Where is the regard?

 Did you hear what that guy said? 

He just said it again. He knows what he's doing when he says it, too. 

He does it every time. He comes in here, says what he says, does what he does, every god-damned time.

Unbelievable. 

He does it as if nobody in the room is even there. 

Regardless.  

He does it without even the slightest regard. 

Here's the thing: Regard matters. We all know that. 

But here he is yet again, doing it with absolutely no regard. He's willfully regardless. 

The thing is, if he only lacked regard, that would be one thing; but he doesn't even know what regard is. 

And that's where I draw the line.

That's the crux of the problem: an inexcusable lack of regard. Whenever regard's concerned, people should regard it. That's self-evident. We all understand this. 

So, like I said, that's the line. We all know when a guy's crossed it. A guy should know if he's crossed it. If he doesn't know, he's a retard. 

And, the thing is, I'd excuse a guy if he were just a retard, but this particular guy's no retard. He's an asshole.

And it's not like he just started doing this. Look at what else he's done. Look at what else he's said. He's been at this for a long time. He's perfected it. He's a professional jacksass. With him, there's always an angle. 

If that guy did me a favor, he'd expect a thank you. He'd do me the favor with the purpuse of extracting a 'thank you' from me. Like doing me a favor was the same as doing a favor to himself. He'd expect me to do him two favors in return. And the worst part of the whole thing is that I'd never hear the end of it. 

I'd rather the guy not have helped me at all. There, I said it. Fuck that guy and the horse he rode in on. 

Did I ever get a thank you? You know the answer to that. 

Did he ever thank me? You know he didn't. 

Does he even know what thankfulness that means?  You and I both know the answer.

But I don't like to be that way.

It's not entirely his fault that he's a asshole. 

I blame his mother. 

Western Sham

 

One of us will die first

 Will it me? 

 Will it be this trash jack, gigabit spittoon we call 'online?'

 It can't be me: I'm just a girl, little ol' me. Don't let me outta your sight.

 It can't be you: You're just a word that never meant much. You never had purchase, you could never look me in the eye.

 I can't beat you. 

 You could be me.

 We both lose. 

We all lose.

 I win if I die first. 

You lose if I die first.

I'll die first, even if you didn't suck so bad. 

I guess I win. I guess you lose. 

Sucks to suck. Good luck.  

 

 

 

 

 

Mathematical proof of how much I prefer pleasuring your mom over listening to your mom's stories about your childhood

Statement: 

My appreciation of your mom's memories of your childhood is the quotient derived from the dividend of the gap between your mom's thighs and the inverse divisor of the constant of proportionality.

X = the gap between your mom's thighs
Y = the joy I experience listening to your mom talk about your childhood
K = constant of proportionality

Start here: K=X/Y   

Find the joy.

 K=X/Y > K(Y)=X/Y(Y) therefore  K(Y)=X

K(Y)=X > K(Y)/K=X/K therefore Y=X/K

Solution:

This is an inverse proportiality. I like the gap between your mom's legs as much as I dislike your mom's stories about your childhood.

 Hugo S. Winterhalter.  

Just a week ago, I wouldn't have kicked your ass for what you said.

Normally, I'd smoke a cigarette right now. Then I'd forget about you and think about something else.

Maybe I'd have a drink. Maybe I'd take a walk. 

But today is different, so I'll forgo the smoke and commence putting my foot up your ass.  Send you on your way. 

Once that's done, I'll probably need to get lost. Most people don't like witnessing that kind of thing. Most people don't like having my foot up their ass. Most people are uncomfortable with the way I manage conflict. 

 I hear that a lot. 

 'It's not what you say,' I've been told. 'It's how you say it.'

 I've tried to work on that. I try to empathize with the irritating moron in front me. I try to look past the idiocy I hear coming from between his flapping lips, beneath that weak mustache. I try to remember he has - or at least had - a mother. Maybe a father, too. 

'I hear what you're saying,' I've tried to say. 'And I appreciate your point of view.'

But today is different.

My tense right foot lifts from the ground, toes arched back to expose the ball. I lift my knee in a fraction of a second, then snap my lower leg forward, projecting my hardened foot deep into your groin, folding you in two like a paper towel. 

 I next retract my foot, returning it to the ground to support the weight of my body as I repeat the previous action with my left foot, plunging it into your forward-falling face. 

Finally, I will step aside to let your surprised and damaged body fall to the ground. I hope you won't soil my pant leg with blood spatters. If you do, well, that's the cost of doing this business. 

I'd like to apologize, but I really can't. After all, it's not my fault that Big Tobacco has made me into such an animal.