Random Notes From the Near Side of Hell   Man, it's been forever....   Over the last ten months or so I've been going through a bit of personal hell and this has been instrumental in my non-writing for the website and my book. Part of the reason that I have not been posting to the site is that the results would be somewhat less than entertaining. An example of my writing during this period reads as follows...   "THAT FUCKING BITCH, I CAN'T WAIT FOR THAT STUPID PIECE OF SHIT - CUNT - FUCK - SHIT - FUCK - GODDAMMED - FUCK-SHIT - ASS - BASTARD - FUCK - SHIT - PEICE - OF - SHIT - FUCK - HUMAN - DEBRIS - SHIT - BITCH..."   Needless to say, this is hardly entertaining reading, especially when one considers the fact that this brainless ranting continues on for fifty or sixty pages. What is it that has driven me to write such meaningless diatribes? Simple...   I have a theory about my life: Nothing I do in my life will ever be spectacular. Nothing. It doesn't matter what happens to me or what weird turns my life will take, everything I do, no matter how out of the ordinary, will wind up being average. If I were to suddenly wake up one day with multiple personalities, every single one of my alter egos would be boring beyond belief. In my head would be a gaggle of accountants, geeks, janitors, nerds, and Star Trek fans just waiting to get out and drive everyone in the surrounding area straight to Coma-Land with mind-numbingly inane chatter. If I were to hijack an alien craft and crash it into the sun so that the solar system would evaporate in a giant super-duper-nova, I would find that someone else beat me to the act thirty seconds before and, therefore, they would render my outrageous behavior as second-rate at best. Keeping in line with this history of lameness, the most recent crushing blow to my life is this...   My wife left me for, yes, you guessed it, a mailman. A fucking MAIL-man. Again, it is needless to say "THAT FUCKING BITCH, I CAN'T WAIT FOR THAT STUPID PIECE OF SHIT - CUNT - FUCK - SHIT - FUCK - GODDAMMED - FUCK-SHIT - ASS - BASTARD - FUCK - SHIT - PEICE - OF - SHIT - FUCK - HUMAN - DEBRIS - SHIT - BITCH..."   Sorry, I'm ok now.   I'm not kidding. She got a job at the post office and is now getting porked by a piece of human slime too retarded to compete in the real dog-eat-dog world of free enterprise. This event occurred after months of my being told that I was a worthless husband that never lives up to his word, that cannot keep a job, and is utterly useless when compared to the illiterate union bums that make insane amounts of money doing nothing but sitting on their asses all day. She had been screwing around with him for a while before announcing to me that she thought our marriage didn't stand a chance.   Wah. Enough of this. I'm sure that you don't need to hear any more whining. On to better things.   This entry is going to meander a bit as I try to figure out what I am going to write about. Let's see...   The Funeral   My mother passed away this summer. Not a big thing, really. I hadn't spoken to her since 1983. I quit talking to my mom and most of my family mainly because I live my life the way I want to live it. As with all families that operate on a guilt-driven dynamic, an independent person will wind up walking away and live their lives the way they see fit. For the most part, guilt is not something that works too well with me.   My brother Tim came into town to attend the funeral and I did not intend to go. I can't see the point in visiting someone who is dead when I never bothered to see them while they were alive. At the last minute, I decided to go and take my kids to see what a real dysfunctional family looked like...   The best way to sum up the dysfunctionality of this family is to relay a one sided conversation I had with my other younger brother, Ken. Keep in mind that this monologue was delivered to me and my kids as if it were a casual conversation about the weather. Also keep in mind that this was said at my mother's funeral.   "Did you ever wonder why I wound up in the army?"   Actually, Ken, no. And I don't care...   "Well, this is kind of funny. I think you'll like it."   Great, here it comes...   "Well, one day mom was looking for me and she caught me doing something with Sandy."   Sandy is my little sister. When he was caught with her, she was about 11 years old. By "doing something" he meant that he was caught doing something extremely unsavory with her, undoubtedly sexual in nature.   "Mom got good and pissed off and dragged me away from her and took me down to the recruiter's office and made me sign up for the army. She made me join as soon as possible. I was off to boot camp in about a week. And now you know how I got in the army."   Holy fuck.   And he talked about this as if he were relaying a something-funny-happened-to-me-at-the-store kind of way.   And he told me this insane little anecdote IN FRONT OF MY KIDS!!!   I thought that Tim might have already known about this and that he kept it from me for my own good. On the way home from the funeral, I asked Tim if he knew why Ken wound up in the army.   ME: What do you know about Ken's joining the army? Do you know why he went?   TIM: I think it was because he always admired dad. You know dad was in the army and I think Ken really wanted to make dad proud of him. Ken has always wanted dad's approval, you know that.   ME: Uh, well, that's not what I just heard.   TIM: Really? What did you hear?   ME: Ken just told me that mom caught him doing something with Sandra and took him down to the recruiter's office and made him sign up.   TIM: Oh my god! You asshole! You mean you knew and you asked me anyway? Here I am rambling on about Ken getting dad's approval and you already knew why he was sent off!!! You set me up! You're an asshole! Now I feel like an idiot.   ME: Actually I figured that you already knew, I was just checking to see if your story matched mine...   TIM: Jesus Christ! What the fuck am I supposed to do now? I can't just take that shit out of my head, it's there forever! Jesus! Thanks for putting that shit in my brain, now I'm fucked for eternity. Thanks, man...   Dad   On my first CD, I have a track called Dad Porks a Train. This track is a conversation between me and my father in which he decides that he is "gonna fuck a train." The cut ends with my dad putting his weiner on the track and letting a train run over it. Screaming and lunacy ensues while Dad concludes that it was one of the best experiences of his life. Dad Porks a Train has left many people wondering if there shouldn't be a five-day waiting period between the time a person buys recording equipment and the time a person is allowed to actully take the equipment home and use it.   Let me explain...   My dad is a guy that has a one-track mind and a train runs up and down it all of the time...   My dad is a model railroader with the I.Q. of a squashed gnat. Frankly, I believe that if my dad were born today, he would be in a special home with other people of similar intelligence levels. Being one that used to work with the developmentally disabled, I can honestly say that I have had conversations with the retarded that are far more meaningful than any I have had with my father. Sad but true.   All the years I was growing up, I had to put up with goddam trains this and goddam trains that. My brother Tim and I concluded that he could tell what type of model train you had just by shoving it up his ass. "That there's the D&RGW 0-6-0 with a diamond stack. It's not an accurate model because it has the sand dispenser mounted on the top of the unit. Everybody knows that the D&RGW engines had internal sand boxes. The pistons are accurate but the wheel size is just a bit off..."   Well, he has a two track mind, on the other track is sex.   When I was about ten years old, my father regaled me with all kinds of sexual encounters he had had during his younger days. Most of these anecdotes have thankfully fallen out of my head due to the extensive drinking during my early twenties. One story, however, remains lodged in my head and will not go away.   My dad once told me that one of the greatest sexual encounters he had involved a stick of butter. I will not scar you with the details. The worst part of it is that I can just hear him saying "Here comes the butter train! Oh, look, it's a tunnel!"   Why am I telling you this? Well, I figured that since my kids had seen my mom's side of the family, dad and his idiocy could not possibly be any worse. They needed a well rounded object lesson in dysfunctionality. It was important for them to see how the other half of the family was so I took them to see my dad.   They were not disappointed...   Copyright 2005 by Frank Emsley