Saturday, July 14, 2012



Over the years, I have become more outspoken, particularly when it comes to voicing an opinion involving someone bullying a weaker, smaller being. I cultivated this virtue along with what some would see as the vice of just being well, outspoken. I don't seem to have developed much of a governor with the forthrightness. Some may find it offensive. Others say it's refreshing. Others say I'm deranged. I think it's amusing.

I had not even begun to develop these traits when I really hit bottom in September of 2010. Malnourished, bruised, broken bones, unable to walk and blind (well, I was already blind and this predicament is for another telling; the list grows) I was taken to TGH by DCF, where I stayed for 5 weeks. I spent another 5 weeks in a physical rehabilitation center, doing fly-bys on the cafeteria. As I was using a walker, we had slow-speed chases through the halls. The kitchen workers were half-assed in their attampts to recover the stolen goods; I weighed less than 90 pounds. But I digress.

Without saying too much more; I allowed myself to be put in that position. Through a combination of mild outlook and a vague feeling that I would always be rewarded in kind, I held my tongue and my temper. Not a good thing to do. With few exceptions, I never stood up for myself, or anyone else. I can't blame my parents; I had one who was complacent and one who was outspoken to the point of offensiveness, at times. No. What I was, was scared. The stupid thing? I've never been physically scared. I'll take anyone on and have. But verbal engagement? I'm looking for a closet to hide in.

I got over that shit after I almost died. I don't want this to be all serious, because it isn't. I go for the jugular verbally, if the situation is right. I used to do it regularly at Happy Acres. It wasn't fair there, because 1) I think I have a few more operative brain cells than my combatants and 2) I have a few more words at my fingertips.

Some of you may recall the famous, well semi-known story of Mr. C, who is 6' tall. Mr. C, to be fair to him, resembles a golem, only without the manners. He called the cops on D. She is 4'11". D, to be fair to her, resembles a garden gnome on crack, with bad skin. Mr. C called the police on D for calling him a "fucking asshole." The cops, who were well-used to "visits" to HA asked why D would call Mr. C a "swear." D said, "cause he won't do his fuckin' dishes." The cops looked at them both, incredulous. H and I were rolling around on the front porch in mirth over this shit. The cops pointed at Mr. C. "you, do your dishes." They pointed at D. "you, stop swearing." And, they left.

A few days later, H was cooking in the kitchen. Mr. C comes in and says to her, "I wish for counter space." She looks at him and says, "Bite me." He says "I do not wish to bite you, I wish for counter space." I almost fell into the sink. 

Mr. C's adventures continue. A day or so later, I was standing at the foot of the stairs in our house, talking to H and D. Mr. C comes up behind me. I know it's him. I can sense his golemness behind me. Snort. Mr. C never talked. He snorted. Snort. Impatient snort. Then, "...Move!" No "Excuse me, Pardon me, Do you mind?" I jumped and yipped. It scared me. He passed by. I said,"You could warn a person, Dumb Shit! Now, are you going to call the police, or should I call 'em myself to save time?!?"

Hilarity ensued in that hall. Mr C had a "reputation." As what, I've never quite established. He's from the Congo, or maybe it's Pluto. It's hard to tell. He golfs. I used to see him get on the Number 2 Nebraska Avenue Bus with his clubs wearing his stupid garish golf clothes and cleats, minus the hat with the puffy ball. Picture that among the 'bangers with their tats and hoes. 

He may have been trying to channel Snoop Dog, but the Dawg is way cooler. Dawg doesn't have the Mental thing going on. Besides, golf and Municipal Bus Line don't mix. The biggest gut-buster of this whole thing? The first time H and I saw him with the clubs, at different times I might add, she asked "so, are you going to club yourself about the head and shoulders with those?" and, later I asked Mr. C, "oh, off to commit mass murder today, are you?" Later, when we compared notes, I thought I was going to have to buy a truss. 

This post probably falls under number 17. A catastrophe now makes a good story later. Only this is a slow-moving one. Fo' shizzle. 

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