Wednesday, January 31, 2018

You All Suck (Exhibit #17 -- There's Never a Gun Around When You Need One)

The Modern Human Being is a walking advertisement for both birth control and retroactive late term abortion...

One of the more-interesting things about hanging around an infectious disease ward is that you get to meet some pretty special people.

Mrs. Overlord, it should be said, is about to be sprung from the hospital, where she been for the last 22 days (at the time of this writing). She will be spending some time in a rehabilitation facility, here she will be getting the physical and respiratory therapy she will need going forward.

Suffice to say, we are deeply appreciative of all the well-wishes sent our way. Thank you.

Now...what was I talking about? Right...interesting people...

I don't mean "interesting" in the sense that these are folks that grab your attention, and keep you riveted to your seat, as they regale you with tales of their stupendous achievements; they do not amaze you with incredible stories of their day-to-day exploits on safari, or climbing K2, or surfing during a tsunami with a pod of killer whales chasing them. No, it can't be something like that,because then it might be a genuine pleasure having to associate with people you're otherwise trapped with inside a disease-riddled concrete box on the Upper East Side.

No,what makes these folks truly interesting is the stupefying depths of their inner fucktard, and what makes them truly amazing --  and not in a way that Winston Churchill or Amelia Earhart, or even Cleopatra were amazing, that is to say, fascinating people who had led interesting lives -- but their own un-awareness of their inner fucktard.

In any other age but the current one, such people might have been banished from the isle to drift at sea in a leaky boat; they might have had a false charge of witchcraft levied against them in the hope they might be burnt at the stake; they may have served some useful purpose being fed to the lions in the ancient arena. But this day and age, such examples of damaged DNA are allowed to walk about freely, making nuisances of themselves.

Let's start with Frannie Femdouche (not her real name, because I don't know it, but the moniker is perfectly descriptive).

I see Frannie at least four times a day, and have for the last two weeks. We're on the same coffee/cigarette schedule. We had not spoken to one another until the day before yesterday, and frankly, I now regret having broken this mutually-agreed upon silence.

You see, apparently I have a problem: Whenever Frannie and I manage to arrive at some point in time and space simultaneously -- an elevator, a doorway -- I do something, reflexively, that I was trained to do by my forebears and by my cultural experience.

I will hold a door open for her and let her pass through first.

I will hold an elevator to let her get on it before the doors close.

In short, I will behave like a gentleman.

This bothers Frannie to no end. In fact, it finally bunched her maxipad so much that she felt compelled to speak to me about this annoying habit of mine.

She informs me that, while she appreciates the gesture of holding a door open for her is intended as an expression of great courtesy, and she recognizes that I'm simply responding to a cultural imperative like a trained dog, it really isn't necessary, it's anachronistic, and she finds my actions to be sexist and slightly demeaning. Would I please stop doing this?

Then she got angry at me this morning because I body-checked her out of my way as I passed her in a rush down the hallway without excusing myself. You should have seen the look on her face when I slammed a door shut as she was on my heels trying to pass through.

You should have heard the lecture on civility I got for it, too.

I told her to save her speech for tomorrow...when I had planned to punch her in the cunt. After all, I'm  just a mind-numbed, unthinking, chauvinistic, Neanderthal puppet of the Patriarchy, and I don't know any better.

Maybe then she can re-evaluate the true meanings of the words "Sexist" and "Demeaning".

Next, we have the shining example of Cognitive Dissonance that is Bobby Buttsex, who would make a fascinating case study on so many levels.

During this three week ordeal of Hell in a Hospital, it was necessary at one point for me to stay until the wee hours at Mrs. Overlord's bedside to provide what she called "emotional support", which apparently means I'm supposed to be there to hold her hand every time the staff does something that makes her uncomfortable, or which fills her with an unreasonable dread.

Like arrive with the bedpan she requested.

Like when the therapist comes to apply her bi-pap mask.

Like when it's time for her to take the nutritional supplements that the nurse has to break into multiple tiny fragments because Mrs. Overlord has a mental block when it comes to swallowing pills, and they won't crush them into a fine powder on a spoon and sprinkle sugar on them for her. In this manner, a single pill is to be broken down into 8 fragments, requiring 8 glasses of water, during which time Mrs. Overlord moans, groans, and whimpers like a beaten puppy, because IT'S SUCH AN ORDEAL.

Anyhow, Bobby and I became something of confidantes during late-night coffee klatches in the lounge. He obviously needed someone to talk to in his overly-emo state (because Binky-poo has a Boo-Boo, the poor fag -- his words, not mine), and something told him that I look like his fucking therapist.

Bobby has only three topics of conversation:

1. Binky-poo's boo-boo (It's disgusting. You don't want to know, even if it is sorta-kinda funny).

2. Shoes.

3. Gay Rights and "the Struggle".

Basically, "the Struggle" revolves around the emotional aspects of being a Gay Man in the 21st Century, how this makes Gay Men superior in every way to anyone else (fuck you, NAACP!), how everyone else is a prejudiced against Gay Men, Gay, Gay, Gay, Fag, Fag, Fag, Didn't you notice I'm Fucking GAY? Just in case you didn't, let me tell you how fucking gay I really am.

And then let me tell you again, just in case you forgot.

I know Bobby's type very well. After 20-plus years on Wall Street, where you couldn't swing a dead cat without hitting half a dozen Gay people, and catching at least three more within blood-spatter range, I am well-acquainted with the sort of overly-dramatic, self-absorbed, Gay-is-the-Center-of-My-Universe drama queen.

No matter what the subject, it's ultimately all about THEM.

Anyway, after about four nights of one-sided, all-gay-all-the-time, pretend conversations, Bobby noticed that whenever he went off on yet another Gay Tangent, I simply smiled, nodded my head, and then changed the subject. This annoys him. It puzzles him. It compels him to assume that I'm a homophobe, and really, what the fuck is my problem?

(Yes, he seriously asked the question, just like that!)

I asked him what his problem was: after all, I had only heard -- for four nights in a row -- how difficult it was to be Gay, to be accepted as Gay, how people have hang-ups over Gay. I said it seemed to me that all Bobby could talk about was Gay, particularly his personal Gay (maybe you have the hangups, Bobby?), and that there is something seriously wrong with a guy who has just harangued a perfect stranger -- FOR FOUR FUCKING NIGHTS -- who doesn't seem to care that he's gay, appears perfectly accepting of him despite the fact that he's gay, and has exhibited no hostility at all on the basis of sexual preference, because....because Bobby is upset his Gay isn't recognized as something that makes him special and worthy of extra attention.

I mean, isn't that what all the bullshit over Gay Rights was supposed to be about? Being accepted, being treated as a human being, about making being gay no different than being White, or Catholic, or anything or anyone else? Isn't this acceptance and apathy EXACTLY what you guys begged for...for decades?

And now that you have it, that's not good enough? You expect to be both accepted as an individual AND fawned over for being a Salami Smuggler, too?

I already have enough batshit-insane women in my life thank you. Fuck off.

And he did.

I'm told Binky-poo pulled through, and the infection in his (very) lower intestines (where the gerbil probably tried to dig his way out) is under control.

She can't get out of this hospital soon enough.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I feel Mrs Overlord's pain; pills are the worst.