses or in the local park just down the street.

“We did something!”, we innocent babes lilted while feeding ourselves school lunch with garbage filthy, germ-laden hands. The Indian cries. Boy, we’re really fuckin’ this up.

Jimmy, The President, installed solar panels on the White House. Everyone marveled about the future of solar power. “Solar power! Wind power! Free power!”, we all dreamed.

Our natural resources will run out! The dinosaur carcases can only sustain the world with the glug-glug of motor oil and gas for our big-ass 70’s boat-tank cars for so long. Heavy steel land mammoths, made in the USA. Except at that time, American cars sucked.

This shit was 40 fuckin’ years ago. And we’re doing the same exact boo-hooing today.

“We must cut our reliance on foreign oil from the middle east.” Blah, blah, blah. “Unrest in the region and oil costs go up.” Some gaggle of pudgy white dudes eating early lunch at Applebee’s speculate that something COULD happen in the region and the whitey fucks drive up the cost of a barrel. I cancel my road trip.

That’s what we say now and that’s what we said then and that’s what we’ve been saying all this god damned time in-between. Could we all shut the fuck up already and get on with these new technologies? Could we all collectively stick our foot up some asses, sit the fuck down and finally work this shit out? Fuck oil. This is fucking bullshit. I want off this ride.

Reagan got in office and the first thing he did was dismantle Jimmy’s solar panels. And, oh yeh, kick some mentally ill folks out into the streets. Saint Reagan. And Nancy slips down the steps of Airforce One. Thump, thump, thump. “Oh… Just say no.” Thanks, Nanners.

What the fuck have we been doing all this time? We make high-speed computers, with a bazillion intricacies. We land some majorly complicated shit up on the surface of mars (more than once), which on average is 140 million miles away from Earth. We can even record what we see via our brainwaves and play back a visual representation of them. But, I don’t know, in 40 years time, my cheap solar-powered calculator works in direct light, but those solar powered LED yard lights I bought at Target don’t work for shit. “Isn’t there a step right about he—.” Trip. Take a header. Fall in some dog crap.

“We need solutions to our oil problems!”, the people call out.

“I have an idea! Let’s continue having this incessant oil conversation! Let’s let greedy, disgustingly incompetent and selfish dick heads fuck us all”, the people allow.

Remember Deep Water Horizon? The biggest piece of that disaster after the loss of life, was all the horseshit that went on after the event. And now, I’m constantly hearing BP commercials on television and the radio where they package this whole fucking fiasco up like they’re some motherfucking caped superhero who swooped in and rescued the Gulf Coast? Are you fucking kidding me?

Just a reminder, yesterday, BP plead guilty to CRIMINAL FELONY CHARGES and will pay $4.5 billion in penalties, including $1.26 billion in criminal fines. Hey BP, you’re not heros. You’re the perpetrator. And your commercials are full of evil, sleezy, oily shit.

Today, just a few hours ago, a Black Elk Energy oil rig in the Gulf of Mexico exploded with more loss of life off the coast of Louisiana. So far, two people are dead and two are missing. Incidentally, Black Elk Energy was founded 5 years ago by John Hoffman, a former BP executive. Yay! Confetti! This is drowning in so much awesome sauce, I wanna fuck Guy Fieri.

I guess maybe what’s happened (or not happened) in the past 40 years, has everything to do with it being real hard to charge dollars for sun beams or air currents when there’s no way to prevent anyone from getting it. No way to prevent our getting it, other than keeping a lid on developing technologies that would finally provide us all relief from dealing with this dumb ass, status quo, evil bullshit. Right?

Right.

 Oil Follow me on Twitter!

 Oil

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Harvey Korman and the Oscars

By T-Wrecks

Many people would argue that I am slow on the draw when it comes to having my finger on the pulse of pop culture. And I’ll give them that. In many to most cases, they are entirely right. But the simple reason for this is because I find today’s pop culture “icons” to be so fucking boring and generic that I just can’t stand to engage their dull eyes. I’ll tell you that I’m not interested in whatever “angst” and “artistry” a 16 year old nitwit has to yodel about. AND, mark my words…every last one of those Kardashian idiots will prove to be The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

In THIS case, however, it’s not that I was pop culturally “lazy” and unaware that something important had happened in entertainment, as is admittedly sometimes the case with me. What THIS is about, is the unhealthy, pent up disgust I have been harboring since HARVEY KORMAN was dissed in the In Memoriam piece way back at the 2009 Academy Awards. Not including HARVEY FUCKING KORMAN in your In Memoriam piece at the Academy Awards is TOTAL FUCKING BULLSHIT. Clearly, I’m still pissed about it and I think you should be, too.


Behold, Blazing Saddles.

At the time, during my many foot-stomping professions of outrage, I had heard some mutterings along the lines of Harvey being a TV actor and not a film actor. Are you fucking kidding me with that shit? INDEED, Harvey ruled it on television in the 70′s alongside Carol, Tim and Vicky on The Carol Burnett Show. Many times he generously played the straight man to Tim Conway’s outlandish characters, trying hard to keep it together making everyone laugh in the effort. He won many supporting actor Emmy awards for his work in television. And he influenced little child me way back when by coming into my living room via our cruddy little TV set.

But hey, let’s not forget that Harvey Korman was also in arguably some of the most important FILM comedies of all time. Blazing Saddles, History of the World Part I, The Star Wars Holiday Special. Okay, that last one was spectacularly awful AND a television special, but my point is we include accountants in the In Memoriam pieces these days. We include people who tally up the Academy votes.  And hey, I am sure they are just wonderful people. Wonderful, obscure people.  But, what I don’t get is this weird lack of respect for those who came before us. People who made great artistic contributions to comedy, art, writing, etc. The Academy includes vote talliers, but omits a great comedic actor who played some of THE greatest comedic film characters of all time? Hello? Heady Lamarr? (It’s Hedley.) That’s crazy to me.



Behold. Harvey Counts de Money in History of the World, Part I.

Yes. It’s ridiculous, my griping about some bullshit that happened over 4 years ago. But, I had to finally get it off my chest and in my own way, pay my own angry tribute. Harvey is in my estimation an overlooked, quiet genius and from what I hear was really nice man, too.

And, I don’t know, but it seems real creepy to me. People like Anne Bancroft, Paul Newman or Harvey Korman die and no one seems to give a fuck. And while Anne and Paul were included in their year’s In Memoriam pieces, societally speaking, it’s not even a blip on the radar. Please, though. Let’s shove some more Lindsay Lohan down my throat. Or some other generic, manufactured, fame asshole who looks exactly identical to the next.

Fuck me. Does the state of entertainment affairs not bore you to tears, too? I mean, I can’t be the only one who sees this growing cultural disregard for our elders. And with that, I’ll just say, Harvey, my man. Thanks for the laughs. You ruled.

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NANCY GRACE. MISSING KID.

brutany missing1 NANCY GRACE.  MISSING KID. By T-Wrecks

I’m Lloyd.  L – l – o – y – d, and I have the stupidest grand daughter in the world.  Her name is Brutany.  And she’s missing.

The day Brutany disappeared was just like any other day in our lives.  You see, Brutany’s been living with me for the past 3 years.  She’s 8 now, but come to live with me just after she turned 5.  The state was gonna take her away from her slut momma…that’s my daughter, for being drunk off her ass all the damn time and fuckin’ transient ranch hands for booze money right there in front of grand baby, Brutany.  And asides for it bein’ wrong to let any of your kin go to another family, I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to get some free help with my dog kennel. So, being a church-going Christian, I took Brutany in.

Child Services asked if I’d ever seen anything questionable in Brutany’s household.  And yeh, I’d been over there and seen some stuff.  Asides from the time I saw her bleeding out of her ass…I remember this other time, when I loaned out one of my wolves.  That’s what I breed.  Wolve hybrids.  So my daughter’d have some damn protection against all the non-whites with hot wings danglin’ out their mouths, comin’ ‘round her house all the time.  And for what, huh?  A little worn out, battered, tattered, skin and bone, skank pussy?  A man should have more self-worth than to pay even a single cent to stick his yank into my damn daughter’s dried up clam chowder hole.  I mean, I’d fuck a flower vase full of rotten chicken gizzards and motor oil before I’d put MY DICK in that slut again.

Anyway, so Brutany’s daddy, Don, had called me to come pick up this dog I loaned ‘em.  This was back before he blew’d his own damn head off with my shotgun.  Oh, and it did, man…it took off his whole head.  The leftovers just sorta looked like two bloody hamburger waterfalls over each shoulder with bits of face floatin’ in it.  It was real fuckin’ nasty.  Real Vietnam caliber shit.  It took all day for anyone to find him.  A neighbor had been calling about some squealing she kept hearing, but I guess it sounded like one of the hogs maybe had a leg stuck in the fence, so it wasn’t a big rush for anyone to get out there.  Anyway, turns out, it wasn’t the hogs squealing, it was Brutany.  She’d been home screaming with Don’s dead body all day long.  God!  That kid’s a real pussy, you know?  A real annoying scaredy-ass pussy girl.  GAWD! That’s a disgusting trait.  The one I can stand the least.  I can’t stands fear nor sorrow!

Anyway, so when Don said to come pick up the dog, I wanted to know why and he said it was cause he was sick of bein’ bit up all the time.  And ‘course!  I explained that I train all my dogs to go for the nut sack when they’re in protection mode…which is all the time…CAUSE THEY’RE WOLVES!  That’s why they’re good!  But he didn’t care.  And I guess Brutany’d gotten mauled a couple times too…but you know what?  It taught that girl to stop sleep walkin’ in the middle of the damn night and to keep her ass planted in that bed if she didn’t wanna get more scars and puncture wounds in the back of her head and in her thighs.

So, okay.  I get over there, and I’m ready to pick up the dog, and Don’s got my drunk, skank daughter by the throat.  And her eyes are all buggin’ out and her whole head is dark purple.  I’m lookin’ at them and it seems like she’s dead in certain moments but then her big swollen tongue would move a little and she’d start bubbling and makin’ like puke noises combined with what it sounds like when you pop your knuckles…if that makes any sense.  If you haven’t heard it or done it yourself, it’s hard to describe.

Anyway, Don’s yellin’ some shit like, “I fuckin’ killed you!  I fuckin’ killed you!”  And Brutany’s real young at the time and she’s bawlin’ in the corner under this springy plastic rocking horse someone’d pulled outta the trash.  Crying, “Momma!  Momma!” And I DUNNO!…shoot me!  To me, it looked like Don had everything under control.  So, I told Brutany to shut the fuck up or Grampa would give her something to cry about and I grabbed ‘ahold my dick.  But since I didn’t have time just then, I gave her a box of brownie mix to eat on instead.  All I had on my mind the whole time, though, was the prospective buyer I had found for the dog, you know?  Jesus! And I could hardly think with all that wailing!  I HAD to get the dog outta there before his temperament got all fucked up and ruined watching and listening to the crap going on in that house.  I collared him up and we walked out.  Brutany was hangin’ on my legs screaming for me to take her with me.  But there wasn’t any room in the truck…not with the dog too.  So, I left.  Anyway, luckily, it worked out cause the buyer lady came a couple days later with a check.  She even called me a few weeks ago to say she wants to buy a She Wolf, so we’re in negotiations for that now.  I’ll want to co-own the puppies with her.  So yeh, business is going pretty alright this year.  Which is nice, cause up until that dyke came along, I’d never sold even one dog.  I’d have to drive up into the woods east of the paper plant and dump ‘em pretty regular when it got too crowded down at the house. Apparently, the ones who didn’t starve to death made a pack.  I keep hearing on the news that the deer population is this area is nearing obliteration.  Hell, I only hunt bear, so why do I give a fuck?  I don’t.

The only real hitch in my stride now is that Brutany’s disappeared.  So, I’m hoping ya’ll can help.  “Please ya’ll help.”  I need my grand baby back.  I hope whoever got her din’t kill her, cause the housework’s really been piling up and I don’t got no one to hose down the kennels and help me welp the pups when the bitches are due.  Plus, our bed ain’t been made in weeks.

The oriental next door reported me for what she termed “overwhelming canine fecal odor”, so animal control came out and threatened to fine me if it wasn’t taken care of at least once a week.  Now when I see that chink face neighbor I ask her when her “overwhelming cunt yeast stench” is going to produce something useful like a bag of Van De Kamps.  That shuts her slant head up.

Well, I gotta go take a dump.  I gotta beer shit in me three days old.  But, please.  If you see a little 8 year old girl with a puffy, bruised up face, filthy matted hair and tears in her eyes, it might be Brutany.  She still ain’t been broke of that damn crying yet.  And hey ya’ll if you could repost this to your Facebook profiles, I’d shore ‘preciate it.  Twitter it up.

 NANCY GRACE.  MISSING KID.

 NANCY GRACE.  MISSING KID.

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SHIT!

shit facepigtails SHIT!

By Jean Marie Black

There are a lot of horrible things that can happen to a person. If we thought about them, we’d never leave our houses. A person can be tortured and murdered, a person can be pulverized into a smear of blood and ground bone if an elevator door malfunctions. You can go out to buy cat food and get killed in a head-on crash by some shit-faced asshole who crosses the yellow line and plows into you head-on at 85 miles an hour. You can accidentally have your scalp ripped off if you work in a factory. Or, you can be a grown-up person, an actual adult, and inexplicably just shit your pants like a common baby. It is this fear that concerns me most.

I honestly didn’t know this could happen until I was about 37. I thought not shitting your pants was like riding a bike; once you learn, that’s it, you’re good to go. But then some people I met at an improv theater asked me to join the new sketch group they were starting called Sketch-Up! (Get it? Like the condiment, only it’s comedy!) which, I’m guessing, is the world’s most overused name for a sketch group and a sign that those involved have no business doing comedy and should immediately shift gears and look for jobs as gravediggers in a for-children-only cemetery. Anyway, at the first meeting of Sketch-Up (the only meeting I attended, by the way), I arrived on the doorstep just in time to hear through the door the two other females in the group gossiping about me and how old I might possibly be. Once I entered the apartment, things got a whole lot worse because it was here that I would learn that adults sometimes shit their pants.

In a “let’s get to know each other” go-round of “what’s the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?” both of these worthless coozes revealed that they had shit their pants at the mall because they ate a fucking hamburger. Yup. They ate a hamburger and it was such a shock to their salad-ravaged systems that their body involuntarily blasted a pile of feces right into their dumb, unfunny pants…at the mall. Are you kidding me? You wanna know how old I am? I’m “ha-ha you shit your pants in public, asshole.” THAT’S how old I am!

Even though I loathed these two bitches, they had successfully planted a fear seed in my mind. Could this ever happen to me? I mean, they may be vapid cunts, but I’m sure they have bowel control. Right?? These girls may be nothing like me personality-wise, but our assholes are probably made of the same materials, so if theirs could just give way, does that mean mine could too? I tried to reassure myself with the thought that I had eaten both burgers and salads interchangeably over the years with no explosive and socially damning consequences, but still…this was now officially a concern that I had to drag around in my brain bag. I mean, you can probably avoid a scalping by not wearing your hair in a long ponytail if you work in a factory with big machinery (see above), but everyone has to eat. And they have to do so multiple times per day! What the fuck?!

Years passed. Years in which I ate whatever I wanted and over-drank on many occasions and never even came close to adult pants-shitting. My fear subsided. So much so, actually, that I would use this fact to puff up my ego when I was down, telling myself that, well, at least I had never shit my pants as an adult. The storm of needless worry had passed.

Well, until last year, that is, when another tale of sudden, involuntary, adult pants-shitting was told in my presence. This time, it wasn’t some delicate, female salad-eater, it was a full-grown, 40-something man, an intelligent grown-up! With a law degree! Who made his living as a day trader! If anyone were capable of avoiding the humiliating sting of public pants-shitting, surely it was him. If he was not safe from it, who is?! This time, however, the blame could not be laid at the foot of a hamburger. No, this time the culprit was the supposedly healthy ol’ watermelon. This gentleman had visited his parents in Ohio; and, just before leaving for the airport to fly back to LA, his practical, Midwestern dad had ordered him to help finish up all the watermelon so that it didn’t go to waste. He obliged his father and then while driving around the airport in his rental car, the unthinkable started to happen. He had to illegally park and run into a terminal, sprinting to a bathroom before it was too late, but apparently missing that window by just seconds and shitting his pants just outside the men’s room. Oh, and he was wearing chinos; the beige kind. Sure, I laughed along with the others as he told his story; but inside, my brain was sweating profusely and pacing around in a renewed panic at the reminder that yes, oh yes, involuntary adult pants-shitting CAN and DOES happen.

How do you psychologically bounce back after something like that? How do you ever trust your body to be taken out in public again? How do you ever forget that THAT, yes, THAT happened?

It’s official. I do not know how people go on after their child is murdered, and I do not know how people go on after they shit their pants. The human psyche cannot possibly be that resilient.

 SHIT!

 SHIT!

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CHASE BANK IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD

chase bank  were here for you CHASE BANK IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD

By T-Wrecks

Blaaaarrrghhghgh!  Gross.  I just went to this Chase branch today to cash a Chase check.  Since when did banking become like buying a used car?  There were even balloons in the parking lot.

I’m not a member of Chase Bank, but everyone in this branch was trying to high-pressure salesman me.  Seven…SEVEN people were on top of me like starving vultures hocking Chase checking accounts.  I even took the time to talk with one of the guys to see what their checking looked like.  I’m open to hearing about it.  When I found it would cost me money because I can’t use direct deposit, it devolved into William H. Macy in Fargo pushing Truecoat.

So, I continue on to cash this Chase check and they charged me six dollars to cash it!  Are you fucking kidding me?  Chase charges SIX DOLLARS to cash their own checks?  Now, I’m no huge fan of Bank of America either, but they have NEVER charged me a fee to cash a check that belongs to them.  Chase insisted they do.  Well, they’ve never charged me, so…? The blue-shirted vultures stared at me like I was a lunatic.

And they think I’d want to be a Chase customer after feeing me to cash their own stupid check?  What kinda money would they plan on stealing from me as a member? No fuckin’ thanks, Chase.  You can keep your Truecoat.

 CHASE BANK IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD

 CHASE BANK IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD

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