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You Can Not Do This to Me.

20 May

Okay, first of all, whichever asshole on the local news got so bored that they reported on this, please recant immediately.

First Thelma Lou and now Billy Graham, are you trying to kill me? Please, I am begging you, please stop. And don’t you dare even think about reporting from the Bass Masters tournament from anywhere. Under no circumstances are you to mention the names of the two guys on the tour from North Carolina, because that is a game of ‘You Know, That Guy,’ that I do not want to play.

“Billy Graham is going to do another sermon!” says Grandma, first fucking words out of her mouth this morning. I spent the next five minutes pissing her off by insisting he is dead. I mean, like he’d have to be, right? Shit, Franklin Graham is like 70.

“HEISNOTDEADHEISGIVINGANOTHERSERMON!”

To the Google I go. And man you just have to love auto-suggest. I can barely get out ‘is Bil’ and the Google is on it. 1st on the list, is Billy Graham dead? and second, is Billy Graham still alive? Of course I was not content to let it go at that. My sick sense of humor required me to type in ‘Why won’t Billy Graham die?’ To which Google replied:

“BECAUSEHEISGIVINGANOTHERSERMON!”

Oh yeah, right.

Local news people? Newsflash. Billy Graham is 91 motherfucking years old AND in poor health AND crazy enough to believe that God has given him a timeline for his death. Please stop telling Grandma that he would like to do another sermon because all Grandma is hearing from you is that he is; and she will annoy the shit out of me with this until he does, and we all know that ain’t fucking happening.

Thank you.

Man. This fucking week. Did somebody give Grandma some sort of sick North Carolina ┬ábucket list? Or maybe a redneck bingo card? What’s next local news people? Live coverage of the gun show in the parking lot of Lowe’s Motor Speedway?

Christ.

Things I Hate About Grandma.

12 May

What?

Well it’s certainly no fun to have a blog if you can’t show your asshole side from time to time. Also, the main reason I don’t allow comments. You can think I’m an asshole all you want, but if you want to say it, you’re going to have to put on your big boy pants and email me. And for any haters out there, yes, there will be a Things I Love About Grandma, fair and balanced, just like her favorite fucking news channel.

Today’s thing I hate about Grandma:

She eats breakfast.

Like every fucking day. All of them. Yes, Sunday too. I loathe breakfast, except on Sunday, when it’s called brunch and I can have it with liquor. Also, only when it is served to me, preferably on the patio at Europa. Every other day, no bite of food passes my lips until at least three or four in the afternoon, yet each frigging morning, I have to awake, generally sometime before noon, and make fucking breakfast.

I am never in the mood to make breakfast. Even pouring a bowl of cereal and getting out milk annoys the shit out of me. I wake up an asshole most mornings, unless, oddly, I have to get up early and then I am irritatingly cheerful. Go figure. Fucking with the cereal box, screwing with opening that hermetically sealed bag, seeing more raisin than bran in the bowl, or vice versa. I hate it. Finding the clip thingy to close the damn bag. Screwing with the giant gallon of milk. God, especially when it’s not been opened and weighs 14 pounds. Question. Is there any way to pour the first pour from a new gallon without some splashing out?

On the days when it’s not cereal (the not hung over days) it’s bacon and toast. I hate having appliances and shit on my counter. Things I want on my counter are the coffee maker and the knife block. Period. The end. The toaster is just about the last thing I want on my counter, coming in just above ants and below a cat. The damn thing is nothing but a crumb factory. A damn mess. Stupid fucking toaster. Then, the bacon. Oh my good God do I hate the smell of smoldering pig fat emanating from the microwave. And forget a pan, the popping fat, oh Jesus no.

Then, the worst of all, eggs. At least once a week I will do eggs. This is the same day of the week that I will refuse to cook dinner. I think she is picking up on the pattern as the request for eggs has fallen dramatically. This is perfectly fine with me. I only like my eggs one way, served by a waiter.

On a more positive note, the breakfast routine has become a bit easier as Grandma transitions from being totally spoiled by Jamie. (Sorry Jame, true) When she first arrived, I’d ask her what she wanted for breakfast and she’d reply with her pat answer, “Oh, ┬ájust whatever’s handy.” Put through the Grandma translator this means, “I want eggs.” The first morning I clarified that this response was unacceptable by stating in a very asshole way, “none of it’s handy Grandma. I have to make all of it.”

The second day, as Grandma is incredibly hard to train, I got the same response. I gave her beets and cottage cheese. And damn it, she ate it. I knew I’d have to bring my A game the following morning.

Morning 3, “Grandma, what do you want for breakfast?” Same response, but I was ready for her. I poured her a shot of Jim Beam and handed her a can of sauerkraut and a can opener. Point taken. Now, I no longer have to even ask the question. As she lowers herself into the chair at the breakfast table, she blurts out her order like a drunk in a diner at 3am. “I’ll have toast and bacon!”

Please be sure and come back for installment 2: Her Dog.