Okay. Funeral and military graveside services are set for Saturday. Non-gay looking floral arrangements are taken care of. The jap car has been washed. Hospice stuff was picked up within hours of Pops' death. His obituary has been written. Condolences have been given and received and more fucking casseroles have been delivered than I thought possible. About the only thing I can think of is his marker - I'm going to try to sweet talk Mom into making sure there's a "III" on that motherfucker somewhere.
Now I'm fixing to go off: Casseroles. Jesus Christ..... What the fuck is it about casseroles and deaths? Are they trying to kill more of us off? Don't get me wrong - I do appreciate a good casserole occasionally. Occasionally. But when you're looking at 4 or 5 of those motherfuckers with a combined weight of 38.6 pounds...... Surely all those kind folks (and I am thankful for their generous hearts) didn't think 'Hmmm, I bet nobody bought Mrs. Lane a casserole today' did they? Ladies, we appreciate the thought but not the casserole.
Check this shit out - you want to bring something that is really gonna be appreciated? Bring a party tray of meats and cheeses. A couple of pizzas. Some hash brownies. Some fresh fruit kicks ass right then. Some venison jerky or some smoked fish would be tasty. Ice cream. Pleasure food, you know? Something filling, nourishing, tasty and quick.
I saw this shit coming and immediately distanced myself from any casseroles. As I said, I do appreciate a good casserole so I ate some of my first casserole last night - Aunt Fran's World Famous Enchilada Casserole and I'm fixing to have some more in a bit. It's world famous for a reason.... but had I been eating casseroles all along I'd be gagging them up by now.
And as long as I'm ranting let's talk about motherfuckers wanting to hug on me. My line of thinking is that if you won't hug on me any other time then keep your goddamned hands off me now.
Picture this: I'm sitting in Pop's chair (and there ain't a fucking thing he can do about it now) feeding a casserole to the dog and watching Predator Quest, not bothering nobody, and just as Les Johnson's about to make a spectacular shot, some woman I haven't even met comes up and throws her fucking arms around me and says "You must be Kenneth. I know how you feel, you poor thing."
No you don't, Godammit. You just made me miss his fucking shot. Get the fuck away from me.
I'm serious, man. I got relatives I haven't seen in 30-40 years coming up and hugging on me. There's a reason I haven't seen these motherfuckers in 30-40 years - it's because I don't like them. Can't they take a fucking hint? If I saw them on the street I wouldn't even acknowledge their existence, but now it's okay to hug on me? Again, get the fuck away from me. And stay away. I don't like strangers putting their hands on me, I won't tolerate letting people I don't like near me.
And one more thing before I go off on another tangent - If you do hug on me and happen to run across a knife or two and a firearm, try to keep it to yourself, yeah? Godammit, if you think you know me well enough to be hugging on me then you damned sure oughta know I'm carrying some weaponry. And believe me, everybody else in the room has already felt me up and is well aware of the fact that I have a gun on me and you know what? They don't fucking care. They're still there, ain't they? Fuck, if the law was to break in and search everybody in that house, they'd find 90% of the adults and maybe even a couple of the youngsters are carrying a gun too. Big deal. Shut the fuck up about it.
Okay. I'm done. Thank God for xanax.