Another World Famous Rant . . . Tell Your Friends! . . . and the Cunning Fennec Fox

29 January 2014

1248 hrs

Ok, so it’s been a while since I’ve been here to rant.  So guess what?  Here we go.  Shall I begin?  Splendid!

So what the hell?  I am so sick and tired of those dumbasses who are sitting around, pissing away their time here on this Pale Blue Dot, wondering when the fuck their lives are going to begin.

All y’all know of whom I speak/write:  All the idiots out there waiting for their One True Love, really actually believing they’re going to find them.  Really?

It’s like the jokes who believe in the Sweet Hereafter; the Sweet Bye and Bye . . .  The Sweet Kiss My Rebel Nether Lands.  So busy worrying about the next life you piss this one away.  Stupid, really.  I mean what if all of you After Lifers are wrong?  (And guess what . . .  you are!)  What if this is all there is?  What if this is as good as it gets?  Too bad that you won’t see how wrong y’all are after you’re dead because, well . . .  Duh!

 What a waste.  So many of you out there that don’t understand how valuable time is.  So many wasteful emmeffers.  Not you, Patient Reader . . .  You’re too smart to shit all over today.

But all you other dumbasses out there.  Jesus . . .  go visit an oncology ward or an ICU sometime and tell those you find there about your fucking day.  After you bore them to tears with your fucking sad stories; after they have stopped laughing at your perceived slights o’ the day; after they adjust to the shock that yes, there are people like you out there after all, then hear what they say about their own day . . .

Hear what they have to say about the chemo that fucks them up; losing their beautiful locks and eyelashes and eyebrows to this goddam parasite growing in them- metastasizing . . . committing angiogenesis; choking off the very cells from which they steal their nutrients.

Stand at the door and listen to the emesis basin filling up, somehow . . . miraculously- from a stomach that hasn’t had food in it for days.  How their families have to hide the mirrors so their loved ones don’t see the accidental anorexic that their child or sister or uncle or dad has become. 

Then stop and listen to how much pain there is.  How it hurts to have space-occupying lesions eat at, displace, and otherwise make room for themselves at the expense of the very host off of whom they feed.

Watch the seizures of someone dx’d with glioblastoma multiforme; watch them as they lose the sense of self; who they were . . . what they are . . . becoming.  Watch how they try, vainly, to come to grips with the fact that they are leaving their children.  For good!  This is not a trip to Wally Fucking World . . .  This is IT!  No Mulligans.  No Do-Overs . . .  No Takesy Backsies.  How do you tell your eight year old that mommy is going to die, never to be seen again?  How do you tell your forty-eight year old child? 

How do you tell your spouse that you fucked up?  That you broke your promise of growing old together?  How do you let them down like that?

Well, of course the spouse knows better.  Knows that it’s no no no nobody’s fault.  Well, except maybe it’s their fault- the fault of the spouses . . . maybe they should have been more concerned about the headaches, the photophobia . . . the nausea and the double-vision.

So yeah, everyone around the Thanksgiving table, listening to the Lions lose to whatever team on TV . . . all biting the biggest Shit Sandwich since who -knows-when.  All they DO know is that this is the last thanksgiving with that poor sick bastard over there.  Hell . . .  they’ll be lucky if they can hoist a green beer with them in the Pre-Spring.

Ask some poor asshole who did some time how they feel about pissing away a chunk, a goodly chunk, of their too-short lives?  Then tell them what y’all bitch about all day.

Not you, Patient Reader . . .  You’re too smart to shit all over today.

<heavy sigh post deep breath>

So what the hell is my rant today?  Well, it’s about you stupid assholes who are simply wasting time.  So what if Prince Fucking Charming hasn’t yet darkened your door.  WTF?  Doesn’t mean you have to sit in the damn house and wait for him- He Who Shall Never Come.

Damn it, find someone who makes you laugh and get a little happy.  There are no guarantees.  Don’t y’all watch romantic dramas?  Don’t you know that you meet and fall in love and one of you gets mashed by a logging truck or gets shot by a hit man hired by your business partner who not only got your job, your share of the dough, and is trying for your lady, too?  COME ON!

Not you, Patient Reader . . .  You’re too smart to shit all over today.

I know fifty-year-olds who sit around the house watching SyFy and scratching their way under-used balls, or whatever, just waiting for True Love to find them.  Don’t they know that somewhere on that street is someone who would love to spend an afternoon just looking into their eyes?  Just having a good goddam conversation for the first time in who knows how long?

And yeah, even the whole Friends With Benefits thing.  Who the fuck came up with that pedantic bullshit?

“Oh, I’m afraid my pituitary will squirt out oxytocin and I will bond with you and feel our collective junk will meld like melted humans annealed in a house fire . . .  I’ll bind to you like I did my baby when she suckled at my tender, ample and beautiful breast . . .  It wouldn’t be right to do the thingy if we’re not in love, because doing the thingy will make me fall in love and all that fucking silly sick Psycho-Fucking-Babble . . .”  Jesus H Schmitty, y’all,  Fear The Neurotransmitter . . .   

Never mind that when we “are” in love, it’s all cascading neurotransmitters anyway.  How undergoing an fMRI reveals that the circuitry that lights up when you see an image of your spouse, or even picture his picture in your mind, is the same circuitry that lights up when you eat chocolate, or smell fresh-ground coffee or bite into a scotch bonnet.

Neurotransmitters are bad except when they are good.

Not with you, Patient Reader . . .  You’re too smart to shit all over today.

 So grab a nice, clean friend.   Understand that he may not be The Poor Bastard . . .  er, I mean The One, and fuck his or her brains out.  Just be responsible.  If you don’t want to bring a friend-let into this godforsaken shithole we call our planet (and jeez, why wouldn’t you?) . . .  well, then . . .  Don’t.  Dipshits! (Not you, Patient Reader . . .  You’re too smart to shit all over today.)

So get over yourself and get your shit together and go over to someone’s house and show each other what it means to make another human feel good.  Can you at least do that while you wait for your Knight in Shining Armour to show up?  By the way, remember Lancelot made Guinevere cheat on Arthur, so if that’s your man, keep wishing for your Knight.  Meantime, there’s that guy (or gal) across the coffee shop that would love the chance to see you smile and make as many good moments with you as possible for the next 18 hours, two and a half years . . .  three decades?

However long it lasts make it good and respect one another and strive to not hurt each other or yourselves.  Make them feel safe as long as y’all are in each other’s lives.  And if That Dude shows up, well . . .  y’all can part knowing that it was what it was, no harm no foul.  Just do one another right.

Just get off your fucking asses and Get to It . . .  Right, Saker?

Not you, Patient Reader . . .  You’re too smart to shit all over today.

Sink or Swim in this life . . .  If you choose to swim, swim well . . .

            So I leave y’all to it.  Don’t fucking listen to anything I said.  Go on and be miserable and lonely or whatever . . .  I’ll see you soon.

Always Your,

Cunning Fennec Fox

P.S.  chickwithaquill kicks ass!