Conjugate the verb, motherfucker

I heard Donald Trump blabbing away today on Morning Joe. During Trump’s tirade of inane reeking bullshit, he conjugated the verb sing wrong. He used the past participle form sung without preceding it with the auxiliary verb be or have. And this shithead, who went to Penn, has considered running for president. Why don’t rich, right-wing fuckwads learn to speak fucking English before they buy their own elections?

The wake-up caller

It was a few weeks ago. The existential horror of my existence keeps me up until daylight, so the call I received at about 11 a.m. was like a call at 5:00 a.m. for a normal person. The call was coming from my cell phone, which I had forgotten to turn off.

The caller was a woman with a funny accent; I thought the call was probably emanating from somewhere in the Indian subcontinent, and that she was someone from my credit card company trying to verify a suspicious charge. It could also be some scumbag asshole headhunter asking me if I was interested in a job in which I was completely inappropriate for because they didn’t bother to read my resume.

The woman kept asking me to verify who I was. She had mixed up my last and first name. (Many people do, because if you axe the finally consonant off of my last name, it could be a first name.) “Who is this?” I kept saying. I couldn’t hear her because I was so tired and disoriented from being woken up at what, for you, would be 5 a.m.

“It’s Nancy,” she said.

It was the last person on earth I thought would call me. My Romanian Internet girlfriend from Dubai who was interested in breeding with me but decided against it because “I was not safe.” (What this meant was, I didn’t have enough money to support her brood.)

It had been two years since I had last spoken to her. I was pissed at her for not even getting my fucking name right. I thought about saying, “Oh, I remember you, you’re that Romanian woman from Dubai, right?” But then I thought against it because it would have sounded stupid. And then I thought about saying, “Oh, hi, how’re you doing?” But I had too much venom in my heart to say this with much enthusiasm, so opted not to say this as well. All that thought took up a lot of time. Finally she said, “I didn’t wake you up did you?” I had to take a piss really badly and was in no mood to embarrass myself by having to come up with an explanation for why I was asleep at 11:00 a.m. I was obviously fucking unemployed – and she obviously had no use for scum like me, as do all women, unless they are obese. She wanted something. She was not calling me because she missed me. I know this because she had made it very clear to me that she would not even waste her time to be friends with me if I didn’t serve her practical needs of fathering and supporting children and fulfilling her lofty dream of owning a home on Long Island.

“Can I call you back? -- Can I call you back?” I said with some desperation. All I wanted to do at that point was take a fucking piss; I did not want to deal with this shit. There was a long pause on her part. She told me she’d call me back in a half an hour.

I waited for a week for her to call me back. Part of me did want her to call me back, part of me didn’t. What was so odd about her call was that she had called me on my cell phone. Nobody knows this number. Nobody should know this number but my inner circle. I had thrown away her number, but I considered contacting her through Skype or facebook, as I still remembered her last name; although it was Romanian, it was a beautiful name and I will probably always remember it. How did she even get that number? The curiosity was killing me. (Actually, not even the credit card companies have this number – at least they should not.)

I first did a google search on her, found she was married last year and probably working in the hotel industry in Washington D.C., which is what she did before went to Dubai. Last year I had looked at her facebook profile pic, and it was her in a jewelry store with a guy. She looked happy as shit as she looked down at a necklace which was presumably bought for her. At the time, I asked Heather (a former friend of mine) whether this guy in the pic with Nancy was more handsome than I was, for I was struck by how a woman who was as beautiful and intelligent and worldly as Nancy would go for a man who was so dull looking. I always assumed that Nancy would hook up with someone James-Bondy. Heather said that I was more handsome. “Don’t you think he looks kinda ugly?” I asked. “No,” she said. “He looks fine. He looks like my brother.” (I had sort of stuck my foot in my mouth.) Heather, on the other hand, reacted with amusement at the sight of Nancy, for I had written volumes in my blog about how beautiful she was. Heather said she looked terrible – and she was right – she looked bloated and like shit. Heather claimed that she might have been pregnant, that women tend to look sickly when they are pregnant.

After learning about Nancy’s marriage to a superior man, it made me shudder. She had perhaps created offspring with this man, divorced him, and wanted me to care for her brood. Maybe this guy had all the money in the universe but shot blanks. Maybe she was after my sperm as well as the prospect of my money. Maybe she needed citizenship help. Whatever it was, it gave me the heebie-jeebies and I lost all interest in contacting her. I probably would have not contacted her anyway, even if I hadn’t learned this information. How she got my cell number will remain one of the eternal mysteries of the universe. (The credit card companies shouldn’t have this number either; I was just too disoriented to realize that when I got the call.)

What I’m not sure about is why she called me at 11:00 a.m. It could be because I had been forgetting to turn my cell phone on; it could also have been because she wanted to test my employment status or that she was unemployed. I hope she is unemployed. I hope she feels unemployment’s oppressive weight, its humiliation and unjustness. I hope that she never bares children. I know that her powerful thirst for children is at least as great as my own. I hope that she hasn’t and never will bare children. I hope that she feels my pain for the rest of her days. Fuck Nancy; the bloodsucker. Fuck her. I mean, really, really fuck her.