Metalkabout stop cursing and making fun of people

No.

That's the short answer, "anonymous", you virgin-eared pansy.

I apologize if I've offended you and your three god-fearing friends who believe cursing is for the soulless and speaking ill will towards others is for the damned.

So I'm soulless and damned.

Or ... are you the soulless, damned one here, micro-brain?  Or maybe you're just boring.  Not sure which I'd rather be in that case.

But cursing? Really?

Sure, truck drivers have mastered it over the years, and it's certainly better coming from them than, say, the CEO of some elitist corporation that's helped tank the America you and I are both trying to live in these days. Do you really believe that horse shit, you stooge?  Think about what you're saying.  Cursing? Grow a little outside your comfort zone, numb nuts.  If you believe cursing is reserved for the road warriors on this planet and no one else, you're a bigger moron than I first thought after reading your comment.  

What's more, talking shit about people is fun. I'm simply making light of a situation someone's going through, without ever naming names, at least the real ones, and certainly not being mean to the point that they'd be sitting home crying. You, maybe.  Them, doubtful.

So suck it, you prima-donna psycho.

Oh, and if you still need more of a reason for why I curse so much and trash talk people and their personal situations, try this on for size:  Life's too short not to curse.  What's more, life's also a big oaf of a bully that's cruel and absolutely mean to the people trying to live it every day (that'd be me and you, dip shit), so why not kick it in the nuts every now and again with a mindless rant?  

And that is what these are, by the way, you dope — rants.  Mindless, too.  I write because I like writing.  I have several blogs.  Each on lets me explore a different side and tone.  What side do you think this is, inspector dumb-ass?  Whether it's good, bad, or a total waste of my time, I couldn't give a shit what you think.  I don't write for you — or anyone, for that matter.  I write for me. And for the fun of writing.  What can I say, I like gerunds.

One person's opinion I did care about, though, was my kid brother's, and he's no longer here. A bunch of murderers posing as doctors killed him last year while trying to determine if he had H1N1.

If you've followed my posts this past year, then you'd know all about him. His name was Sean. He was loving as they come. A big-heart ox of a man.  And he was my hero.  Everyone's, I'm sure. And he shined.  Like blinding shine.  There wasn't a person on this earth that didn't love him within minutes of meeting him. He was that awesome.

He and I were the middle children in our family. So, I guess, in a way we'd attached ourselves at the hip and walked through life together.

He moved. I moved. Life wedged some distance in between us.  Phone calls sufficed.  We trekked on.  I got married.  He got married.  We each saw success in business — and life. Both of us became fathers, although he never did get to meet my twins. They arrived three months too late.

As fast as Sean got here thirty-eight years ago, he was gone. Poof!  

I remember standing at the airport, just hours after being on the phone with my older brother when Sean died.  I'd had the pleasure — not at all — of being on the phone the entire time as a team of doctors tried to save his life.  The did everything they could, except the one thing we needed them to do most: save him.

I flew out to my family within hours of my Sean's death. Being on the plane was surreal. At one point, I thought I'd helped a terrorist type in the PIN code to the phone he was going to use to blow us all up. He asked me to read the numbers. I did. Then I worried. I also wrote a poem about Sean or two Sean or ...  I never write poems. But I was mostly numb.

Numb, numb, numb.

Numb when I landed. Numb when I first saw my surviving brothers, my mom and dad, my sister-in-law and nephew, Sean's son Patrick.

Numb when we all sat around talking and wondering and planning ... my little brother's funeral.

And numb when I begged my brother to take me to the hospital to see Sean.  Dead Sean, not alive Sean. Dead. They had him stored there. In something like a 'fridge. Like I cared.  I wanted to see my brother one last time, 'fridge or autopsy table.  I didn't care. So I forced my older brother Keith to take me.

Walking through the hospital's dark, dank corridor towards the "cold room" they were keeping Sean is something I will never forget.  The entire experience was fucking surreal.  I kept thinking the smell was awful, the ceiling was low, the floor was dirty, the lighting was scary. This looked more like the hallway found in a parking garage, not a hospital morgue where loved one were kept. Where my loved one was being kept.

We walk into a small room.  It was cold.  There was a curtain up.  The hospital administrator tried to warn me what I was about to see.  Remember, I was numb.  I walked right through her to the other side.  There was Sean.

What I saw is what I saw.  It's not for you to read or me to share. It's the end. And it's very real.

I walked away numb.  And I've been numb ever since.

So I write to break through some of the numbness.  I make jokes to bust open a window of laughter, even if just for me — so I can have a simple moment.  And I curse ... I curse because, like I said earlier, life's too short not to.  Why waste time looking for a replacement for the word 'fuck' when 'fuck' is the word you're looking for?

I curse and I tease because, well, I've recently been reminded how silly and temporary all of this is. We are here for but a second.  Life is a blink of the eye.

So I try not to take life for granted. I try to be real. By saying what I want to say to who I want to say it to. Maybe that's wrong. Maybe it's not. And if I want to curse or call a fat guy a lard ass, I'm gonna.  Not because I'm mean. I'm far from mean.  But because I want to, and I'm here ... in my blog, my world. Not that fat guy's.  Not yours. Mine.

And I'll say to you exactly what I'd say to him: If you don't like what I write, don't fucking read it. This is all mindless shit anyway, remember?

Why don't you get a life, before you realize there's not much time to live it, and go tell someone to GO FUCK THEMSELVES.

Try it.  You might like living a little, you little twit.