Unregenerate Reprobates, I Hate You.

Standard

So I’m totally ticked off right now, having just discovered that some filthy thieving scum-sucking pus-boil has stolen half of my pumpkins that were decorating my front porch.  AND the pumpkins these slope-browed maladroits spirited off were my super-cool funky pumpkins with warts on.  Treasures, no less.

I spent a good fifteen minutes in the kitchen Expressing My Displeasure over this turn of events to my spouse.  I did not spare the Angl0-Saxon invective.  I did not spare him the extensive details of my exceedingly low opinion of Pumpkin Rustlers.  I did not spare him my denunciation of any passers-by, neighbors, or random street people who could stand by quietly while watching a team of dirt-licking soulless dirt-bags steal decorations off my front porch.  I cursed them to the ninth generation with the fervent hopes that they may develop uncontrollable boils on their posterior, rampant ear hair, numerous suspicious moles, an offensive body odor, and dental decay.

He listened, quietly, and then offered the observation that “Well, it’s this neighborhood.”

“What do you mean, it’s this neighborhood?” I demanded.

“It’s full of Degenerates.” he paused “And hipsters.”

Oh my God, it was like spritzing gasoline on the flames of my ire, to consider that a pack of aesthetic cretins wearing sweater vests over their dangling shirt-tails and sporting the revolting Justin Bieber blow-dry might have, as they staggered up the street in an alcohol and caffeine fueled stupor, seized upon my warty gourds and considered them to be Irresistibly Ironic, and become possessed of a desire to possess, and been sufficiently entitled to feel that a reasonable outcome was to just take the things.

Honestly, this is a much more plausible scenario than the guys from the drug rehab/halfway house down the road conceiving an overwhelming desire for these things…and it also beats out the prospect of the random insane alcoholic spotting them and needing to add them, right now, to their wire shopping cart full of miscellaneous items.

No.  I’m pretty sure it’s the Degenerate Hipsters.  And now I’m sure that my precious warty pumpkins are presently adorning an ironic cheap metal folding table with the vinyl top, covered with an ironic plastic table cloth, in an apartment decorated with ironic swags of bead curtains, ironic cocktail shakers, ironic naugahyde ersatz Barcelona Chairs, ironic shag area rugs, ironic black velvet paintings, and ironic starburst light fixture with plastic crystals.  And when I think of my precious pumpkins sharing this setting with a lava lamp and a set of ironic vintage posters for Black Sabbath, The New York Dolls, and Ella Fitzgerald…well…I just want to vomit.

Scurrilous dogs.  I curse you with curling nosehair.  I curse you with male pattern baldness:  just try to roll out your windblown look with that, bright eyes.  I curse you with melted spots on your cheap vintage polyester shirts.  I hope your three-speed bike gets a flat. I curse you with wide-leg designer jeans.  I curse you with minivans.  Just try making one of those look funky and cool, you scrofulous wretches.  I curse your beanbags with holes, so that the shag rug fills up with tiny little balls that possess amazing powers of static electricity.  I curse you to lose your favorite episode of Mr. Rogers.  I curse you with day jobs at the supermarket checkout, or the gas station.  I curse you with three precocious children, each of whom considers you to be Lame, Stale, and So Been There, Done That.  Take that, you pumpkin-stealing scum.

Saturday Market

I wanted a memorial shot of my warty pumpkins. This is as close as I could get. Kabochas, butternuts, and acorns. Jerks.

Advertisements

About Lori Holder-Webb

I'm a Southern Woman by birth and a Texan Woman by upbringing...and yet I find myself living in New England and married to a New York City boy. Up here we use the same currency as we do at home, and I don't need to travel with a passport, but the commonalities pretty much end there. The language is different, the jokes are different, the people are different, and the weather and terrain sure are different too. I moved away from Texas in 2002, and ever since then, I've been the stranger in the strange land... I've had some questions about the name of the blog - if you were not alive, or living abroad or under a rock, or in grad school during the late 1980s, Oldsmobile attempted to shuck its stodgy image with a series of commercials intended to bring brand appeal to the younger generation: this car, they said, is not your father's Oldsmobile. If you have a morbid curiosity, hit YouTube for William Shatner Oldsmobile...it will take you right there.

3 responses »

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s