Mission: Fill My Hole

Never buy a house where adorable little boys reside next door.

Because one day they grow into teenagers. 

And that bites.

Last week, one of said teen idiots looked at a crater-sized hole in my front lawn [that the Water Company dug for no apparent reason in January?!] – and thought stupid thoughts.

Like…

“Hey, my neighbor is at work. This is the opportune to time to hoist my idiot body through the air – over the Grand Canyon-sized hole – for fun.”

[Insert maniacal laughter here.]

Of course, he fell in.

Because that’s where stupid thoughts lead.

To stupid places.

Question: Remember the good old days when teenage boys had hobbies?

• Like jerking off,
• Spending all day pondering how to get laid,
• And lying to their parents about – let’s say… everything.

Well those idyllic days of innocence are gone!

This is what his 22-year-old sister said as she re-told the jumping-the-crater story, “He’s an idiot.”

Yes.

Clearly.

Thank you for sharing such deep thoughts. [Now, go away.]

Aside from not wanting to get sued and end up on Judge Judy…

There is only one important issue on the table. The safety of children.

Big and small. Smart and stupid.

As a uterus-bearer I have a responsibility but not really to make sure they – the children, the future idiots of the world – are safe, even if I wasn’t on enough crack cocaine to think that I would want to push any rugrats out of my waif-like, dainty, semi-virginal vagina.

And by that I mean –

If that little turd starts falling into holes and breaking his bones.

WHO THE HELL IS GOING TO MOW MY LAWN?!

You know those prisoners homeowners who get up at ungodly hours to tend to their grass.

I don’t want to be one of them!

Sure. I could hire someone.

But then I would have to check their van [the obligatory vehicle of kidnappers and serial killers] for dead bodies – and well, people get offended when I do that.

Honestly, hiring contractors/people-to-do-stuff-on-my-property is like passing a kidney stone. I’d much rather pay the little capitalist next door.

But that means the jumping jackwad has to remain in fully-functional lawn mowing condition [ie, not dead].

Just for the record, here is a PSA [public service announcement] for any other other jumping jackwad.

An open hole is not an invitation.

Sometimes – as the currently bankrupt singing legend, Dionne Warwick, sang:

You have to frakking Walk On By, m’kay?

Right.

So now I was on a mission.

Mission: Fill My Hole.

I progressed from calling the Water Company bi-weekly about  the stupid crater to twice a day.

[Yes, I am talking about The Water Company – again. Much like I tell my lovers that don’t exist just before coitus, if I have to be bored to tears – so do you. Anyway…]

I am pretty sure the government spends all of my tax dollars:

• thinking of ways to waste my time,
• and hiring people who make me want to stab myself.

This is the only way to explain why I keep getting the same not-so-delightful ingénue, Doesn’tGiveAShit, on the phone.

Our comedy routine is as follows…

“There is a hole in my lawn [douchebag],” I say in a surprisingly calm voice, ” Can I speak to your supervisor [who also doesn’t give a shit]?”

She sighs [because working at work is just so inconvenient].

Then, I wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Clearly, ignoring people can really take a lot out of a gal – because Doesn’tGiveAShit can barely muster the energy to make audible words, “So, what is your address again?”

AGAIN?!

I want to reach through the phone, fill her empty head with leftover jelly beans, and then bang it against the wall like a piñata.

Of course, she pretends to take a message for her “imaginary” supervisor- like I pretend to orgasm.

Not very well.

Ignore me? I think not.

People don’t like to be ignored. It just makes them talk more [and we all know how awful that is?]

Sean didn’t like it. Being ignored, that is.

He is an ex-boyfriend I dated many moons ago, after I ended my long distance relationship with my one-and-only love – a British guitar busker with a super-sized penis, Alex. I am not sure what I missed more when it was over?

a) the super-sized penis [ahh… so big, so completely sublime],

b) the guitar-playing [ahh… so sexy], or

c) the amazeballs cunniligus.  [ahh…so hard to come by.]

It’s like Sophie’s Choice. No really. I can’t pick. Life shouldn’t be this hard.

Anyway, Sean was so nice and simple. In a good way. Like a good hardy bowl of oatmeal. A welcomed retreat after a broken heart.

He was also very agreeable.

What do you want to eat? Where do you want to go?

His answer was always the same, “Whatever you want is fine.”

Sigh. Bored yet?

I was.

But that didn’t stop us from engaging in many super short bouts of extremely timid sex.

Generally, I think sex-with-people [as opposed to sex with a vibrator] is over-rated. However, when I am in a relationship I want tons of sex. [Just call me “old-fashioned.]

Otherwise, what the hell am I doing in a relationship? Companionship? Ew. That’s what I have friends for…

One day, Sean brought over this ginormous box of condoms. [Seriously, dude? That’s optimistic.] On the scale of awesome gifts – a box of birth/STD control rates a negative 100.

Right.

Time to dump Mr. Agreeable. [I was bored. Okay?]

Which I tried to do nicely. Because he was so nice.

But he couldn’t accept that it was over. He called for weeks. Weeks.

So he called. And I ignored.

He called again. I ignored again.

Until, in one of the messages that he left – he said he just wanted one thing from me.

One thing? How intriguing. Ohhhhh, I love a good mystery.

So when he called again. I picked up.

“I want my box of condoms back!” he screamed into the phone.

Admittedly, I  have a very high threshold for bizarre behavior [until I get bored, which takes about 2 nanoseconds.]

But arranging a custody agreement for a box of condoms is where I um…

Find better things to do with my life.

Alas, there was no condom-exchange [because where would that exchange occur? Starbucks? I guess I am there all the time…]

And why do some people think that the end of every relationship comes with closure? [I mean sometimes you just don’t get your box of condoms back.]

Even worse, that other people have some secret knowledge that will heal all open wounds.

If reality TV has taught us anything, it’s that people are stupid.

Sometimes there are no answers. Or explicable conclusions. Sometimes shit sucks and that’s all.

And if the only thing someone keeps – that belongs to you – is a box of condoms…

You should bow down to the goddess of things fabulous, RuPaul – and be friggin’ pretend-happy [even though you know damn well you are still pissed off. Pretend already. It’s called acting].

If I want real answers, I ask a higher being, Google.

And if I want real comfort, I annoy people who actually give a shit about me, customer service at Amazon.com.

But none of those people work for the government.

And don’t be fooled because the hole is gone. Lots of good old-fashioned psychopathic behavior went into making those do-nothings do their job.

Yes, you heard me…

I just got home from work and the crater is gone.

I won! Uno! Yahtzee! Bazinga!

Look at it. Perfectly filled with fresh dirt. Like it those government bastards digging a hole on my property never happened.

It is unusually warm for one of the first days of spring. You know those days where your gut is screaming it could snow at any second…

So don’t get used to it. But the sun is still out! And it’s after 6 PM. So orgasm if you are so-inclined.

It is that kind of day.

And it smells so good. So incredibly delicious. Like the spring air is candy. And I can’t eat enough.

I am glad to be home.

And then, I read the note the Water Company left…

It said – the hole had been filled. [Duh.]

But they needed to flush the pipes under my house.

So they turned off my water.

Apparently, when the government fixes something.

They need to break something else.

Let’s call it – a gift.