Ranting McRanterson

Ranting mcranterson….

Why do shitheads throw cigarette butts out their car windows? Why the fuck do shitheads who smoke leave their windows down to smoke? If you like smoke so damn much, keep it inside. And stop throwing butts on the ground in this hot, windy, dry weather. You’re going to cause a fire. And you … N.C. fire department license plate in front of me on N.C. 58 today outside of Emerald Isle … Fuck you for doing it. I hope you’re beach house catches on fire. Ok, I don’t really, but damn, you’re a fucking hypocrite.

To the bitch with the stringy blonde hair and the awful, awful, awful, ill-fitting dress at the unmentionable place today … Go Fuck You. If you want someone to do something – even when you hate their guts because they cuss, wear shorts and call you on your bullshit – ask nicely. It actually works.

To the drunk ass rednecks coming out of the shag bar across the street from my house. Shut up. You’re over 50. You shouldn’t be going “Wooooooooooooooo” in public anymore. Ok, you can do that, but do it less than you’re doing now.

Oh, and the bitch in the red Camaro… stop hitting my God damn mailbox. You need to get busted for a DUI. Drink, dance, then drive. Yeah, smart combo. Bitch.

Hey, guy who drives around Jacksonville with the giant, tattered Confederate flag. Stop it. You’re racism is showing. And to the guy who has the giant truck with the huge smokestack things, you stop it too. I don’t want to breathe all that fucking crap.

All the people – including my best friend – who posted pictures of the temperature either in their car, outside of their car, outside their office, or outside their apartments/houses today on facebook and twitter – I DON’T CARE. It’s 95 degrees INSIDE my house right now. I’m poor. That’s one of the ways I save money. But not foolishly cooling my house that I spend maybe six or seven hours a day in. Just ain’t worth it. I’d rather buy good beer.

Why do the grocery stores on the island close at midnight? It’s the summer. The tourists are here. Shouldn’t you be serving them? That way I don’t have to buy beer 30 minutes from my house and it gets hot before I get home.

And fuck you laws. I should be able to drink ONE beer while driving that distance. It will distract me no more or less, or make me no less or more of a driver (or writer) than a Monster energy drink or texting while driving.

The chicken in my fridge that went bad. Fuck you. I paid good money for you. And you spoiled. Yeah, it was my fault for not cooking you sooner, but shit, I really wanted to eat chicken last night.

And to my memory. Fuck you. I left my meal in the fridge and went out and spent 9 bucks on a meal. Dumb ass.

To the members of KISS. Eat shit. You aren’t KISS without Peter and Ace. And dressing up like you are Peter and Ace? Fuck off Tommy Thayer and Eric Singer. Fuck the fuck off.

To the NOLA Media Group. Eat shit. Those job descriptions you put out kept me from applying with your company. I know typing this means you’ll never hire me, even when your plan fails and you either go out of business and it won’t matter, or you go back to what worked. My new CEO says newspapers – the print part – actually has a future. I have no idea what he considers “a future” to be. A year? Ten years? One hundred years? But he spent a whole lot of money to prove it. But still less than your profits from the T-P last year.

Toby Keith fans. Eat shit.

Same for you, Brooks and Dunn or the song Mr. Roboto.

To me, for picking on that kid Ke-ho back in grade school. I was such a dick head.

To me, again, for spelling motherfucker mother fucker to make it two words instead of one.

To my teeth. Eat my ass. To me for the last 20 years, eat double my ass for not getting them fixed before it was too late.

Electronic dart machines in bars? Fuck you.

Internet jukeboxes that allow people to play anything by Slipknot or Stone Temple Pilots. Die in a fire.

The guy who dumped all the waste in the alley between my house and the hotel…I hope bats shit in your mouth tonight and you contract rabies. And I don’t even know if you can get rabies that way. Probably not. Maybe though?

To the people who talk to me in the bathroom. I don’t want to talk to you. I’m peeing or pooping. And yes, I called the shit poop, Adam Sandler. It creeps me out. And today, to the photog that did it, there was a guy taking a shit in there, and it smelled. Why the fuck did you stop me from leaving to ask me about 401Ks?

Lastly, to money. I’ve been bad to you all these years, and you in return have been bad to me. Let’s call a truce and forget about it…Asshat.

woo girl

I try not to be lonely.

To do this, I try to go outside as much as I can. Not sit in front of the computer, the television, the stereo until my ass falls asleep. The front yard can be a bustling metropolis. It can be a desolate island.

You smile at someone, they don’t smile back. Don’t take it personally. You laugh at the insanity of trying to one up your pals, your co-workers, your significant other, even.

It can be lonely, being alone. I guess it’s better than being lonely when you’re not alone.
**
The drapes are all open. The last rays of sun are creeping inside the house. Trying to find someone to see them before it gets dark.

**

One day, someone will miss me.

**

If you think about it too hard
Too long
Too short
Too much
It hurts.
If you don’t think about it
It fades away
Into nothing
In to everything.

**

I woke up this morning wondering if I was having a heart attack.
My chest was thumping and I could hardly breathe.
I lay there on the bed, thoughts of death filling my brain.
And still I thought of you.
I guess we’re stuck together, since my thoughts are the glue.
Until my heart stops beating
And my brain no longer is filled with your smile.
Your eyes.
Your laugh.
Your cry.
Your everything.
And nothing.

**

I wish sometimes I wouldn’t even try. That I just sat in my life and let it unfold without any thought. Any remorse. Any dare.

Other people make it look so easy. Punch the clock. Eat their donuts. Get fat. Have kids. Grow old. Die.

I guess I’m doing most of those, so what am I worried about. The more I don’t want to be that way, the more I seem to become it.

The hamster doesn’t know why the wheel is there. It just gets on it. Runs, runs, runs. Until it gets tired. Then it eats, eats, eats, eats. Until there is no more food. Then it sleeps, sleeps, sleeps. Until it wakes up. Then it shits, shits, shits. Until it has no more. Then it gets on the wheel. But, if he’s lucky, his owner will get him a woman. And then he’ll fuck, fuck, fuck. Lucky little rodent.

**

A girl came up to me at the bar and asked “do you have a light?”

I looked up, she was maybe 23, pearly white teeth, green bikini on. A gorgeous smile.

“Nope, don’t smoke,” I replied with a smile.

“Thanks,” she said, walking away.

A few minutes later, she sat with some guy. He had a cigarette lighter. I knew this guy. He was two years older than me, full head of hair and a beat up Volkswagen. I saw she had her hand on his leg.

“What’s he got that I don’t have?” I said to my buddy at the other end of the bar, gesturing to the guy with the Volkswagen.

“Good posture?” he said, laughing.

“You’re probably right,” I said, slumped over my warm bottle of Shiner Blonde. I got up and went to the jukebox. I bought the thing three years ago. Said I’d stock it with only good music too. My picks lasted three weeks before the tourists started to complain that they didn’t want to listen to Bill Withers or The Kinks.

“Where’s the Lady Gaga?”

“Who listens to his shit?”

“Can you get some REAL music?”

Over and over I listened to this. Finally, Butch, the owner told me I had to give up at least half of the jukebox for the other paying customers. I tried to argue, but I wasn’t behind it 100 percent. Not because I knew I’d lose, because those are usually the best arguments, but instead because I wanted to get laid. Good music brought in good girls, Butch said right up front. That was like a Mike Tyson uppercut, circa 1986 right to my chin. I had no shot.

I flipped to the beginning of the CDs, where my selections still held strong. I put in a quarter, then three more. I picked C3 three times. “Hold Me Close” by Lucero. It just felt right.

“I fucking love Ben Nichols!” someone shouted from across the bar, right after I’d plopped my ass back onto my seat. She started signing, rather poorly. I listened with great pleasure. It reminded me of all those nights in steamy bars and shitty dives singing my lungs out.

The song ended. She sat down. Then it started again.

“Woooooooo!” she yelled. A woo girl. Sweet.

The song ended. She sat again.

It started once again.

“Who played this?” she shrieked.

I raised my hand like the shy kid in class that I was oh so many years ago. She looked at me. I looked at her.

That was the last time I fucked anyone. That was three years ago in July.