Editor’s Note: Today’s entry has been authored by Bill Parvocampus.
One of the keys to moving on after the death of your wife (which really is the very definition of widowerhood) is finding someone to be perpetually pissed off at. For me, since my wife and I were not particularly religious people, I find it very convenient to spend my days being pissed at religious people.
It’s easy to see why we weren’t religious. My wife was a truck stop freelancer; she found it hard to believe in any kind of benevolent God, even though she loved her job as much as or more than #ilovepodcasting. As for me, it’s never been in my character to find anything but evil in the world. And if I can’t find some, I can always whip up a quick batch to splatter on anyone close by like I did that time the cop came by to serve papers on me.
Even though I was raised Catholic, I never have felt that the Church ever did anything for me. To me, sure; lots of times. Enough that I took a liking to it. I have long felt an attraction to things on this earth that a civil society frowns upon. Alice wasn’t the only reason we had to move to North Dakota. Another contributing factor was the twenty or so cats that floated downriver with their asses blown open by M-80s. Thinking about that still makes me giggle like I just made a big wet one in my Depends for Gayle to clean up.
Which brings me back to God and widowerhood. I believe in God. I guess if you had to drive a wooden stake through the heart of my beliefs, the best description would be Universally Utilitarian and Useless. I won’t share my beliefs with you, so don’t try to share yours with me, you right wing Taliban religiofascist! Microaggressor! Hater! Safe space violating name-calling bigoted LOUDMOUTH FUCKHOLE! GET AWAY FROM ME WITH YOUR PROSELYTIZING AND FREE SPEECH!
You people don’t know what it’s like, having someone you love die after 27 years of putting up with their relentless fuckery and oral homage with dirty truck drivers after your weenie failed due to progressive neurological diseases. All I have are memories of playing “The Father Fitzwilliam Game” in the rectory on Tuesday nights. And you wonder why I talk so fondly (“fondle-y” – heh) of “getting back in touch with my Catholic roots.” Of course, all the Catholic roots I touched in my childhood are dead now, and I suppose none of the current roster would be interested in a used-up old fart like me.
But why am I talking about my Catholic upfucking UPBRINGING? This is about how to be the most mega-terrific widower ever. And to not let right wing nut job Taliban fascists bring you down from your super-duper new life in a Wisconsin Mancave of Cub Scout Anal Rape Fabulousness!
Oh! Looks like we’re out of time for today! Maybe tomorrow I’ll figure out how to separate my low-road hatred for right wing lickspittles that I can’t stop stalking from my awesome new high-road adventures as Super Widower Magical Podcaster, A Mean Motor(ized Mobility) Scooter and A Bad Go-Getter of Johnnie Walker Red down at the Walgreens because you can buy liquor at freaking TOY STORES in this state – no one would want to live here otherwise!
Until next time…adios, amoebas!🇧🇴
UPDATE – Is there ANYTHING in the post above that would give a sane person the impression that I would waste my time listening to a DUMBFUCK podcast? All I did was read his description that someone archived and launched from there. If (BIG IF) I cared, I could actually listen to the stupid thing and find out I nailed it in one…but as Paul said, I’m out of liquor. – Bill