An Angry Rant

Today I’ve been in a bad, sad, “feeling helpless, he felt hopeless” sort of mood. When my son came home, I jumped down his throat about an assignment he was supposed to turn in but didn’t because he wrote it on my Mac and didn’t know he had to save it as a .doc in order to print it out on the computers at school.

“I’m sorry, Jacob,” I said, about five seconds later when I realized I was being awful. “I’m just upset for you because now you won’t get the grade you deserve. You’ll get points off for being late and that’s unfair. You did the work.”

“It’s OK, Mom. You seem sad today.”

For a teenage boy, my son is remarkably sensitive to the moods of the people around him.

“I’m just in a bad mood. I’m sick of waiting to hear from agents about my book. I’m sick of this weather. I’m sick of people.” I got a little teary-eyed.

“It sounds like you need to get drunk,” he said, joking. “And post a rant. That’s what your blog needs. A rant. An angry rant. A drunken, angry rant.”

You know what? That’s one smart kid.

So here's some ranting directed at random folks, in no particular order. Here goes (proceed with caution):

A disgrace to gingers 

Mike McQueary, I really want to understand you. Of all the people in this hideous, horrific story coming out of Penn State, you’re the one I keep coming back to.

Listen, Mike, I’m not completely unsympathetic. I can’t stop imagining what you saw, how awful and shocking it must have been. I have also been witness to something unspeakable. I know what it does to a person. You go into shock. Your mouth goes dry. Your focus narrows to only what is in front of you and the rest of the world becomes nothing more than a blurry, spinning whirl of colors. I saw something most people will never see in their life. Was I in shock? Yes. But I also went straight to the phone and I dialed 911. Why the hell didn’t you do that, you asshole? I don’t get it. You did nothing but go home and, later, report what you saw to the coach. Then you, what, went on with your life? Forgot what you saw? Weren’t bothered that a rapist was still allowed around young boys?

You suck.

It has an animal print cover, for God's sake

Literary agents,  I get it. I really do. You’re looking for the books that will make you money. So you sell books by people like Snooki and Kris Jenner. You sell novels “written” by Kim Kardashian and her two sisters. And publishers eat that shit up. I seriously doubt even one of those women wrote a word of that novel about a character named Kamille. They probably just went through it and changed all the C-words to start with a K instead. Dumb kunts. Their novel will be released tomorrow. It’s first-run printing is 300,000 copies, more than the first-run printing for Joan Didion’s most recent book. And Jesus wept.

Actually, this makes me realize it’s not the agents who deserve my wrath, it’s the dumb asses who buy books by people like Snooki and Kris Jenner and that trio of Kardashian famewhores marketing geniuses.

What is wrong with these people? If they didn’t buy that shit, maybe agents would seek out good work instead of seeking out crap Krap.

This book bites.

This brings me to Twihards. Oh shut it. Those books are poorly written. Worse, they’re boring. But, fine, you enjoy them. I’m glad. I’ve enjoyed plenty of stuff that isn’t exactly classic literature. Beginning when I was 12, I read Whitney, My Love by Judith McNaught once a year for about ten years (until I realized the Duke is really an abusive, obsessive control freak who rapes the heroine because he’s so "in love" with her. Ick.) It’s not your enjoyment of the series that irks me. It’s that you keep trying to convince me how good the books are. 

Let me stop you before you say that I should give them a try. I did give them a try. I read the first one while sitting next to a swimming pool in beautiful North Carolina. The bar is set pretty low for poolside reading material so I should have enjoyed it. Cosmo is enjoyable when you have a drink in one hand while you sit in a lounge chair. So if a book can't entertain me while I'm getting a tan and enjoying a daiquiri, it's pretty shitty. I read the second one next to another pool a couple of summers later. I was trying to give it another shot because you people are just so insistent that the series is the most awesome thing that's ever happened to you since you got married and apparently became totally bored with your lives and need a hit of sparkly, white vampire ass to enrich your fantasies. 

What I wanted to do was toss that poorly written, boring paperback in the pool. So stop trying to convince me the books are good. Stop it. Read them a million times if you must (a shame since there are about a million better books out there worth reading). But stop trying to convince me that I should read them, too. I don’t bug you relentlessly about how you should read books by Ian McEwan or Jonathan Franzen or Ann Patchett or Andre Dubus III or Jennifer Egan. I don't tell you that you must be wrong if you don't instantly latch onto these great literary works and start wearing T-shirts that say Team Ian or Team Andre.

Herman Cain’s wife. I feel for you. I’m sure you believe your husband would never do any of the things he was accused of doing 20 years ago. But good God, the wives of men who are accused of cheating/straying/harassing are the world’s worst character witnesses. Just ask the millions of women who have discovered their husbands cheated on them and they never knew what was going on. 

And to say that he “totally respects women” is just laughable. So he was showing respect when he referred to Nancy Pelosi as “Princess Nancy” during a GOP debate? He was showing respect when he made a joke about Anita Hill? He was showing respect when he discussed what he would and would not be willing to pay Gloria Allred to do? While grinning like a fool as if to say, “If you know what I mean.” Yes, Herman, we know what you mean. Hardy-har-har. You, sir, are an ass-hat.

But console yourself with this, Mrs. Cain: You are not the only woman married to an ass-hat. There are plenty of them out there. Maybe you should go talk to the last two Mrs. Newt Gingriches or Mrs. Weiner or Demi Moore. Just stop talking to the media.

The time change. It gets dark before 5 PM. That is some bull shit, people.

OK, that about covers it for now. I really need to find a way back to my happy place.