Asshole Universe
There are gigantic assholes among us—individuals who are so horrid or crass that their assholery threatens to explode into a supernovasshole, emitting a burst of fucktardation that produces more wattage than the entire galaxy and radiates as much cretinism in a short interval than a normal group of people might in their entire lifetimes. Call this Group A, for “asshole.”
A corollary phenomenon occurs when individuals are so staggeringly lacking in self awareness that, although they may not consciously intend harm, their clueless, inept bumbling path through life leaves asshole shockwaves in their wake, enveloping innocent bystanders in an expanding shell of confusion and anger called a supernovasshole remnant. Call this Group B, for ‘brain dead.”
Group A
I was unfortunate enough to encounter representatives from both groups this week. A sad event occasioned my encounter with Group A: We lost a relative recently, a wonderful, brave person who was somewhat famous in her field. Because she was well-known, I suppose, her online obituary attracted the attention of a smattering of malevolent, brainless jackals with nothing better to do than use a stranger’s online death notice as a venue to display their bile and insanity.
In my heathen cosmology, the micro-dick fucktards who get off on that sort of vandalism may very well go unpunished, which is a downside to eschewing the whole “sinners in the hands of an angry god” thing. (The only part of religiosity I ever had any use for, truth be told.) But if I’m wrong and justice awaits these assholes, let them be dragged through broken glass, dipped into a sulfuric acid bath, stomped flat by a herd of rabid rhinos, rolled into a sphere, stuffed into a pestilent cannon and fired into the toxic waste dump of a leper colony. Call it karma.
Group B
Unbeknownst to me, I plopped down next to a representative from Group B while attending my 10-year-old daughter’s softball game last night. The B manifestation was in the form of another softball mom, and I innocently asked her how she was.
Terrible, she said, and launched into a detailed description of this hideous, highly contagious flu-like disease that has kept her alternately freezing and sweating, puking and suffering bouts of explosive diarrhea for the past two days. How awful, I replied, inching away down the bleacher. I’ve heard something is going around…
It is! she replied, and went on to describe how she’d been stricken within mere hours of encountering an ill co-worker and how she just couldn’t wait for the damn game to be over so she could go home and puke and shit and shiver not-sleep some more!
I excused myself and spent the rest of the game standing 50 feet away from the barely sentient phlegm fountain. Seething! The stupid fucking un-self-aware fuck! What the fuck was she thinking? It’s a goddamn little league softball game—it’s not worth exposing countless people to your crappy fucking flu to attend!
Or in the unlikely event that the fate of the universe is bound up in a 5th grader’s participation in the game, well, couldn’t the woman keep her diseased fucking carcass in her car or at least at a respectable distance? Did the clueless fucking dolt have to sit her fucking germs down next to the rest of us?
Maybe I’m just imagining it, but I do feel a little woozy today. And by god, if I get sick, I’ll stay home until I recover fully. But when I do regain my health, I will march down to the softball field and give that idiot woman five in the snot locker. Call it flu rage.
[Cross-posted at Betty Cracker]
Posted by Betty Cracker on 03/11/09 at 02:17 PM • Permalink
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