So Much For A Little Fun

This mentality is more prevalent that you think.

Today's bark was going to be about the creature from hell that has invaded/reinvaded my office.  A turn of events has made that bark take a back seat.  The creature from hell does factor into today's bark, which is now going to be a two-parter.  The next part will be a prequel of sorts to today's episode. 

First, the cast of characters.  There's me, my sidekick and partner in crime, the creature from hell, and the brain-damaged fundy.  The creature from hell will be referred to as Bob - short for Bitter Old Bitch.  Bob was the receptionist at my firm when I went to work there 14 years ago.  She's been gone for 10 years, and she's back doing some part-time clerical work for one of the guys in the building.  She a fundy, nosey, bossy, bitchy, bitter, has a nasaly voice that sounds like a chicken squawking.  Brain-damaged fundy will factor in later.

A wheel on my chair needed to be oiled and was making a particularly obnoxious noise if I rolled around too fast.  I was getting up from my desk and the wheel squawled.  Bob's office is down the hall from mine, and she started squawking, "what was that?  What was that?"  Her voice is like the sound of someone scratching their nails down a chalkboard at a farting contest.  Gilbert Gottfried!  That's it!  She sounds like Gilbert Gottfried.  She kept squawking "what was that" for several minutes until I yelled out "FOR FUCK'S SAKE, IT'S MY CHAIR."  She squawked out something that I chose to ignore (probably complaining because I say fuck a lot) and I went about my business. 

Later that afternoon, I tell Partner in Crime about it.  I was still annoyed.  I told Partner in Crime that I was half tempted to go stand outside Bob's office and rip a loud one and let her squawk what was that about it.  Partner in Crime gets an evil look on her face, holds up three fingers and whispers in a scary movie voice:  "Three days.  You die."  I laughed until I about pissed myself.  That got Partner in Crime laughing.  About the time we'd quit, one of us would start laughing again, and so it went for the rest of the day.  We decided it's like The Ring, only it's The Fart, and instead of seven days, we only give you three.  We're bitches like that and we like it that way.

The next morning, I walk in and devilishly whisper "two days."  The giggling starts.  Then we decide we want to make a you tube of our juvenile shenanigans.  The Fart comes from the chicken-chokin' Wanker Monkey with a devil's moustache and tail. 

Chicken Chokin' Wanker Monkey

If you hear chicken-chokin' Wanker Monkey rip one, you die in three days.  This was a Friday and the adult supervision (aka the bosses) gone, so we spent the day fucking off on Facebook with Wanker Monkeyshines.  Two grown women who are rather girly spending the day making juvenile fart jokes about a Wanker Monkey who kills off an old biddy with evil, supernatural farts and putting it all on Facebook for others to laugh at, too.  Happy times.

Well, we thought happy times until someone sends Partner in Crime a private message.  The message nattered on that he didn't want to say anything at first, but we're uplifting Satan and there's no innocent fun involved if we're uplifting Satan.  He then went on about skydaddy would do something bad to Partner's child if she continued to uplift Satan.  Yeah, he used that "uplift Satan" language a lot.  Partner in Crime got pissed at the fundy, deleted all of the posts from her wall, and the good mood was gone.  Fundy is a parental unit for Partner in Crime, so that accounts for her fun being ruined.

I held my tongue.  No benefit would have come from talking smack about Partner's parent at that moment.  She was already hurt enough.  However, I was pissed.  I wanted to choke Fucktard and scream at him.  We cannot uplift that which does not exist.  It blows my mind that some people out there are so fucked up about kissing skydaddy's ass that they have tunnel vision.  Chicken chokin' Wanker Monkey with a devil's moustache and tail is somehow "uplifting Satan."  What the fuck ever.  If Satan existed, he'd be laughing his red ass off at our shenanigans.  Then, there's the whole business of skydaddy doing something to Partner's child because he's pissed at Partner.  Who would want to worship a bastard like that?  You've uplifted my enemy, so I'll kill your child.  Fucker. 

I felt really bad for Partner in Crime.  We'd been having fun all day long - a well deserved Fuckoff Friday.  Then she gets that message from parental unit.  To see how it upset her that he acted like that upset me.  It has to suck to have a parent that ate up with skydaddy syndrome.  There is no innocent fun, just kiss skydaddy's ass.  Never mind the fact that she's a grown woman, it's still a tragedy to see a parent shoving their fears and superstitions down their child's throat.  He wrote in his message:  "Think about your child.  Do you want any harm to come to her because you're uplifting Satan?" 

How about this, Fundy Fucktard.  Think about YOUR child.  Do you want any harm to come to her because you're a tunnel-visioned, superstitious asshat?  Never mind.  Don't answer that.  Your actions already have.   

Next bark:  The Story of Bob

Nine Idiots in Black Robes

Illustration from http://politicallyillustrated.com/index.php?/news_page/lpnh/2414/

Today I'm barking at The Supreme Court of The United States ("SCOTUS").  They handed down a real doozy this past week.  In a 8-1 decision handed down on March 2, 2011 in the case of Snyder v. Phelps, 562 U.S. ____(2011), SCOTUS determined that Fred Phelps and his band of inbreeds (hereinafter collectively referred to as "Westboro") has the right to annoy and harass grieving families at funerals.  This ruling gave us a glimpse at what to expect from Obama appointees Sotomayor and Kagan.  No surprise that Roberts, Thomas, Kennedy and Scalia came down on Westboro's side.  The surprise was that Breyer and Ginsberg ruled in favor of Westboro and Alito was the lone dissenter. 

I promise to try to keep this reading as a blog and not a legal brief, but considering the topic and what I do for a living, I apologize in advance if I don't meet that goal.  For those of you not familiar with the case, Fred Phelps, pastor of Westboro Baptist Church, was sued by Albert Snyder for emotional distress after Westboro picketed the funeral of Snyder's son.  Matthew Snyder was a US serviceman who was killed in action in Iraq.  Westboro's claim to fame is picketing funerals, particularly military funerals and the funerals of any high-profile person, holding up signs proclaiming "God Hates Fags," "Fags Doom Nations," "You're Going to Hell," and "Thank God For Dead Soldiers."  They get as close to the funeral as the law of the municipality in question will allow, and they make it a point to never get any closer than local ordinances allow.  I point this out because the madness is quite methodical.  They keep themselves from being arrested for trespass or for any violation of local law, thus making the fight about their alleged right to berate the bereaved.

Much has been printed and discussed about not only this case, but about Westboro's actions in general.  Westboro commits all of its acts hiding behind the shielding cloak of the First Amendment.  The majority members of SCOTUS opined that Westboro was within its First Amendment rights.   Alito, in his dissent, took the position that a family's right to grieve in peace takes priority over Westboro's right to run their mouths.  I'm not known for agreeing with Alito.  In fact, I'm known for considering him one of the pirates of the Constitution, but I'm with him whole-hearted on this.  His dissent reads as though it came from my fingers.  This is about First Amendment rights, but somewhere along the way, my right to be free from your religion and free from your opinions takes priority over your right to practice your religion and run your mouth.  Certainly, a family's right to bury their dead in peace should take priority over a pack of baboons telling the family that their deceased loved one is in hell.  The oft repeated phrase "your right to swing your fist ends at my nose" no longer seems to hold true.  Pursuant to this ruling, you are free to swing your fist square into my nose, and my nose's right to be free of being hit has to take a back seat. 

Free speech is a delicate balance.  The simple fact is that someone, somewhere is going by be offended by something I say.  The only solution to avoid offending someone is to remain silent.  That's not a viable option.  Should free speech necessarily encompass allowing groups to set out with malice aforethought to annoy, harass, distress and cause emotional pain on others, particularly to those who are strangers to the offending party?  Westboro sets out to show up at the funerals of soldiers killed in the line of duty to spew their venom.  They do not know the family of the deceased.  They did not know the deceased.  They do not know the moral beliefs of the deceased or his/her family, and yet they feel compelled to force their message of their own moral superiority on a grieving family during their darkest hour.  Where does the bereaveds' right to be free from this fit into this picture?  Certainly, it has to have a place somewhere.  The message I take from this opinion is that freedom of does not equate to freedom from.  I've feared for quite some time that was the direction we were headed, but we're dangerously close to it now. 

It's just a matter of time before some grieving parent snaps and unloads a clip or two on Westboro.  That's a crying shame.  It's a shame because the aforementioned grieving parent will spend the remainder of his/her life incarcerated, and because the inbreeds killed will become martyrs for their cause.  It's a shame because I believe that the inbreeds want it to happen so that they can cry martyr for their god.  I'm not advocating the act of violence at all.  I'm just being realistic.  At some point, someone is going to snap.  When it happens, call me hypocrite, but I plan to be at the baboon's funeral, holding up signs conveying my own hatred for Inbred Fred and his inbreeds, and shielding myself in the cloak of the First Amendment.