Persona non grata

 

I was cast out of my family in 2010. I had this totally useless, whore daughter in law that crapped out babies like a bitch dog, from various fathers, and when the inevitable CPS case came down the tracks, voila! I was the asshole. 

 

Now, I was clueless. Working real estate eight days a week, staying drunk as much as possible, I thought that as long as I let these losers suck every drop of blood out of me they’d leave enough to at least make jerky out of my legs. 

 

So the Holy Mormon Empire set out to scrub every strand of my DNA off the face of the earth and replace it with the most illiterate, broke-dick bunch of clowns you ever seen in your life. 

 

First, I was ordered to divorce my wife of thirty-five years in order to have my grandkids adopted by my ex. I had to represent both sides of the divorce because the CPS didn’t have the budget to hire an ambulance chaser to speak for them. I couldn’t meet with my ex to give her the decree because I’m a danger to children don’t you know. So, I had to leave it under a sugar bowl at the Monument Café in Georgetown, and then leave town so the CPS could retrieve it (with gloves I guess) and finalize the adoptions which included changing all the kids names just in case they learned to read somewhere down the line. Their new names? Named after the broke-dicks. 

 

The guardians of choice being Temple Worthy Mormons that spit the hook on a child rape charge because of a little known Arkansas law that gives you a pass so long as you only stick the head in. And if you do the deed you get expunged after the hearing because, well, you know, shit happens. 

 

Now, during all these festivities I’m still thinking I’ve somehow retained citizenship and the kids are still my grandkids. Au Contrairé! Their not! They are Mormon grandkids. And while I’m hiding in the bushes when the CPS comes a calling, which is every month, every pervert in Craighead County, Arkansas is bouncing my granddaughter on their lap. So this is sex!

 

So . .  I take off to California. A new start, with a brand new set of assholes. Now bear in mind, by this time I’m a card carrying drunk. Not an alcoholic, mind you. I don’t like to go to meetings. Just a plain Ol’ drunk who drinks Jim Beam until my tongue goes numb and sporting the worse case if E.D.  in medical history. This was diagnosed by many attempts. 

 

And I’m not bitching about the kids’ genealogy. Even though she was married to my son (I assume he’s my son) the father (s) of those kids may me verified by testing the sperm my then daughter in law spit on the pavement behind the supermarket where the guy gave her a pack of cigarettes for the favor. 

 

My California adventure? They ran me off. My other son said I “disgusted” him. I’m not gonna asperse him. He gave twenty-two years to the Navy defending God, country, and mom’s apple pie. Thank you for your fucking service!

 

So I ended up back in Texas. Now, I’m still persona non grata. That’s because between bottles I’m smelling a lot of coffee, and brothers and sisters, it ain’t Starbucks! These hillbilly bastards are parading around in their holy underwear like they got a pair. They completely forgot their convictions for pedophillia and said I DID IT! Hell, if they can scrub the kids family history back to 1621 wiping me clean was no problem. 

 

But, and this is a big butt, things began to shift. The Texas CPS came under new management. They asked all the case workers to take a simple background check. You know. Like the one you’d take to get a job on the graveyard shift in a 7/11. Well, 51% of these fine public servants quit or made for the Mexican border. And suddenly I’m clean. And not Arkansas clean. I mean like ain’t broke an egg in something along the lines of, let’s see, it was ’96, got arrested for public intox where I’d stumbled into a lesbian cat fight in Temple . . . ’96, ’06, ’16, now it’s ’23 . . . yeah, 27 years. And I quit drinking. BUT! Kids still don’t have my name and they’re all bat-shit crazy. Can’t win ‘em all!

 

So, what to do. Well, I kinda made a hit movie.  I think I’ll buy an RV, a case of Jim Beam, pick up a college cheerleader of reasonable age, go to Occatillo Wells, California and try to act like I’m not having a good time. Y’all be cool!

 

Anonymous