I Hope You Die Alone, Slowly, and in Agonizing Pain

Five of you follow this. That is to say that five of you are willing to openly admit to following this blog. Why? I mean, why?

Today we took our children to the Houston Art Car Parade. Me, I’ve never been a real big fan of the Art Car parade. To me, prettying up your car, a machine that I tend to regard as something that simply exists because, here in this country, we spring boners at the thought of having our own giant machine, employed to take us hither and yon, espousing without words our greatest slant towards the tenets of “freedom” we so dualistically enjoy.

Yeah, yeah, we love being free, so long as it doesn’t impinge on our need to control the freedom of the motherfucker next door. That brown bitch worships a different god than me! Can you imagine that? FUCK THAT.

Sure, genuine creativity goes into many art cars. I can admit that and still think of art cars as a general waste of time.

Still, with kids you do what you can to keep them entertained so you aren’t spending the balance of your time with them diffusing wars over who owns what, who must have Gatorade before they apparently die of madness, who can most exploit their underdeveloped talents to their personal advantage, and who can ask the most useless questions in a 24 hour period.

If you weigh your options, on a weekend like this one the Art Car Parade seems like a no-brainer way to keep the spawn at bay.

You’d be wrong on that one.

If you are fortunate enough to not be familiar with Houston, this cesspool of hillbilly inbreeding, christian-traditional backwards ignorance, and heat and humidity levels suited more for slime moulds than people, then this is the state for you.

Today if you so much as moved your chest as you drew in oxygen you would start to sweat. If you were to, say, carry your 40 lb child about a mile to the parade grounds because they openly displayed a lack of desire to get anywhere within our lifetimes, and were furthermore intent on complaining in an awe-inspiring display of incessant irritation, you would pretty much walk away from today’s parade soaked in your own brine like a fucking lobster.

You’d look like one too if you were, say, lucky enough to have your sunblock wipe off during the dreamfest of the parade proper.

So imagine my excitement upon returning to our parking lot only to discover that, in the place of our car, the family Griswold had the pleasure of discovering that our car was gone! Oh yes, towed it was! In the 96 degree heat, with the 85% humidity, with three children, all under 6, one just 2!

Imagine that? Imagine the upswell of joy and emotional warmth that filled me from the inside out.

I would like, maybe as an aside, to tell my side, since, it turns out, it ended up costing me $200 just to get the fucking car out of an impound lot.

We parked in a pay lot. The towcunt sat immediately behind us as we unloaded the brood. This fat fucking piece of human shit sat there, directly behind us, and watched me as I shoved a fiver in the slot for our appropriate parking spot. HE FUCKING WATCHED ME PAY FOR OUR SPOT.

And then, as we were enduring the parade, he towed our fucking car!

Returning to the scene of the, let’s face it, crime, I died a little inside. I made my angry phone calls, found the number of the towing company, and demanded the tow-truck cock return and sort this out.

When the fat fuck arrived it was immediately apparent that this guy would never relent without the risk of imminent bodily harm. I considered it, oh how I considered it. But ultimately, I knew that was not an option. Okay, it was not a viable option. Let’s put it that way.

He argued wit me, showed me a photo he took of the money box, opened, with no money in the slot for our spot, as if this somehow triggered my idiot button allowing me to suddenly disregard reason and instantly turn into a total and unyielding imbecile.

Oddly enough this didn’t work at all.

This poor, fat, air-conditioned, greying, coronary impending dickrider had the nerve to tell me that as I was being less than cordial with him he was going to leave and stop trying to help me.

Figuring how this cunt was helping me would haunt me ‘til death were I dumb enough to ponder such useless things.

I had no reasonable choice. I had no graphic proof I paid these criminals.

Still, I called the pigs out ‘cause I wanted them to talk sense into the whale-man. Unfortunately, the pigs were too busy not giving a shit, thus leaving us in this lawless shithole of Houston, fucked and powerless.

god, how I love feeling powerless. ‘Cause you know, I don’t get enough of that in other venues, eh?

The price to retrieve our illegally towed vehicle, you ask? A mere $200, that’s all. $200 to repair the damage done to us from a fat asshole, from an inbred town, and from the pathetic idea I fostered that we wouldn’t get fucked parking in a pay lot.

I hate humanity in case you didn’t know.

It’s not a new development, it’s archetypal. It’s in my DNA. I am genetically programmed to see the ailment of humanity that parades before us like painted, crippled whores as little more than an open display of declining horror. We are an ever increasing equation of diminishing return.

Thankfully, one day, our blight will be wiped away. I would never have the strength to do it, to make it happen as it were. I am a coward.

I am prone to see the aesthetic in this well of dark. I am inclined to regard the ugly, the horrible, the mundane, and the outright idiotic, and somehow manage to pluck a single, beautiful hair from the rotting corpse. It is the only thing that makes me survive. Otherwise, I would be in the news, and you on your high horse could revel in telling your vapid half-acquaintances and empty-eyed others about how you knew me before I “really lost it.”

Don’t hold your breath.

Unless you happen to be a fat fucking lowlife predator that lies in wait, burrito in hand, ready at a moment’s notice, to fuck the day of a family struggling against all the odds to carve a tiny niche for ourselves so that we might be able to live this life, love each other the way we deserve to be loved, and keep the hounds of ignorant, blind, fanged bloodlust at bay so that we might be able to rot away with something under our nails that reeks ever-so-subtly of dignity, of strength, then maybe there’s hope that you aren’t part of this indicative wave of dickheadism that seems to be so rampant across this toilet of a country.

It’s a thought.