Take Responsibility for Your Actions

I don’t know why drunks and drug addicts absolutely, positively cannot take responsibility for their actions. When they get fired/thrown in jail/divorced/you name it, it is always someone else’s fault. When I was at the Harribalsac my slackassed co-workers were always busy passing the buck. Nothing was ever their fault. If they spent half as much time working as they did blaming someone else for their woes, the restaurant would have been spotless, the food would have been excellent, and customers would have received great service. But we all know that wasn’t the case.

This is chronic in the food and beverage industry, mostly because so many employees are drain circling drunks and drug addicts who have found they can earn a living by doing as little as possible while other people pick up their slack. Sadly, I’ve found employers tend to like the lost causes and will give them chance after chance in the hope of redeeming them so they can feel good about their own lives. I have no such redemption delusions. “Work hard or get out” is one of my mottoes. And for the love of all that is holy, I don’t want to hear any whining.

Foghorn Leghorn’s girlfriend, The Bar Hag, and I had a major falling out New Year’s Eve. Mind you, I’ve been patient with her because she has an 8th grade education and mentally she’s still 14 years old. She’s into gross public displays of affection, high drama, and the Chicken Little kind of crap most of us got over by the time we hit high school. When she gets drunk she laughs like the Joker and I’ve spent hours listening to this seep into the kitchen until it has invaded my sleep, and I fear the only way I can get rid of it is to smash my head into a wall. Repeatedly.

The Bar Hag’s Joker Laugh

I’ve listened to her whine about her bladder infections, her yeast infections, her pulled muscles, all of which has prompted me to tell Bagheera that The Bar Hag needs to stop having nasty butt sex with Foghorn Leghorn. I’ve heard every excuse under the sun why she needs to sit for half her shift, and why it’s simply impossible for her to actually DO anything, yet when she gets off shift and starts pounding beers and shots she is miraculously cured and can dance and play pool like nobody’s business. I’ve put up with this and kept my mouth shut for months because we are short handed and I certainly don’t want to work in the bar.

Until NYE.

When I got to work at 5 The Bar Hag was already in a lather. She and Foghorn were fighting and he refused to work with her. Instead of working his scheduled shift, he opted to get completely shit faced drunk.

He should have been fired.

I felt bad for The Bar Hag because she really kind of sucks as a bartender so I offered to stay and help her when I closed the kitchen at 9:00. Bagheera offered to help her if we weren’t busy in the kitchen until I closed. The Bar Hag was having none of it. She wanted Foghorn behind the bar so she could fight and have the drama she feeds on. She wanted to be able to go up and down the bar whining to the customers about how horrible life is because she and her one true love are fighting and she’s just miserable. Or some such shit.

After I closed the kitchen I went to the bar and hung out with a friend I haven’t seen in a long time and an interesting man named Cactus (actual name, not a nickname). I offered to wash dishes for The Bar Hag because she was truly overwhelmed, and Foghorn was falling down drunk in the pool room.

Then came the countdown. King Triton went back to play Auld Lang Syne on the the jukebox and I noticed Doc go behind the bar. Doc drank himself into a coma this summer and nearly died. We are all on strict orders not to let him drink under any circumstances. I watched The Bar Hag laugh with him while he poured himself a shot and he told her not to pay attention to what he was doing. I heard her say, “Hey, you’re a grown man. If you want to drink, you can drink.” I watched him take the shot and her throw her arms in the air in the victory sign like his life is some sort of game. I remembered watching King Triton and Bagheera cry because they thought their son was going to die.  I saw red.  When she made her way down to my end of the bar I said, “That right there is going to get you fired, and just so you know, I’ll be the one who tells on you.”

Suddenly, Foghorn was in my face, screaming and drunkenly trying to argue with me. King Triton wanted to know why we were fighting, so I told him, which I had planned on doing the next day when things were more rational, but hey, you want to send your boyfriend to fight your battles? Game on.

King Triton told The Bar Hag not to let Doc behind the bar and not to serve him. End of story. Or it should have been. Instead The Bar Hag went up and down the bar, literally crying to people about what a mean girl I am and how I’m going to get her fired and on and on and on. She started pounding shots, which always makes things better. I left before 1 am so I don’t know what else went on, but apparently she had been letting people run tabs all night and when they left, 90% walked out without paying. Also, based on the inventory, she hadn’t charged for more than half the drinks she served. Based on the register tape, she was charging people 25 cents for beer rather than $2.50. It was unclear whether the money wasn’t collected or if it went in her pocket.

She and Foghorn were both reprimanded and she was put on 90 days probation. She was limited to only 2 drinks after work, because King Triton was tired of seeing her be “sloppy drunk with the customers.” The ways to get off probation were:

  • No financial mistakes
  • Act as if you want your job
  • Stop showing up for work drunk and/or hungover
  • Work like you mean it

Since the beginning of her probation she and Foghorn have spent a inordinate amount of time passing the buck.  First the NYE fiasco was King Triton’s fault…no wait, it’s Glory’s fault…no it’s Tinkerbell’s fault…I’m sure it was Glory’s fault.  Not once have either of them said, “You know what, I think we fucked up.”  Their stories about that night have changed more frequently than I’ve changed my underwear in the last month, but one thing is consistent:  it isn’t their fault.

She continues to charge people 25 cents for beer and $1.25 for mixed drinks.  Apparently, she really is stuck back in 1979.  The register is constantly a mess, and typically when that happens, money is going in someone’s pocket.

She and Foghorn have also spent a lot of time fighting the 2 drink rule.  It isn’t fair.  Glory can drink as much as she wants, why can’t The Bar Hag.  Well, Glory drinks possibly 1 beer every few weeks.  There is no reason to limit my drinking, I limit myself.

When The Bar Hag and Foghorn aren’t passing the buck or whining about drinking limits, they spend their time spying on me in the kitchen, trying to get me in trouble.  I find this very amusing because my IQ is greater than their combined IQ, and they end up looking like a couple of dumbass douchebags.  Their latest thing is tattling about what I eat.  We are allowed one shift meal and I respect that.  No place I’ve ever worked has had an issue with me taking advantage of the food policy.  Foghorn ratted me out because I had both Shepherd’s Pie AND a turkey sandwich…except to his embarrassment Shepherd’s Pie contains beef, and what is the one thing I don’t eat, haven’t eaten in more than 20 years because it make me sick?  Beef.  The turkey sandwich was a turkey burger that I brought from home on a bun from the café with fruit and yogurt from home.  My shift meal cost less than a dollar.

That’s right, you lose.  Thanks for playing, better luck next time.

The Bar Hag also started telling customers that I have a bad attitude (well, duh), that I “got a talking to” and King Triton and Bagheera are ready to fire me.  Of course, those customers came straight to me all bewildered and dumbfounded that my job would be in jeopardy since I actually work.  Other than the bad attitude, the whole thing was The Bar Hag’s wishful thinking.  My job is absolutely not in jeopardy.  Foghorn and The Bar Hag didn’t like it when she got yet another reprimand for talking shit on me to customers.  Our business is our business, and people don’t come in to hear the employees bicker and whine.

The final straw with The Bar Hag is she thinks she can sit on her ass and play on her computer on Sundays while Bagheera and I are scrubbing the kitchen, dining room, restrooms, and I’m stuck mopping the bar floor. 

Oh hell no.

I make slightly more per hour than she does, but there is NO FUCKING WAY I’m going to be on my hands and knees scrubbing while she is free to sit on her ass.  I told Bagheera she might be content to pay The Bar Hag to sit while she works like a dog, but that doesn’t fly with me.  If I have to work, so does everyone else.  The first Sunday I busted The Bar Hag, she gave Bagheera 17 different excuses why it was necessary for her to be on her computer.  When Bagheera told her to pack it up and get to work, The Bar Hag spent the rest of the afternoon playing pool with Foghorn.  The second Sunday was the same deal.

Apparently, there won’t be a third Sunday because The Bar Hag got her hours reduced to Tuesday nights, which she will spend with me.  I don’t see her sticking around for long.

Of course, this is all MY fault.  Yes, once again I’m the Mean Girl, capable of getting good, reliable, hard working employees fired with just a glance and the right word.  If I wasn’t such a brown-noser, The Bar Hag would still have all her hours and I would be the one looking for a job, because you know, I don’t do anything while I’m in the kitchen.  (eye roll) 

I’m comfortable in my position as the Mean Girl.  I’m not there to make friends.  I’m there to make money. 

So now Foghorn is sour and rude to everyone, The Bar Hag is probably planning to vandalize Frankenvan, and everyone is on eggshells.  This brings up another of my mottoes:  “If one if us is going to be pissed, it may as well be you.”

Lip Locking Grandma

Back story: Drizilla quit working because she was pregnant. The rampant speculation is that the Baby Daddy isn’t her husband, but Johnny Bravo, the best friend who filled the gap because her husband shoots blanks. Sadly, Drizilla quit working, but she didn’t quit chain smoking or drinking while she was pregnant, so when the baby was born last week she weighed under 6 pounds. /back story

Last night as I left work, one of the family members, I’ll call her K for now, said she had to walk to the motel and get Drizilla’s mom’s phone. I offered to give her a ride. She said she was very annoyed with the whole “babysit grandma” adventure because grandma kept trying to kiss her on the lips. “WTF?! My own kids don’t kiss me on the lips.”

She found the phone in the room by calling it, then she quickly locked the door and got back in the van. The conversation turned from Lip Locking Grandma to the parentage of the new baby. This went on for a full 3 minutes until we got back to the bar and parked. As we were getting out, we heard a beep. She looked at the phone and uttered a horrifying sentence:

“OH MY GOD! That all went to voice mail!”

I had plausible deniability. She did not.

Thankfully, Lip Locking Grandma is one of the tech-inept because she didn’t have a pass code set up to access her voice mail. We listened to the message and alternately howled with laughter while counting our blessings. Every now and then it is nice to stumble upon a dummy.

After that scare, I decided to go back in the bar and have a drink. K went to the restroom and I checked in on the Words with Friends game I’m playing with my daughter. I was sitting in the corner, minding my own business (while smelling that a lot of people in the bar need a good scrubbing-the sense of smell is killing me) when suddenly there was a huge ass in my face, all bent over and heading towards my lap.

WTF?! I am NOT a toucher/hugger/mauler, and oh hell no if someone thinks they are going to put their dirty ass on me. I stood up and politely asked Lip Locking Grandma to not sit on me. I mean, holy shit. There wasn’t a shortage of chairs, and I don’t know this woman at all.

That wasn’t good enough. She backed me up against the bar, hugging me while puckering up to kiss me on the lips. I wigged out and she went away mad.

What is wrong with people? When someone politely asks a person to respect their space, why must some people persist and get even more aggressive in their need to paw? I view it as extremely hostile, bordering on rape. It always seems to be women who do this to me. They just aren’t happy until I lose my shit, and then they are all hurt and I’m the mean girl.

I swear the next bitch who does this is in for a surprise. I’m going to dry hump her to the floor and ride her like a saddle bronc. I’m betting everyone will get the point after that.

Keep Your Crazy, I Have Enough of My Own

We got around 10 inches of snow last week and the temperature immediately went below zero…way below…and stayed there for a week.  Somehow my hot water pipes froze and I haven’t had hot water for a week.  I am an obsessively clean person and yesterday, after taking a whore’s bath with cold water for 6 days, I lost my shit.  I got called to work early (and smelly) and I had a screaming, bawling rant in the kitchen.  Some guy who refused to eat in the bar actually picked up his plate and took it there when he heard me shrieking, “I CAN’T BE DIRTY!  I’M NOT WAITING ON ANYONE, AND I SWEAR TO GOD IF ANYONE COMES IN THIS KITCHEN OR LOOKS AT ME FOR ANY REASON I’M GOING TO POKE THEIR FUCKING EYES OUT!”   

Thankfully, my pipes thawed this morning and I was able to shower before work.  Once again everyone gets to live.  Some people are on very shaky ground.

In other news:  I am working on drafting a new town ordinance for all the men who bring crazy bitches to town and leave them.  I think there should be a fine just as there is for littering, and maybe some time in jail (or the stocks).  This is a serious offense. 

We have enough of our own borderline personality disorders problems, we don’t need strangers dragging theirs in ‘cuz let me tell you, when a woman scorned decides to twist off here, she goes all out and takes everyone down with her.   This town has a long and sordid history of Crazy;  it’s where I formed my curious love of good train wrecks.  There’s a big one brewing now and all I can do is watch…and place wagers on who will be among the debris.

Yep, I’m going to Hell in a handbasket.

The Worst Story in the History of Stories

During Labor Day weekend, before things got really busy, a woman, 60ish, rushed in the café and asked if she could use the restroom.  Bagheera and I were at the counter rolling silverware when she rushed back out and snarled that we were out of paper towels.  She grabbed a handful of napkins out of the dispenser on the table and went back in the restroom.

Bagheera went to get paper towels while I continued to roll silverware.  I saw Bagheera walk down the hallway, knock on the door, and go in for about a minute.  Then she came hauling ass out of the hallway into the dining room, carrying a trash bag.  She hauled ass past me and said, “Please put a new trash bag in the bathroom.  I have to go home.”  Then the restroom woman stormed out of the café.

I stood there and wondered WTF?!  It was morning during Labor Day weekend, the busiest weekend of the year in Meeteetse, ravening hordes of people would be busting the door down, and WTF?!  I’m ALONE?!  What the fucking fuck?!

A few minutes later Bagheera’s oldest son showed up to help me and he told me why his mom came home puking and was now laying down with a cold towel on her face.  When she went in the restroom to stock the paper towels she dropped the keys in the trash.  Since she had just cleaned the restrooms and emptied the trash she stuck her hand in the little swinging door on the top of the trash can and right into a Depends full of warm runny shit.  The worst part was the woman who dropped the Depends in the trash stood right behind Bagheera and let her stick her hand in it. 

Things would have turned out differently if I had been in Bagheera’s shoes.

It was hours before I saw Bagheera again and she was green for the rest of the day.  There was also some random gagging.

I took over restroom duties not long after that and at first I asked myself:  Who does this shit?  I kept finding gum in the urinal…until I loudly mentioned to, well, everyone in the bar, that the person who fishes the gum out of the urinal is the same person who patties their hamburgers.  Now I find a lot less of a mess.  I seldom find tobacco on the walls or paper towels on the floor, because everyone knows they will get an ass chewing.   

Fear is an excellent motivator.

Doing Things My Way

How things work at the Cowboy/Outlaw:

  • I cook, Bagheera waits tables in the cafe, I get the tips as part of my wage.
  • The bartenders service their own tables, they get the tips.  The kitchen does their dishes, rolls their silverware.
  • If there is a large table in the bar or any table the bartender is too busy to wait on, Bagheera or I wait on it, the bartender gets the drinks, we split the tip.  The kitchen does the dishes and rolls the silverware.
  • The kitchen is responsible for all cleaning, which includes the kitchen, cafe, bathrooms and mopping the bar.

Where this goes wrong:

  • The bartenders are a bunch of lazy fucking communists.  Why work when someone else will do it and you’ll still get paid the same amount?
  • The bartenders are greedy fuckers.
  • The bulk of the work load falls on the kitchen.  There are times I’m on my hands and knees scrubbing some mess while the bartenders are sitting on their asses, watching TV. 

Where this has gone wrong recently:

  • A group of 15 people came in for dinner. 
  • I took their order, cooked their food, Bagheera delivered their food, the bartender (the one who can’t spell ‘potato’) delivered about $30 worth of drinks. 
  • Bagheera & I cleaned the tables, did the dishes, rolled the silverware.
  • The bartender couldn’t figure 20% for the auto-grat and ended up shorting the tip by $10.  
  • Bagheera and I did the bulk of the work, yet I had to split the tip with the bartender, who shorted the auto-grat and screwed me out of $5.  
  • I pointed out that when I worked at The Harribalsac we split the tip based on sales, so the person doing the most work got the most money.  It encouraged people to actually, you know, work.

How I plan to fix this:

  • Tonight a group of 9 men came in for dinner. 
  • Bagheera took their order, I cooked their steaks, I refilled their drinks (twice), I cleaned their tables. 
  • When it came time to figure the ticket, I did the auto-grat.  I gave Foghorn Leghorn 20% of his sales…$5.  He was shocked and dumbfounded because it was a $50 tip.

I would have split the tip evenly, but he tried to give the table to his girlfriend (who was off shift and drinking) so the tip would stay with them.  That isn’t the way things work and he knows it.  The bartenders had a huge kerfluffle about a month ago when the dumbass who can’t spell came in off the clock, waited on a table and took the tip.  Everyone thought she should be fired for taking money from Foghorn Leghorn’s girlfriend.  Since he’s a greedy fucker it’s okay to do the same thing to me though.

They should know better than to try that shit with me.

Plus, I’m still a little pissed about the buffalo T-bone incident.  About a month ago a guy in the bar ordered a buffalo T-bone and a soda.  He ate the steak, drank the soda, and said it was the best steak he’d ever had.  Foghorn Leghorn’s girlfriend came into the kitchen and said, “That guy was so impressed with the steak he tipped Foghorn Leghorn and I $40.  Good job!”  Bagheera and I looked at each other in shock.  Whenever someone tipped me very well because of the cook, I ALWAYS split the tip with my cook.  She never even offered a dime.  I was dumbfounded.  Since then, any time I split a tip with her, she gets 30% instead of 50%.

I am not greedy.  I don’t need to make all the money in the world.  I’m all about letting my coworkers make money.  However, if they want to play the greedy game, I’m more than willing to play it with them.  They are either going to start working and being a little more thankful for the work the kitchen does, or they are going to spend a lot of time wondering why they aren’t making any money.

Updates for The Cast of Characters

I updated the “Cast of Characters” and as you can see, a lot of people bit the dust while I was gone.

Cartman–he isn’t a bar/cafe employee, but he’s always underfoot.  He quit/got fired from the town for sleeping on the job and general laziness.  Bagheera warned me that I should be nicer to him because she thought he was going to go on a shooting rampage, most likely starting with me.  What gave her the clue?  He started selling all his guns for bargain basement prices, but said he was holding on to one AK-47.  Cartman gets free samples and compliments now.

Betty Booze–her days were always numbered, but even I didn’t imagine how complete her downfall would be.  She lost her full time job at the Visitor Center, broke up with her long time boyfriend, Shaggy,  and started living with Davey in a one room house. 

But wait!  There’s more. 

Her 15 year old daughter was arrested for minor in possession of alcohol, which put child protective services up Betty Booze’s ass.  She started popping Davey’s pills, went batshit insane, and just stopped showing up for work.  Davey’s Mormon landlady didn’t like him living in sin, so she evicted both of them.  They had their shit packed in a piece of shit row boat one day when Michele & I drove by their house, and I laughed so fucking hard I couldn’t get a picture.  They moved into a shed owned by a rodeo clown.

I am not making this up.

Everything was fine until one night Davey went on a pill and alcohol rage and threw all of Betty Booze’s stuff in the river.  He went to jail.

I’m sure their story isn’t over yet.    

Shaggy–cut his losses and moved away.  He’s one of the lucky ones.

Davey–if I didn’t think I would get in trouble I would post his mug shot from his most recent stay in jail.

Drizella–got knocked up and quit.

Doc–tried to drink himself to death, spent a week in an induced coma, currently looking for a new liver.  This one isn’t funny. 

Of course, we found replacements for the fallen.  Of course, they are dysFUNctional.

Here’s a teaser:

Special Board:  Hog Wings & Potatoe Salad

Me:  Who keeps putting an ‘e’ on the end of potato?

New Hire in Search of a Nickname:  I do.  That’s the correct way to spell it.

Me:  Ok, Dan Quayle.

New Hire:  Who’s Dan Quayle.

Me:  The former Vice President of the United States who chastised an elementary student for misspelling ‘potato’ only to find out he was wrong.

New Hire:  I have spell check on my phone, and it says it’s right.

Me:  The dictionary on my phone says you’re wrong.

Idiot.  I’m surrounded.

It’s a Beautiful Day

Why is it a beautiful day, you ask?  Because my shit heel, inbred, redneck, fucktard neighbours moved out.  Of course, they left in the night like any good criminals, and I stood on my deck as they drove away to make sure they didn’t poison my animals, slash my tires, or sugar my gas tank, but I figured the Uhaul was some sort of a cruel joke.  However, when I woke up at the crack of 2 in the afternoon and looked out my window, reality sunk in and I did a happy dance.  If the world suddenly feels like it has more air it’s because everyone in my neighbourhood let out a huge sigh of relief.

I live in a mobile home subdivision about a mile and a half out of town.  We have dirt roads, undrinkable water, and questionable property lines.  I’ve been here for 8 years.  It’s quiet.  There are nine houses, seven of them occupied.  Everybody minds their own business.  Everybody gets along.  Nobody goes out of their way to piss off the neighbourhood.  

The rednecks, mom/dad/adult daughter/adult son-in-law/10 year old daughter, moved in sometime in May.  First, they put up an ugly privacy fence around the lot next to the neighbours across the street from me.  Then they filled that quarter acre lot with horses.  Seven horses fighting, running into the fence and drawing flies.  I stood on my deck and wondered who allowed this shit.  Our CC&Rs forbid livestock, but since no one enforces the CC&Rs I figured I was going to have to suck it up and learn to love flies and the smell of horse shit.

About a week later they moved their house in.  All of our houses sit in rows, with the short sides roughly facing east to west.  This gives a break from the wind that howls all winter.  These Arkansas douchebags planted their house facing north to south.  I sat on my deck and hoped they enjoyed getting broadsided by the wind.  Nothing like trying to fit in with the neighbourhood.  The placement of their house was another violation of the CC&Rs, but, well, you know…

Then one “morning” as I drank coffee on my deck and struggled to wake up, I noticed garden hoses running from their house, across 2 lots to the lot with the horses.  We had a bit of a drought this summer.  I looked at my back yard that never gets watered, then I looked at their lots.  Mine was brown and dead, theirs looked like Ireland.  WTF?!  Our water isn’t metered, we pay a flat rate of $35 per month, per lot, for domestic use.  This means you can have a garden, a yard, do your laundry, wash your car, and take as many showers as you want on ONE lot.  You can NOT use the water for irrigation.  You can NOT  pay $35 a month and use enough water for 4 lots, which is how many lots they own.

So the water district got involved.  The rednecks refused to pay for water on all four lots.  They burned out the well pump.  No one had water.  After the pump was replaced, they continued to use so much water that half of the subdivision didn’t have water.  The water district threatened to shut off their water.  They parked a truck over the shut off valve and chained it to a fence.  The water district called for a locate on gas and electric lines across the street from their house in order to shut them off there.  They took shovels and rakes and erased the locate lines.  This went on for two fucking months.  The water district finally got the locator and the backhoe to arrive at the same time and shut their water off.  The next morning, the rednecks dug a trench and turned their water back on.

Meanwhile, everyone in the neighbourhood signed up with an attorney to file an order to have the horses removed, and we formed a home owners association.  The rednecks answered this by petitioning the county commissioners to annex out of the subdivision.  They also filed stalking protection orders against everyone on the water district board and four of the people on the HoA.  The sheriff spent so much time out here I wondered why he didn’t move in with them.  It got to the point that if anyone drove or walked by their house, they called the sheriff.  Their house is on the same PUBLIC road as my house.  It was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. 

In September, two of my women neighbours, Theresa and Mary, approached me because they were terrified of the rednecks.  Their husbands were gone a lot, the rednecks filed stalking orders on them, and they were afraid to leave their houses.  They heard I was a little on the mean side and could I help them?  By this time I was pissed.  I HATE bullies, and that’s exactly what these assholes were.  Plus, in every rebuttal against the HoA, they cited my ducks as a precedent for their horses.  Stupid fuckers.  Ducks aren’t livestock.

My neighbours gave me the paperwork from their stalking protection orders.  It was some scary shit.  The redneck bitch included her journal entries, and it read as a “who can we sue next” manuscript.  It involved several different families, people with money, from the community.  I immediately called everyone named in the journal and told them to sever contact with these people.  I made copies of the journal and gave it to everyone concerned.  They had photos and dated written documentation of Theresa & Mary’s every move.  I didn’t know that if you spy on your neighbours and take pictures of them, they are stalking YOU.  This is what I mean by scary shit.

(I guess I should add that Theresa and her husband are quite wealthy and Mary and her husband won half a mil on a slot machine in Deadwood a year ago.)

While reading through the “sworn” testimony I found a passage stating that I told the redneck kids Theresa’s dog had tried to bite me (never happened, never said it happened).  They were using this as stalking evidence.  See if you can follow their logic.  Apparently Theresa’s dog tried to bite me, so we weren’t friends.  But in August we became friends because Theresa was turning me against them.  That’s stalking.  WTF?!  

Needless to say, I saw red.  I was furious that they were trying to drag me into their bullshit.  The next day I was outside talking to Theresa when the redneck bitches careened up the hill towards our houses.  I said something to Theresa and I remember her screaming, “SHE’LL RUN OVER YOU!” as I walked out in front of the speeding car.  The bitch stopped, I leaned in, got right up in her face, introduced myself, told her to make sure she spelled my name correctly when she filed a protection order against me, and proceeded to tear her a new asshole for naming me as a witness against my neighbours.  She never made eye contact and stammered that she didn’t have a problem with me.  You do now.  Then she told me that she didn’t have a protection order against me.  You should get one.

I turned around and Theresa was gone.  Rabbited right back to her house.  She wasn’t lying about being afraid, but of them or me I wasn’t sure. 

Of course, the bitch called the sheriff on me.  He graduated high school with my brother.  I asked if I was going to get a protection order because I felt pretty left out.  He said that yelling at someone wasn’t against the law.  Yeah, I know.  He told me the rednecks didn’t like me talking to Theresa.  I reminded him I have the right to assemble.  Uh…yes, yes you do.  I told him I also have freedom of speech.  Uh…yes, that’s true.  Then I enlightened him on all the bullshit going on with the water district and how their actions crossed the line of criminal behaviour.  Of course he knew nothing about it.  I pointed out that the protection orders and his constant presence on their behalf made him seem more than a little biased, and one would think that maybe he wasn’t the best person to service our neighbourhood.  Uh…  He was dumbfounded because he hadn’t read the paperwork he served, and I guess he thought no one was paying attention to his visits.  He obviously took the time to read it, and he took my subtle threat against his job seriously because he suddenly refered all calls to another sheriff.

So, to wrap up this very long story:  the rednecks looked like asses in court for the stalking protection orders.  Stalking is very clear cut.  Did either of these women call you?  No.  Did either of these women send you harassing letters?  No.  Did they send you texts or emails?  No.  Did they hang around your place of employment?  No.  Did they hang out around your house?  No.  Cases dismissed.  Assholes.

The rednecks looked like asses for the county commissioners when 15 people showed up to fight their petition to annex out of the subdivision.  They were not allowed to annex out, but were allowed to combine their four lots into one.  The commissioners stressed that the CC&Rs run with the land, no matter who you bought it from, no matter how many times it’s been sold.  They brought up my ducks.  There was a chorus of “ducks aren’t livestock” in the meeting room.  The commissioners explained that the essence of CC&Rs is “don’t annoy your neighbours”.  Everything is acceptable until someone complains and if the majority complains, you have a problem.  Assholes.

Lucky for them they didn’t win the petition to annex out because I was leading the crusade to have them removed from our septic system and banned from our road in the event they did.  You can’t be part of the “community” septic system if you’re not part of the community, and you can’t drive on the road the home owners pay to maintain if you aren’t part of the home owner’s association.  Let’s see how you like walking to your house and shitting in a bucket with no water to rinse it out, which brings us to…

The rednecks looked like asses when most of the neighbourhood showed up to support the water district in shutting off their water.  They adopted a “we’ll show you” attitude by filling two cisterns and running garden hoses from them to their house…until the temperature dropped to zero last week and froze their hoses.  Aww…so sad.  Currently, they owe the water district nearly $3,000 for multiple shut-offs and past due water bills.  A lien is attached to their property.  Assholes.

Honestly, in all of this I waffled on my opinion of the rednecks.  My first thought was that they moved here and set all of this in motion in order to sue Mary & her husband for damages and make off with a quick hundred thousand or so.  Once they realized Theresa and her husband had money, the rednecks added them to the plan.  But they were so d.u.m.b.  Maybe they were just stupid and misunderstood.  How can they be con artists when they have a group IQ of ‘duh’?

My opinion cemented when they called the sheriff on me two days before they fled town for sitting on my deck, drinking coffee and talking on the phone while they took down the ugly privacy fence across the street.  I saw their buddy sheriff go to their house.  I saw them in their yard pointing at me.  I saw him shake his head and drive away.  Smart man.  Telling me I can’t sit on my deck is one conversation he doesn’t want to have.

The final score?

Rednecks:  YOU LOSE.

Crossed Arrows Home Owners:  Lesson Learned.

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