|Trust me, this made a lot more sense 5 years ago.|
Planter’s Wart is a horse’s ass. I thought I could clear out a room in 10 seconds, but this guy has me beat - it’s all about him.
He doesn’t like me much. I find that a positive thing, for who wants a horse’s ass as a friend? Last year he accused me of trying to run him over in my car.
“Car?” I screeched at him. “Malarky! I tried to run you over on my bike!”
At any rate, Planter’s Wart did a full-out campaign in smearing my reputation this past winter. It all started out, simply enough, that the sole time he attended a town hall meeting in Y E A R S, he noticed I sat in the back of the room on the upraised dais in the judge’s chair. The reason why I sit there is that the sound waves of the speakers don’t reach that far back which helps my hyperacusis. I sat back there for a year, but Planter’s Wart wouldn’t have known that.
He was offended. Heavens to Mergatroid.
Instead of confronting me directly, he got on the horn and phoned around 200 people, upsetting them.
“Planter’s Wart, why the fuck are you bothering me this time?” was the usual response.
“You can blame that bitch, Maura.”
“Who the hell is that?”
“She’s an au-thor. She has the nerve to sit in the judge’s chair during town hall meetings.”
“So what? Who cares?”
“You’ll care. If you don’t call the Mayor to complain, I’ll continue to phone you.”
Then, the piece of shit approached me at the local cafe.
“I gotta ask you a favor. Not now, but later.”
In fear, I ran to the back of the cafe and approached my friend. “Planter’s Wart wants to ask me for a favor.”
“Run for the hills,” she advised.
He bushwacked me the moment I left the back of the cafe. “I’ve worked in the legal system for 308 years,” he pontificated. More than likely puckering his lips and kissing ass. “And I gotta tell you, by your sitting in the judge’s chair, you’re offending the seat.”
Now, I’m used to rampant illogic with the characters we have up here. We got M Butterfly who’s a lunatic, Boydog (one of our homeless who sexes M Butterfly), Monkey Boy, Gossip Girl, Zippo as well as oodles of other morons. What separates Planter’s Wart from the others is that he’s Chlamydia’s father. [NOTE: You really should read my other posts!]
Morally reprehensible is the code for the most part. You see, Planter’s Wart considers himself a big dog when he’s only a cocktail weiner.
I responded, “Listen, if it offends you so much, considering you only attended one Town Hall meeting in five years although you won a community service award hosted by your daughter, Chlamydia, I won’t sit there.” I figured he’ll never attend another meeting so he’d never know.
But then he added the good ol’ saying Chlamydia and her pals champion: “Well, OTHERS have complained.”
I whirled around and said, “Who the fuck are the OTHERS?”
He sniffed. “Oh, I can’t tell you.”
I sneered. “Now I know it’s only you. More than likely you’ve been running around town screaming and shouting about this. Planter’s, I would’ve moved seats, but not now!”
His eyes narrowed.
As I mentioned earlier, Planter’s Wart is a horse’s ass. While he waged phone war campaigns against me, those same people came to my home, to the cafe and local post office to talk to me. Turns out I got the real dirt about Planter’s. About his rampant alcoholism, withdrawal of affection towards his family and his violence that they now call spousal abuse. Not to mention the fact that he was the lowest on the totem pole in his ‘career.’ At least I got that from sources who said I can use their names as opposed to his fictional “OTHERS.”
Of course, I had to tell everyone I knew the scoop and they were thankful. It turns out a lot of people who knew him over the past decade had no idea what he was really about for the previous 40 years.
Just the other day I went to the post office and then he entered. I turned around with a smile and said, “Hey, Planter’s Wart. Gotta hand it to you - you did the best promotional campaign a girl could only dream of! Now 200 more people know I’m an author!”
He stared at me, glum. “Did they tell you I didn’t say anything good about you?”
“Don’t worry, they let me know ALL about you.”
Grabbing at straws, he said, “Well, you must’ve done something wrong in life to go from being an author to doing nothing.” [NOTE: In his mind, I do nothing. Then again, why should I credit such a small mind?]
“So, Planter’s, tell me precisely how you climbed that corporate ladder?” and then I laughed uproariously.
Sometimes it’s just way too easy.
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