You fucking bitch

A while back, I had to watch videos of a bunch of old Sam Kinison performances. Call it part of my job duties. His shtick had gotten pretty boilerplate when these videos were taped, which were toward the end of his career in 1992 when he died in a wreck outside of Needles, California, after a truck smacked his Pontiac Firebird Trans Am. (Which was a particularly appropriate vehicular choice for Kinison, and five bucks sez Sammy Hagar drove one too, a T-top even.)

Around the close of a typical Kinison gig, the Pentecostal preacher-turned-comedian would canvas the audience to find some poor sap with the absolute worst "fucked over by an evil woman" story. Once he had a winner, he'd get the phone number of the woman who had fucked the poor sap over, and he would call the number, get the woman on the line in front of hundreds of people, and join in with the poor sap in a verbal beatdown: "You fucking bitch! You evil cunt! You fucking suck! You fucking stinky whore, how can you live with yourself? You bitch! Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!! Fuuuuuck yewwww!" You get the idea.

It's probably a good thing that a) Sam's long gone, b) and so he's not around to do a show that I attended in the past year or so, because, c) I'd be a sure bet to be that sap up onstage, and d) my soon-to-be-ex-wife (hereafter to be referred to as "S2BXW") would be the one getting a really nasty phone call from Sam.

But, you know, as far as carrying around that kind of baggage, fuck it. Anger, and especially recycled anger, or resentment, are toxic, corrosive emotions. And I'd rather recognize that S2BXW and I have, ahem, radically different ideas of what constitutes appropriate behavior in a marriage, and leave it at that and move on. Which seems easy most of the time, having made a decision to finally end this sham marriage. And most of the time I'm feeling reasonably sanguine about the whole thing. Still, a few of those jinky feelings heralding an impending emotional storm come bubbling up into waking consciousness, and a few of those storms still blow through occasionally (and how's that for a fucked up mixed metaphor?). But they do seem to pass fairly quickly, after mercifully brief intervals of discomfort laced with twinges of raw fear.

Anyway, hey: I know this site gets virtually zero readers, but phantom eyeballers, y'know what might cleanse my kundalini-energy palate and help me slide into a groovy new interface with my forthcoming single life? Yep, a couple of days and nights of delicious, unhinged sportfucking. Now, I'm not talking about undying love, ladies. Just a little short-term animalistic lust to help a brotha erase some very bad memories. You dig?

Mm-hmm. That's the ticket. (Or maybe not.)