My Family Tree is Full of Crazy

This is my ADD brain...

This is my ADD brain on a soapbox...

Why are people so effin' crazy??!!??  And why are all the effin' crazy people related to me?!?  

There is nothing I hate worse in the world than a deadbeat parent; yet, my family tree is full of them.  And they just keep fornicating and procreating like it's nobody's business only to have more effin' kids with effin' loser parents and no chance in the world of ever becoming "normal" effin' people!!!

Deadbeat parents are not the only pet-peeves that seem to flourish among our branches.  How about refusing to be accountable or responsible for one's own action?  Even worse, what about playing the victim where everyone else is to blame for what happens?  The old "Yes, I did it, but it's her fault" syndrome.  I just want to rip out someone's eyeballs when I hear shit like that.

Yes, Officer.  I did drive through the red light, but it was the car in front of mine's fault.  If she would have been a little faster, I could have gotten through the intersection on yellow. 

Blah, blah, blah.  Well, if my aunt had a penis, she'd be my uncle!  And if Jesus Christ himself were hear, He'd strike your ass down with a bolt of lightning!

Life is what it is.  Accept it and try to make the best of it.  Do right by the people in your life.  If you have a family, take care of them.  News flash...  Life is not about YOU!  Hello?!?!  Heard of Sodom and Gomorrah?  I repeat.  This life AIN'T about YOU!

When you bring kids into the world, you better make damn sure that you put their needs and best interest FIRST.  A real parent sticks out the tough times for those kids.  When money is tight and things are hard, a real parent works 2 or 3 or even 4 jobs to provide for those kids.  Food and diapers come before BEER and smokes.  We'd all love to live on the beach with the sand between our toes and the wind in our hair and not a care in the world.  And one day, that just might be possible.  But for now, there's a mortgage to be paid, kids to feed, and a family to keep whole.

Marriage is hard.  Parenting is even harder.

Love is not that feeling in the pit of your stomach.  That's called I-want-to-rip-your-clothes-off-and-knock-some-boots!!!

Love is holding your hand as you bury your parent.  And paying for the burial without so much as a single word about it.  Love is cleaning the toilets and bathing the kids at night while your partner cooks dinner and washes clothes.  Love is leaving work to deliver lunch money.  Love is family game night and late night tippy toes into your bedroom.  Love sees beauty through love handles, cellulite, and wrinkles. 

Love is also admitting when you're wrong and saying you're sorry.  Love is not giving up when you really, really want to.  Love doesn't run away.  Love is mature and responsible and sometimes a little boring.

Love is not a feeling; it's a damn commitment.  A commitment to do right.  For better or worse.  Sicker or poorer.  Married or not, if you have kids the same rules apply and should be bound by law.  You play house and bring kids into the world, you gotta play by house rules.


Boring is good.  Normal and drama-free is good. 
 
If you are reading this and you are related to me, this may be hurtful.  For that, I'm sorry.  Honestly.  But sometimes the damn truth has to be told and sometimes it hurts like hell!  How about you straighten your asses up?!?!  Maybe then I'd keep my two cents to myself.  But when you act like idiots and perpetuate your idiocy with more ignorant behavior, I just can't take it!  I swear if we weren't kin, I'd delete you from my cell phone.

Ya gotta grow up.  It's an unfortunate side effect of the aging process.

Now, put on your big girl panties or your big boy drawers, and fix. Your. SHIT!  It damn sure ain't going away just because you run away.

And people wonder why I live in Boringsville, USA, six hours away from my relatives...

Memoir Monday: Talladega Nights...and Days - Part 2

Yippee!  It's Memoir Monday! 

What you've not heard of Memoir Monday?  It's only the most talked about bloggy prompt EV-ER!  It was created by the most famous Oklahoman since Timothy McVeigh, Trav-O at I Like to Fish...  If you want to be among the cool and fashionable, you must go check him out!

This is part two of my Talladega Adventure.  To read the first edition, check it out here. 

After getting my new, totally ridiculous tramp stamp, we headed back to Hazel's to shower before hitting the club.  For a little hole in the wall in the middle of nowhere, the place was packed.  It seems there was some race thingy going on that weekend.  Nascar?  Dale Earnhardt?  Never heard of 'em.

The night was a blur of beer drinking, tattoo sporting, and honey creeping.  Period.  Same song, same dance, different city.  The night ended the same as many before it with me shacked up (no shagging, though; I do have some dignity) with a stranger in a place I couldn't find again if my life depended on it.  HELL-O?  Natalee Holloway?  Are you nuts, LB?  But that's how I rolled back in the day.  Luckily, he was a decent enough guy who even asked me to go to the race.

What race?  Oh, yea...the NASCAR Talladega 500!  I had to feign interest which was quite difficult.  My impression of NASCAR was not good up to this point.  Having gone to an actual race, it hasn't changed much either.  Picture Hillbilly Heaven and you have the Talladega 500.

I knew the day was going to be hilarious and memorable when dude pulled up with about 20 friends, 25 coolers full of beer, and a barbecue grill secured to the bed of his truck.  I'm taking you to the infield, girl!

*blink*  The infield?  *blink*

So the 20 friends all pitched in to pay the 50 gazillion dollars for admission.  Apparently, the infield is big time.  Who knew?  I was totally clueless, and I still had no idea what or where the infield was.  I soon learned, though, that the infield is that area inside the race track.  It is filled with RVs, tents, pick ups, rebel flags, and some things, frankly, that can only be appreciated in person.

Far too many of these guys...

The ever-popular Visqueen swimming pools...

 

The official beer of Nascar...

Live sex acts Mud wrestlin'...

It was like Mardi Gras for the inbreeding community!  On race day, the churches and the Klan meetings are canceled.  Everyone puts on their Dale Earnhardt (the original, not Dale Jr.) paraphernalia and hits the track.  Numbered flags are flown high on every front porch leading to the track. 

Although we headed out early in the morning, we waited in the infield line for what seemed like hours.We finally got in and found a good spot on Turn 2.  Like me fluent Nascar lingo?

 

It was 185 degrees.  At ten in the morning.  The redneck swimming pools were everywhere.  I know why country boys prefer trucks.  Not only can they haul stuff in the back and ride through muddy terrain with the greatest of ease, they can also create an impromptu wading pool with a sheet of visqueen and a water hose.  If they weren't relaxing in their Z-71 pools, they were slipping and sliding.  That visqueen is pretty versatile stuff, ya know.

I can't just rag on the dudes, though.  The girls were just as, well, entertaining.  Though I'm pretty sure mall hair went out in the late 80s, the fashion police hadn't quite made it to Talladega, Alabama, yet.  I saw more camel toes, muffin tops, back fat, and barms than I ever wanted to see.  Cut offs with a bikini top was the standard uniform regardless of the size or amount of coverage.  Bottom line?  Lots of skanks!

I spent most of the day in dude's truck with the A/C turned on, though.  I was too hung over and too tired for such mayhem.  The best part of the day?  As we were rolled out of the infield after the race, Dude's dad fired up the grill.  In the back of the truck.  As we sat in traffic.  I was wondering why they had that thing secured so tightly.  A new twist on the tailgate party, if you will.

All in all, it was probably one of my better first dates.