This week has been flooded with topics about which I want to rant, joke, and consider.

  • A woman being slapped on the wrist for recording herself drunk driving.  Why was she even offered a plea deal?  (Story here)
  • A woman choosing to sleep with her three dogs instead of her husband… every… single… night.  Her solution:  He should get himself a futon if he’s uncomfortable on the couch.  My solution:  Divorce her and take custody of the dogs away from her.
  • People make the argument all sports leagues should allow 18 year old men and women directly out of high school to play ball because, “If they’re old enough to fight for your country, they’re old enough to play pro sports.”  My response is, “Good point… why DO we allow 18 year old  boys and girls to fight in the military?”
  • A list of favors I would never do for anyone.
  • Giving $20 to a man claiming to be homeless so he could eat at a “fancy” burger joint.
  • The gibberish of a one year old
  • Spoiled brat princess bitches

I can’t blog about those topics this week.  Maybe a few of those will turn into future ramblings, but not now.  Now, I need to deal with the grief of a family death.  My grandmother-in-law, a fixture in my life for the last twenty years, has…

…kicked the bucket?
…croaked?
…left the building?
…moved on?
…departed for the great beyond?

Why are there so many euphemisms from which to choose?  She’s dead.  D-E-D, dead.

Everyone deals with grief and loss differently.  My wife becomes a “nest-er.”  She cleans up the house, then cuddles up in blankets and zones out until more cleaning is needed or until she wants to bury grief in passionate lovemaking.  My mother-in-law becomes a former, philosophical, Orthodox rabbi who just converted to Christianity yesterday.  My younger brother-in-law internalizes everything until he bursts out in an emotional fit (either crying or yelling), then goes back to internalizing.  The differences go on and on.

My method of getting into, through, and around the stages of grief is humor.  I know, shocking right?  The man who finds few things sacred deals with pain by making demented, inappropriate jokes.  I can make a blow job pun while tearing up over an old photo.  I also try to take care of everyone’s needs (like going to get food while everyone is saying good-byes, or babysitting so another family member can get to the hospital), but that’s more for them than for me.  I’m an unselfish deviant asshole.

So I’m going to honor my grandma-in-law’s passing in my own special way, by sharing with you a short biography of an amazing woman who will be missed by all who knew her:

Mary Helen Elizabeth Samantha Angela Powers Wood McClure of the Clan McClure (a.k.a The Chameleon, Snips Wallaby, Foxtrot Granny, and Ma’am) was born September 18th, 3467.  The future being a peaceful paradise of nudist colonies and shooting ranges, her parents decided to send Mary back in time to 1925 where they hoped her advanced genetics would change their past for the better.  This time travel followed the Terminator model of quantum mechanics, where only organic material could be sent back with no possibility of returning.

Elizabeth grew up in Oklahoma, so she was able to lasso and tie a bull by the time she was 18 months (in accordance to Oklahoma state law).  At the age of ten, Elizabeth wrote a dissertation on the economic impact of Ritz Crackers in the field of catering.  When the United States entered World War II, the State Department hired Elizabeth as a counter-espionage agent to prevent the secrets of delicious baked goods from falling into Japanese hands.  Elizabeth’s valiant efforts can still be seen today, as Japan has absolutely terrible desserts.  Just… god awful.

Helen had a myriad of careers after the war ended.  In 1954, she was Marilyn Monroe’s personal underwear tester.  In fact, Helen was vital in choosing the undergarments for the famous grate scene.  Ms. Monroe was asked about Helen’s contribution and was quoted as saying, “Who?”  In the 60s, Helen was responsible for the real estate boom in Southern California with a brilliant ad campaign, “Los Angeles – Oklahoma with fewer bugs!”  During the 70s, Helen warned local radio stations about the stupidity of disco music and the few who listened to her thanked her in the early 80s by dedicating a statue to her.  Unfortunately, the statue was directly on a fault line and was destroyed in 1982 by burrowing hamsters.

Lady McClure of the Clan McClure also discovered element 112 on the Periodic Table of Snack Elements, cured lupus in wolves, and declined the throne of Scotland.  She is survived by two children, five grandchildren, four great grandchildren, two dogs, a goldfish, a colony of army ants, some moldy meat-lover’s pizza slices, an annoying grandson-in-law, Bob next door, and a pet parakeet named Mr. Obama (whom she trained to say, “Liberals Suck!”).  She will be missed.

Good-bye Helen.  May your legend shine through us as we try to live up to your example.

And to anyone who has issue with how I just honored her… fuck off.
And anger makes three of the five stages dealt with today.
And tomorrow I’ll deal with them all over again.
Good grief.

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