Truth Against the World

Friday, November 9, 2012

Grandpa's Whipping Boy

I was going to wait until Tuesday to post this next segment of the "Whoville Chronicles," but I've got the next three posts finished already.  I see no point in just sitting on them.  

Evil is a real thing, and I know that because I have met it face to face a few times in my life. I've even been tricked into helping it from time to time. I'm indirectly responsible for an unknown amount of innocent death by bombs in Afghanistan. The carrier I was on, the U.S.S. Carl Vinson, dropped three million tons of ordinance on that god forsaken desert mountain land. I did my part helping the nuclear power plant function to make the steam that made the whole thing possible. Evil goes by many names and comes in all different shapes and sizes. Although I participated in that evil, it didn't feel as diabolical as a much smaller breed. The insult of the evil I'm speaking of now pales in comparison to that boat evil I participated in while serving in the USN, but it shook the foundation I stand on just as powerfully. This evil was dished out by Mordred and Tina leFay

Mordred Spencer is the youngest of the Spencers, and his depravity has no bottom. Even after the assault I'm going to write about, as terrible as it was to me, I still feel sympathy for his misery and pain. Nobody should endure the type of suffering that he has endured, but I'm convinced his suffering is the hand of fate. We make our own beds, and we sleep in them. Mordred's suffering started with Grandpa Spencer I'm sure, but I know very little about it. I'm quite certain that it involved grandpa's whip, and Mordred does a good job perpetuating the Spencer Crazy. His wife, Tina LeFay, is an exceptionally witchy witch. She is one of the only people whom have ever brought me to the reptilian core of my brain. After her, I learned what the saying "seeing red" really means. I was never as close to killing another person as I was with her. I could easily be writing this from a prison cell for 2nd degree murder because of that witch, Tina LeFay. But enough chirpin' this shit up...let's move on with the story.

It was some time in early spring, just after the Black Snake Drone incident that kicked this whole clusterfuck off. I went to Asheville and initiated into permaculture via an opening ceremony that featured a fire, and the calling of ancestors in a quasi new agey ceremony meant to add depth to the experience. I brought a piece of maple wood from our new home in Whoville to burn in that fire, and I called the spirit of my recently deceased maternal grandmother (who died a week before) to that ceremony. I blew on that piece of maple wood and threw it into the fire. I was supposed to state my watershed as I did so. This was a practice deriving from some Native American spirituality. Apparently "tribe" derives from "tributary," and this all has to do with the watershed dictating where you belonged. I wasn't positive about my watershed, but it didn't matter. I stated that I was from everywhere and that my watershed was the rain that fell from the sky. My people are all people who can treat one another with mutual respect. This is my only requirement...respect. If you treat me with respect, I will abide your presence next to mine, and I will reciprocate that respect. My people are all people who practice this simple ethic for conduct, but my tribe was etched out that day as a Post Petroleum Human Tribe of Permaculture.

I drove back down the mountain after initiating into this new tribe, and I immediately had to deal with Mordred and Tina Spencer. The day after I returned from Asheville a storm blew threw Whoville. 60 mph winds and quarter sized hail laid waste to my fledgling permaculture design. The roof blew off of my chicken coop and I watched as the birds faced the brunt of that storm unprotected. Archimedes, the rooster, stood tall as a beacon for his hens, as they were pummeled by climate change. Just after the storm passed, my wife and I were busy replacing the coop roof when the Mad Madam Mine, high matriarch of Whoville, called to work some of her evil magic. We were down at the coop replacing the tarps that composed the roof, and Aunt Bee hollered down to us frantically. "The Mad Madam's roof blew off," cried Aunt Bee, "can you go over there and help her fix it."

The Mad Madam had been hard at work fucking with me since the day I arrived. A few weeks prior to this storm, the Matriarch had Aunt Bee send me over to her house to get a free, like new, computer that she had no use for. It was left by some family member. I went on over to the Matriarchs dilapidated farm house, and was shown to the attic via the stairs that led up to it. I poked my head up into her attic and there it was, an old CRT computer monitor from the 80's. It didn't even have a power cord to it. I grabbed a hold of it and brought it down from the attic. "I can't use this," I said to the Mad Madam, "and even if I could there's no power cord." "Ohh," she said "I wasn't sure about it and I thought you might could use it. What about any of this other stuff?" She pointed to a pile of refuse that she had put together for this moment. I picked threw it just to be nice. It featured an impressive supply of worthless junk that needed to be hauled off to the dump. There was an old c.d. case from the 90's, some tacky clothing, a particularly worthless and flimsy cooler with a tear in the side, and various other consumer widgets just past their expiration dates. "I'll sale you the whole lot for 30 dollars," said the Mad Madam.

"No, I can't use any of it...thanks anyways."

"Well alright, so you don't want the computer then?"

"No," I said.

"Well just set the computer down and I'll haul it off to the dump." Now keep in mind that this thing weighed in the neighborhood of 40 pounds and the Mad Madam is in her lat 60's early 70's. I'd just be an ass to not take it at this point.

"No, that's alright, I'll haul it off to the dump for you, I've got plenty of trash that needs to be hauled off anyways so it's no trouble." (it turns out that I had to illegally dump the damn thing at the dump due to new regulations. In order to be rid of it legally I would have had to have driven to the main dump 30 miles away rather than the satellite dump that I make use of 4 miles away. I basically smuggled the damn thing into the dump via a contractor bag...which was illegal, this is the Mad Madam's type of magic).

"Well thank you" said the Mad Madam Mine as I turned to leave with the piece of shit CRT monitor with no power cord. That bitch new what she was doing. She got me over there to force me into hauling that piece of shit off and to try to sell me some worthless shit. The whole thing was an attempt to pinch some money out of me. She learned that I was pretty impervious to being taken advantage of directly. But she still ultimately got her way by forcing me, through my kindness, to haul that computer off (which by the way, I would have freely done if only I was asked...but that's not how things are done in the south).

Around the same time she managed to steal a 600 dollar micro suede recliner from Aunt Bee. She did that by convincing Aunt Bee that she needed it more. Wendy tried talking Aunt Bee out of it, but by the time we were informed it was too late because Aunt Bee had already "gave her word." We had two of these recliners in the house. One of them was somewhat broken because the ottoman had a bad habit of not staying in the up position. When the weight of your legs is applied it limply lowers to the ground. The one she gave to the Mad Madam was identical in every way except the ottoman actually worked. Not only did the Mad Madam cry her way into this recliner (that's how she manipulates crying to her on the phone about how poor she is), she also managed to force me to deliver it to her house. I put the damn thing in my truck and drove across the street to deliver it. She directed me into the mysterious Who daughters room. "You don't want this in the living room," I asked. "No, just put it in my mysterious Who daughters room...she's going to use it there." I delivered it to the mysterious who daughters room, just in front of an idiot panel. I was more than a bit incredulous as there was barely any room for it and no need really. It was just that she enjoyed taking whatever she could get from Aunt Bee. Shortly after this incident I found myself delivering a 500 dollar kitchen table to the Mad Madam courtesy of Aunt Bee. My wife and I began to fear that the Matriarch of Whoville would somehow talk her way into having us deliver our shit to her house for free. This was the only behavior I saw from the Mad Madam Mine. Just, how much can she take from Aunt Bee just for the sake of taking. It's very difficult behavior to abide because it's very transparent. Aunt Bee is aware of it, but she doesn't mind due to the 19 years of Who conditioning. She's been conditioned to not mind that it requires tribute to live amongst the Whos. I, on the other hand, do not pay tribute.

So when the Mad Madam called up to the house after the storm to try and force me into helping her, I told my wife that the Matriarch of Whoville could go fuck herself. My wife saw that I was at my whits end with the Who's, and walked up to the house to explain to Aunt Bee that I was busy dealing with the carnage of the recently passed storm at our own house. She told her to have the Matriarch call over to Admiral Dumpy the Chicken Liver Extraordinaire's house and have her fat dumpy ass get up on the roof and fix it. That's just what happened. Admiral Dumpy took her fat ass over there and fixed the siding that had blown off of the house, not the roof. Fuckin' evil ass triflin' witchy bitch and her god damn conniving Who brood. I know she was over there with her fuckin' binoculars watching us fix the coop and that's why she called with her "roof damage" cackling the entire time. That's the kind of trifflin' shit the Who's practice as a way of life. Just how bad can they fuck with your no tribute payin', interloper, not from around here ass. Just who do I think I am living in Whoville and not paying tribute anyways?

The Mad Madam has managed to take advantage of my kindness since the "roof damage" incident, but I'm constantly ever vigilant against her black magic. Another time she managed to get me to haul all of her trash off for free because she was sick with a bladder infection from drinking nothing but soda religiously. Somehow that translated to me hauling off all of the Who's garbage to include the Chicken Liver's due to her association with the lesbian Who. I even offered to haul off her trash every week, when I haul ours off, if she would only start recycling. In this county it's commingled recycles as well, so it's just two separate containers that you need. Paper and cardboard is one and glass/aluminum/plastic is the other. The Mad Madam Mine, shitty Matriarch of Whoville declined my offer on account of she couldn't be bothered with that liberal douchary practice of recycling. She'd continue hauling off her own trash, thank you very much, and don't get any of that liberal douchary on me.

I meant to go into the story of Mordred and Tina LeFay Spencer, and ended up being sidetracked in more Whoville Who's weedy growth of conivationing conivations somehow. I don't know, maybe it's therapy for me to tell it. The world needs to know how shitty the Who's are...what can I say. The storm had passed and wrecked a lot of my labor. The house was a wreck on the inside from having leaves and various other outsidery tracked in after the storm. Two maple tree branches a good eight to ten inches in diameter and 20 to 30 feet long snapped off and took flight in our front yard due to that storm as well. Luckily they blew to the south therefore missing our house just to the east and 20 feet away from the tree. The two branches flew about fifty yards before stopping just at the fence that surrounds the perimeter of our property. Another foot or so and we would have been paying a lot of money to replace the chain link fence that would have been demolished.

The next day I got up and saw my wife off to Charlotte where she had a wedding to photograph. Aunt Bee informed me that her brother Mordred and his family were going to be showing up to take her to lunch. There relationship is a very unfortunate one. Mordred has been sucking on her bank account tit like a feral leech for quite some time now. His main excuse is his daughter. She is 18 years old now, miraculously, seeing as how she had her pituitary gland removed when she was around eight years old. I had met Mordred, Tina, and their daughter Rapunzel a couple of times in the past. I had gone to their home for a thanksgiving shortly after my wife and I started dating. This was one of the only Spencer events I can remember all of the Spencer's together. They don't even like each other, so it's rare to have them all together. In fact, it hasn't happened since and that was around eight years ago. At any rate, I wasn't particularly impressed with either Mordred or Tina. I thought Mordred was kind of a push over wussy who was just more pathetic and miserable than anything. I thought Tina was exceptionally annoying and superficially nice, and not very good at either. I just chalked them both up to being shaped into who they were by their tragic daughter Rapunzel's plight.

Rapunzel Spencer is unfortunate all around. She has no friends and her parents have kept her confined to their home her entire life. She's been home schooled by her witch of a mother Tina leFay. Due to her pituitary gland being removed at a young age she has had little to no growth. Her body is that of a 10 year old, and any growth that she has achieved has been due to hormone therapy. She's quite difficult to be around due to her social awkwardness due to her lack of interaction with the world outside of their twisted home. Luckily for this tragic lot they have Jebus to take them by the hand and lead them to heaven. How you worship Jebus and Satan at the same time I'm still trying to figure out. I guess it doesn't have to make sense, but seeing how this is the beginning of page five, I'll have to get into that in the next segment of the Whoville Chronicles.


Justin Wade said...

You wrote it, so in response to the observation that writing all this might be a form of therapy.

The correct answer is to put that computer right back down where you picked it up and say, "Thanks for the offer, I'll leave it here and ask around to see if anyone I know can use it in the meantime before you throw it away."

I'll be honest, the only thread I can follow in all this is that you are pissed off at the people around you. The entire chronicles reads as a blizzard of names and Miseryesque nick-names like 'Colonel Chicken Liver Buzzard Farts' with a few vague references to actions and manipulative intent behind those actions.

Luciddreams said...

Justin Wade: Thanks for your honesty. Sorry that you don't see more value in what I'm writing other than name calling. The names are just meant to be funny, that's my form of humor. You must not think that I'm funny. That's cool. However, it is my humor, and it's how I write, and some people find it entertaining.

The story is about much more than my anger. I do have anger...doesn't everybody? You are right that I could have responded to the Mad Madam differently, maybe as you have said, but I didn't. However, had I responded that way, it would have made for some boring reading. I think people like to read about conflict, friction, struggle, and tragedy.

I'm not enlightened. I'm just another fuckstick with the same Buddha nature as everybody else. This is just my most recent story. Maybe if you read it that way it will entertain you more.

William Hunter Duncan said...

I love it. A story that needs to be told, and gonzo style all the better. A fine picture of a significant segment of American religiosity, Southern style. It would take a Californian to write about it so. Authentic. (Though, servant of all waters, you might have hung onto that computer, rather than offer it to the waters, where it can never be recovered. An opportunity to dispose of it more honorably would have arisen sometime. Though building a legacy garden in the midst of such apparent darkness, I can imagine the challenge it would be to remain light. :)

Luciddreams said...

William, "Gonzo style," I suppose I'll take that as a compliment. What can I expect having dropped out of college 7 times. I'm not exactly refined...but fuck it, that's what editors are for.

As far as the blasted CRT monitor. One, fuck that, I wrote a blog about a CRT idiot box that I rescued from the side of the road here

(you commented on it, so I post it again for those reading this comment that aren't you.)

The short of it is that CRT's are considered hazardous household waste by the government. They are bulky, heavy, take up a lot of space, and may emit radiation. No thanks, I've got enough to do without taking responsibility for another CRT. I mean I took one completely apart in an attempt to scavenge and was told that I could have went to jail by the dump employee had I done one more thing.

Gonzo huh...I've been trying to come up with a pen name as a sort of offering at the alter of the god/goddess of book writing/publishing. Gonzo McCoy maybe ;) That shit's pretty funny. I stole "Palookaville" from you afterall.

Luciddreams said...

from wiki:

As electronic waste, CRTs are considered one of the hardest types to recycle.[56] CRTs have relatively high concentration of lead and phosphors (not phosphorus), both of which are necessary for the display. There are several companies in the United States that charge a small fee to collect CRTs, then subsidize their labor by selling the harvested copper, wire, and printed circuit boards. The United States Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) includes discarded CRT monitors in its category of "hazardous household waste"[57] but considers CRTs that have been set aside for testing to be commodities if they are not discarded, speculatively accumulated, or left unprotected from weather and other damage.
Leaded CRT glass is sold to be remelted into other CRTs, or even broken down and used in road construction.

Luciddreams said...

damn...I feel like an idiot. I wiki'd "gonzo" to find out if you meant anything other than the muppet. Wow!! Dude, Hunter S. Thompson...hell yeah. I had no idea there was such a thing as "gonzo journalism," but indeed, that appears to be exactly what my style is. I've always liked Thompson, but must admit that the movie "Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas" is just about all I know of the man. That and that Joe Bagaent chummed around with him and that he was a colleague of Timothy Leary. Here's the wiki article on the topic for anybody else that was ignorant on the style:

so definitely thank you for the compliment William, and for pointing this out to me.

William Hunter Duncan said...

Gonzo is indeed a high compliment. RE's writing over at the Doomstead Diner is a most impressive example of the style. I've been more influenced by RE than Thompson, and much by Terence Mckenna more than Leary. Terence talked a great deal about language, as well as anyone I have ever heard. Check him out on youtube. The best gonzo, which is like a remaking of language, is balanced wild/ordered. Something like chaos theory in social critique. You've never had much trouble with the wild part, struggling more with the order. The best writers are editors too - call in that thing you call aspergers, when it comes to that part. Otherwise, you're takin risks, which is the stuff of growth, and the recent series of posts is proof.