I represent the cat in the foreground in this post modern tale of Noah’s Ark Redux.
This story about the Remainder Man, he’s the orange tabby mounting that patchy 43-year-old kitty…Quick recap in case you are new: he’s the one I tell you about sometimes because I see him occasionally when he is on a “break” from his girlfriend who is a crazy bitch but not in the good way. I have recently found out there are levels of “crazy bitch” by the menfolk at my gym, where I have been hanging out a little too much since I was fired from the dusty box store two weeks ago WHICH I AM BITTER ABOUT….STILL….Last week, I went to two other dusty box stores TO GET A WHIFF OF THE SWEET SMELL OF LUMBER and to strut through the cement floor race track, this time in high heels, not steel toes, just to change up the game. It didn’t really have the same effect, though, and the people who worked there looked like dull-witted Bitch Stewie replicates, kind of dead inside which is what the dust bin does in the end, robs you of your soul, as the legend has it. But! It had the opposite effect on me, it blasted away the concrete all that was blocking my mojo chokra and now I have to go out of my way and walk into random lumber yards and soon Christmas tree lots just for maintenance. It’s all about the wood, kittens, I miss it so. I AM BITTER AS FUCK! Although, I will say my heart has been warmed by some of my old co-workers who have read this blasphemous blog that caused my demise and shouted out their support via the interwebs. Some people you might not think would even care can be surprisingly awesome, and yet others are so alarmingly disappointing, they wear their masks well. That is what I took away from dusty box: There are some really good peeps in the world’s barnyard but most are just vapid, corporate cocksucking sheep…baaaahhhh, because mediocrity makes the farm run so much more efficiently.
Anyway, it turned out that exactly the same time I was fired, Remainder Man and his girlfriend broke up which is nothing unusual because it happens every 2 months. That’s when the levee in her left ovary (that’s the cranky one) breaks and she picks a fight so bad, he storms out, gets a bottle of rum that he washes down the Diet Coke (I know, barffff) alone in his basement apartment that nobody has been to because it is fuck knows where and he calls me #inadrunkenstupor that night. It’s clockwork! They don’t talk for exactly the next 5 days and I get to go out with him for wings and beers when he is hungover, always the following day, where he will chase the dragon with 2 beers to my 1, I usually have 2 so he will have 4, and if I have a third then he will break the pattern and have 8, it is a consistent set pattern of drunken math that will later end up with him text messaging a selfie of his chode at half mast. I will call him and sing “Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty, Little Ball of Fur” and he will pass out. Lather, rinse repeat, every two months.
This time, day 5 came and went and then before we knew it, nearly two weeks went by and he and I were enjoying daily beers daily on a daily basis. It was daily-riffic. I almost felt like I had a daily purpose beside the heinous daily activity of job hunting. I HATE JOB HUNTING, I AM SO BITTER, UGH!
Last Thursday, while we were having an afternoon pint(s), marvelling over the fact that his breakup just might stick this time, he gets a call from some -as he describes- “girl” (she is technically middle-aged) he has known since high school, who needs him to clean out some eavestrough or some such shit. I have an eavestrough, too, that could use a quick sweep but neither here not there. Remainder Man has womenfolk all crawling all over him like ticks on a deer, which, no surprise, was the big boner of contention with his girlfriend who is a crazy bitch* in a bad way. It’s hard to tell which came first, the jealous or the crazy, but if you want to hang with the Remainder Man, you better get used to him ogling twenty year old girls in yoga pants. He is who he is and if you can’t handle it, you have to dick wrangle some dude without eyes. Good luck with that, sister. They all look at ass but some hide it better, it’s just that Remainder Man has the impulse of a toddler and the enthusiasm of a puppy. Which I personally find endlessly amusing.
So Remainder Man goes on his little mission “cleaning the eavestrough” and the next morning texts me:
“I’m still at that girl’s house! we woke up naked, where u?”
‘I AM AT T&T ON CHERRY EATING SHRIMP BALLS, WTF HAPPENED?” (I am a Kanye West cap crazy texter)
“lol we got drunk and I tried but went limp twice lol”
“OMG, TRY WITH THE MORNING WOOD NOT WHEN U R DRUNK, HAVE U LEARNT ANYTHING?”
“I tried but am coma toast, we ordered thai, maybe after.”
“K CARRY ON SOLDIER”
Texting sucks. He spent the entire weekend with her, texting me what they were eating, what progress he was making. It turns out she is not “that kind of girl” who bangs on the first date, although dry humping on the side of the leg is just fine. Amazing. Someone got the rules just right. Kudos, sister, well played. And now he is all like in that holding pattern of blue ball hell that simulates love. TWO WEEKS AND HE HAS A NEW GIRLFRIEND AND I STILL HAVE NO JOB AND I JUST WANT MY PHONE TO RING FOR ONCE AND IT NOT BE FROM SOME RECORDED MESSAGE SAYING I WON A DISNEY CRUISE! I am bitter AND frustrated. I am a crazy bitch which by the way:
*CRAZY BITCH DEFINITION:
I’ve been spending some more time back at my gym where the best thing about it is the bar and you can easily go there and have random conversations with people like they did in the olden days before cell phones. I’ve gotten an earful from the old squash dudes who think of me as a fellow dude but with lady fuck parts. Actually I don’t even think they know I have a concave dick, they just tell me everything like I know what’s going on. This week I learned:
Cialis is better than Viagra. it works faster! Lasts longer!
Describing the shape of their poop makes them laugh really hard.
When their phone goes off and it’s their wife, their eyes roll.
When their phone goes off and it’s their girlfriend, their eyes roll.
Crazy bitches are the best. NOW I AM LISTENING, what exactly is crazy? A crazy bitch someone in a black wig and no bra who will kidnap you from a diner during your Friday lunch hour and drives you to a motel off the highway and strips you down and handcuffs you to the bed. While she rifles through your wallet, she finds your business card and calls your office to say you won’t be in that afternoon. And then you bang your brains out for the rest of the day. Afterwards, she takes her wig off and she is blond and you end up going with her to her high school reunion the next day where you get beat up within an inch of your life by her jealous ex-husband who is just out of prison and they end up driving away together leaving you bleeding to near death. It’s all so scary but when you go back to work on Monday, all you can think about is her, the crazy bitch who took you out of the doldrums of your boring day. (P.S. she comes back wearing a lot of jewelry and still no bra, it’s the plot of “Something Wild.”) It’s fiction, Charlie, fiction.
A Crazy Bitch in a Bad Way is the one who will call you on the phone and ask you to pick up some fried chicken on the way home and then remind you that you have to go to her sister’s for dinner on Sunday so there will be no football watching and that you need get winter tires for her car and why haven’t you noticed her new haircut and short hair is easier to keep up so fuck you and why are you not home yet and stop snoring and don’t chew so loudly and why do you trim your pubes when you haven’t sex with her in six months anyway? In other words, bitches just can’t win.
BITTER BITTER BITTER