Waxing Psychotic

Dear Joanne:

You are a moron.

Please don’t try to deny this, as we both know it is true.

You are an imbecile, a scum-sucking hosebag, a sewer dwelling ass-breath of a fucktard, a prehistoric nuthugger, a defiler of fluffy kittens, a molester of tropical fish, a threat to farm animals the world over and a loser-and-a-half.

I don't like you.

You ruined my Friday night and, though I can’t prove it, I convinced you were the reason I forgot to buy wax paper the other night, even though I was convinced I had.

The fact that you caused all this misery without actually meeting me in person is a testament to your nuthuggerness, which, if you haven’t guessed already, is not something to be proud of.

You know what you did, but I’ll do a brief recap anyway for the folks watching at home. This disaster started when you contacted me via the interracial dating web site.

Okay? You wrote to me. That's important. I didn't know you from a hole in the ground, I didn't know you from a can of paint, I didn't know you from Adam or Eve and I wish it had stayed that way.


We exchanged emails. We spoke on the phone and had a nice conversation. And we agreed to meet last Saturday on the night of my solo show at the Stage Left Studio.

I called you Saturday afternoon to find out if we were still on and, lo and behold, you said you couldn’t make it.

Honestly, I didn’t mind. I was able to get to the theater early and get more comfortable, resulting in an excellent performance, if I do say so myself.

My partner, Cheryl Smallman, did a fabulous rendition of her show “Dreamless,” and afterward I went out for sushi, drinks and good times with a wonderful couple who had attended the show.

I called you again—or did you call me?—I forget and it doesn’t matter worth a damn anyway. We agreed to meet on Friday night. You kept calling me “sweetie” as if you gave a rat’s ass about me, though, of course, that wasn’t even remotely true.

I called you on Thursday and you said “can I call you back, sweetie.” (Again with the “sweetie!”) You never called. So I called you on Friday-goddamn-great-day-in-the-fucking morning to find out if we were going out that evening.

“Oh, hi,” you said in your best nuthugging voice. “The thing is, I met somebody...and we’re going out.”

“Good luck with that,” I said before hanging up on you.

I sat there with the phone in my hand in stark, staring disbelief. You met somebody? But I thought I was the somebody you met. Do you remember that or has a lifetime of rampant nuthugging destroyed that lump of hospital waste you call a brain?

So, in other words, you were dumping me before you even met me. You got my hopes up, wasted my time, and then flipped me the bird.

This is the second time this has happened to me in a month and I’m wondering now if it was you on both occasions. We all know nuthuggers practice the dark arts, perhaps you’re some kind of shape shifter.

First, you're an Irish immigrant in my local butcher shop and then you appear online as an African-American mother of a biracial teenager. What next—a foul-smelling Albanian dwarf with a beard down to his knees?

Speaking of Albanians--I have Albanians in my family tree-I’m told that one of the worst insults in their language is to tell someone “You should be eaten by dogs.”

I’d say that to you, but I like dogs too much and I don’t want them gagging on your putrid carcass.

Do I sound bitter?

I was so furious, there were so many things I wanted to say to you, that you were an idiot, you were a waste of life as well as a Jurassic fucktard. I was thinking of writing you a nasty email, but I didn't want to come off as an angry loser. So instead I'm writing this post so the whole Internet will know what you are.

I left the office after speaking to you,called my best bud Hank, who was in an L.A. Starbucks at the time, and began ranting.

“I’m losing my fucking mind!” I shrieked as I staggered down Hudson Street. “I’m losing my fucking mind!”

I used to roll my eyes at these twits who shout into their cell phones as they walk around in public. Get a grip, I used to think. We don’t need to hear this.

Little did I know…

Hank was great. He listened to my whine, let me rant, and helped me get my head straight. That’s because he’s a real friend, a decent human being and a great guy--not a nuthugger like you.

Rage Against the Machine

There have been a series of strange things going on lately. As I mentioned, I came home from the store the other day and was unable to find the wax paper I had bought. I looked through my bags; I even looked in the freezer. Nothing.

Wax paper is useful stuff, the kind of thing you're used to having around the house. I shouldn't have to buy wax paper, it should just be there when I open the kitchen drawer. Except that it wasn't.

I was about to go back to the store when I picked up the receipt and found I had never bought any goddamn wax paper even though I was convinced I had.

This sort of thing makes me nervous, since my father suffered from Alzheimer’s disease and every time I forget something or make a mistake like this, I wonder if this is the first step down the dark alley.

Now I'm thinking that it is all your fault.

Then all the machines in my life started turning on me, like something out of a Stephen King novel. The step machine and the treadmill at my gym would not cooperate, moving at a little old lady's pace, no matter what buttons I pressed.

One toilet in the company bathroom wouldn’t stop flushing after I used it and then another overflowed the second I looked at it.

My workplace computer crashed after I made the mistake of calling the IT people to complain about the slow service.

Their response was to wipe out my computer’s memory as if I had never existed. I wish I could do that with you.

“It’s like the Keystone Kops!” I whisper-screamed at my desk. “It’s the fucking Keystone Kops!”

Then my bank got in on the act. I went to the branch near work at lunch time and there was only one ATM working and there was line was about to burst out onto the street.

One of the flunkies told us we could go inside and get money from the teller. When I did, the teller said I had to fill out a form. A form--for my own money? Why do I have this stupid card?

"Forget it," I snapped and stormed out, muttering and mumbling like some nut on a park bench.

I went to Our Lady of Pompeii Roman Catholic Church to mark the anniversary of my mother’s death. I felt good feeling in church and receiving Communion. It had been a while and it was nice being in this beautiful old building.

Then I went to light a candle for the Virgin Mary.

Well, it’s actually an electric bulb designed to look like a candle. I prefer a real candle myself, but a light bulb will do in a pinch. And I guess it does cut down on the three-alarmers. So I put my dollar in the wooden box and threw the switch.

And nothing happened.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. On one side of my brain, I could hear the screaming violins from “Psycho” and on the other side I could hear the sane part of my mind saying, “you’re in a church, you can’t freak out, you’re in a goddamn church!”

I asked myself, what is God trying to tell me--besides beware of nuthuggers? What does God want me to do?

Well, I thought when sanity returned, He wants me to find a solution, so I reached over, threw a switch on a neighboring candle and the light came on—in more ways than one.

I went to the Midsummer Night Swing event at Lincoln Center on Friday night--I had no other plans, thanks to you--and had a decent time. It felt good talking to other people, even if I didn’t meet the woman of my dreams.

It is better to light one candle than to curse the nuthuggers.

I have recently decided to stop going to single’s events and I think I will also get off the dating web sites that I’m still on.

The only requirement for these sites is the ability to use a keyboard and, hell, NASA has chimpanzees that could do that. And they’d be better company than most of these losers I’ve met online…like you.

I’m going to spend more time in the real world. I will not let the forces of nuthuggery defeat me, I will not use this ridiculous incident as an excuse to crash and burn. I will find that special someone and enjoy life.

But first I have to get some wax paper.