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“The Dark Side” by Addiction: Your Kids Don’t Need More Damn Friends…

Posted by dabyrdman33 on October 11, 2010

Confessions of a Cuban Cigar Smoker

 

Your kids don’t need more damn friends……

 

What’s on my mind today?  I was at the grocery store yesterday picking up hamburger buns and I heard loud talking.  I took a quick look around to make sure I didn’t see a dude with a turban and a backpack and then I saw a kid and his mom.  This kid is basically being dragged down the aisle as he screams at the top of his lungs that he wants cereal.  Mom says he can’t have cereal, its oatmeal this week.  He wants cereal.  She says he can’t have it.  After two minutes of this she says “I’m warning you” and he says “no mommy no warnings.” The line moves up and she’s like “Last warning buddy.” And then she lets go of his arm.  He takes off like a bat out of hell and comes back with not one but two boxes of lucky charms.  She looks at me weakly and says “Kids are so hard to manage these days.”  I looked at that bitch like she was in a Best Buy trying to get a fucking head of lettuce.

I stayed to watch, I made it a point to stay.  She bought the cereal and he opened a box before they even got out of the fucking line.

Are you fucking kidding me?  I can’t even begin to explain, but I’mma take a breath and try.

Before I even go down this path I’mma keep it real with where my children are in terms of spoilage.  My daughter has an American Girl doll.  If you don’t know about this fucking broad daylight fucking robbery bullshit someone takes a regular fucking doll that pretty much looks like a betsy wetsy over run, packages that shit with some 1800s style clothing and a book and charges you a fucking hundred dollars for it.  I ain’t bullshitting you, for real.  

When my daughter came at me and said she wanted a new doll I was like cool, because these days girls have two stages it seems: Dolls and miniskirts.  Thus I want my daughter to be in the dolls stage for as long as possible.  I did the normal shit and said ask your mom, if the shit does not run on current I do not manage how it gets acquired in our household.  When I found out that shit was like $140 and we still needed to buy the bitch clothes I was taken aback.  Her outfit costs more than an actual child’s does, hell I almost just let my daughter adopt a Chinese baby instead; we could stand to have a pair of those delicate hands around for repairing clothing and shit.

Anyway that’s not the worst part.  For her 8th fucking birthday my daughter got instead of a party a trip to the hair salon for her doll.  A trip to the fucking American Girl Doll hair salon in fucking Manhattan.  I wish I was lying but sadly I ain’t.  That shit cost $100 to do a dolls fucking hair?  Really?  My wife when it comes to those damn children is such a softie, but if I cross two inches over the line she will beat me like a fucking runaway slave.  So there’s the dolls hair, train tickets for her and my wife, lunch, a Broadway show, cab fare and shit.  Hell I had to get my first conviction to get an out of state trip.

Damn did I type that out loud? 

Anyway my kids have their own computer, handheld games, console games, their own rooms, an au pair, and more toys than Hugh Hefner tho without the silicon parts, those are not child safe.  Clearly my kids get some nice shit but that’s based on having some act right in they system.  They are both excellent students, they mostly do their chores and they completely understand that I don’t repeat myself to children; I don’t ask I fucking tell.  If they ain’t got some act right I will come down on they ass like rain in Seattle, you heard?  Ain’t nothing like some good strong Coach leather to get you on the right side of god.  And when I’m getting in that ass like its nite nite time at Neverland Ranch I am talking shit. 

Them: I’M SORRY, I WON’T DO IT AGAIN, I’M SORRY

Me: Oh I know you ain’t gonna do that shit again, you ain’t gonna be able to sit down to do that shit again!

One quick thought, you think MJ was talking shit throughout?

MJ (in falsetto voice): Who’s your daddy?

Them: DADDY!!!  I WANT MY DADDY!

MJ (in falsetto voice): It was a rhetorical question Macaulay Culkin, jeez.  Emmanuel Lewis didn’t fight back nearly this much, but I think I like it.  Say it in the “Home Alone” voice. 

Ummmmm OK wow, that’s so far past wrong I’m switching topics now lol. 

Anyway the way I came up your first “warning” was common sense, it was you thinking “Should I do that?  Would that be the responsible course of action?”  Your second warning was you thinking “How did I get on the floor?  Did I….did I leave home with my underwear on backwards or was there some kind of industrial chemical accident?  Is that a gap or am I missing a tooth?  Where is my other shoe”  Between these thoughts and the fucking ringing sound in your head you figured out that once you could get up off the floor whatever the fuck you were doing you needed to quit fucking doing it.  Cause my mother could slap you so hard both your eyes would end up in the same fucking socket.  She had a big right hand in the boxing sense; she woulda made Ali her bitch.

I still remember when my mom took me and my brother to the mall with her for school clothes; it was the first year we got input into our school clothes.  We were little kids I was maybe 9 going on my second year in the 8th grade (that’s a set of stories for another day) my brother was 5.  We went to Evergreen Plaza on 95th and Western, it was my first time ever going there.  I was astounded at what I thought was a mall at the time (I hadn’t been to a white mall yet).  It only took me a few minutes to get my stuff together, shit I was 9 I didn’t care.  Most of my school time was spent reading and figuring out how to keep those thirteen year olds from busting my ass on a daily basis. 

My brother however is on some nother other shit, he trying on everything, he done touched some shit without permission and caught a look and we are currently in Kenny shoes and this little motherfucker is running around getting the salesmen to let him try on shoe after shoe.  The salesman has incorrectly assumed that we are middle class black people and the child is in control.  I, being the older and therefore more frequently abused child, have a little more knowledge and I’m watching my mother slow work thru her anger levels while she gives him enough rope to hang himself.  Yeah there is the eye narrowing followed by the twitch, this shit is gonna go real bad real goddamn soon. 

My brother then asked the salesman if he could have one blue shoe and one green shoe.  The salesman said he could if he bought one green pair and one blue pair of shoes, fucking idiot he is.  My mother then slaps my brother right out the shoe try on seat.  His ass took up a caterwauling that was akin to a chorus of plagued demons that were burning in chemical fire while suffering explosive diarrhea and wearing shoes two sizes too small because he still is young enough to believe that he can duck a beating through empathy.  He hasn’t realized that my mother was a fucking T-14 series terminator sent back from the future to beat some sense into bad ass kids and her only emotions was pride in a job well done.  And the salesman, who I have already said wasn’t bright, just popped up.  I don’t know what he was gonna do or say, who knows?  I don’t know why she chose to react the way that she did, except that once she got going it was kinda like a hurricane you just tried to get out of its travel path because otherwise shit usually went horribly wrong.  Many is the day that I ended up standing in knee deep water (usually tears) holding both of my possessions in front of a rubble filled street because I ignored or flat out missed some evacuation warnings.

 My mom is a tiny woman, like 4 foot 9.  So like many people of smaller stature she would sometimes overcompensate.  She reared back with that big right hand and I swear it was so far back it had to show a passport when it crossed the Canadian border.  She smacked the country mule donkey snot out of that dumb ass white man.  He went directly over this little end table display of shit and landed on the floor surrounded by shoes.  The sound of the slap I can’t really describe and if you haven’t noticed I’m pretty damn killer at descriptions.  The best I can do is say imagine a tractor trailer made entirely of meat and filled completely with meat traveling down a steep grade with a heavy tailwind.  And imagine said missile of a meat tractor trailer slammed into a brick wall…..of meat.  That shit sounded like a cow got punched with a rump roast.  People in the hallway turned around, the store went completely, totally and utterly quiet.  Dude rolled over and was on his hands and knees breathing like a fat man at a buffet table.  Snot and blood was pouring from his nose.  He was shaking his head trying to remember if when he left home his underwear was on backwards and looking around for his shoe.  All we needed was Howard Cosell talking and my mom dancing around punching the air and that shit woulda been straight out of a fucking Wild World of Sports promo.  She smacked him so goddamn hard my brother stopped crying and got up and start putting his shoes on and he had a look on his face like he finally realized “that broad don’t be playing.”

 I grabbed the closest shoes I could find.  I ain’t even worried about size, I will just take these at this point.  They might actually be ladies shoes, who knows.  I am too busy mentally feverishly dialing my internal god hotline, which I had only ever used prior to this to try to get a Huffy Thunder Road bicycle and a race track of any kind.  I was like “Lord please help me.  I don’t want to die.  I’ll be good, I will never play with fire again.”  I was a bit of a fire bug till then but I didn’t touch matches for 20 years after that day as payment for the lord sparing my life.  That’s real talk right there.  My brother however immediately got smacked again, clearly god was on another line when he called.  So you might think it’s over the top, but that shit cured my pyromania right the fuck up.  So it is clearly a thoughtful and proportionate response.  Shit my mom rolled out Shock and Fucking Awe when Schwartzakoff was still in high school.  Believe that.  Plus when we got home she climbed so far up his ass she needed one of those hats with the flashlight attached to find her fucking way out.

We left that day with no shoes.  I wisely knew better than to bring that shit up.  Like even today I won’t mention shoes in her presence, I don’t even look at feet around her.  To this day the thought of going into a shoe store makes my brother shit his pants, he orders all his shoes on the internet.  And they all look like it……

 Now you might be thinking today is a different day, well two years ago I saw her slap my 10 year old nephew thru a grocery store dog food display for talking back.  When the manager asked what about the display my mom coolly replied “I don’t fucking work here.”

 Yeah, she’s an original fucking gangsta.

My kids have just gotten to the point where they have the rules of behavior memorized so we are now at the common sense being your first and final damn warning stage.  Next warning after that yo ass is gonna be turning your underwear back around and looking for your shoe.

Anyway let’s get back to the room.  Let’s total up the costs just a touch:

Smokeeater: $306

Intake and Exhaust Fans: $178

Ozone Machine: $314

So on those components our grand total is $798 so far.

The next major item to take care of is temperature. My garage is mostly uninsulated. Actually all the exterior walls are completely uninsulated, tho luckily they are already framed. The doors are also uninsulated, hell I didn’t even know there was such a thing as insulated garage doors until I started this project. But I know in the summer if I’m in there for longer than two minutes I sweat like a slave in high cotton and in the winter it’s cold as a snow mans balls in a steel speedo. Now it’s never quite as hot or cold as it is outside. Because half the garage walls are against house walls and uninsulated the garage leeches heat and cooling from the rest of the house which while it makes the garage livable, well slightly more livable, it’s not a situation you want to work with at least 40% of the time.

So I needed to get heated and/or cooled air into the garage. Ducting from the house is out of the question, I don’t want to share air with them and ducting is expensive as hell. Seriously the price on that shit is as high as giraffe pussy. So I made a decision to get a heat pump that handled air for the garage specifically. I called around and got 4 estimates for the heat pump; the cheapest was $4800 the most expensive was $9200. That’s a fucking rack of loot.

Now sizing a heat pump is some secret science shit, they don’t adequately explain it. It comes out to be a factor of where you live in the country and the temperature there and how well that room is insulated. That gives you the Btu level you need per sq foot. My number turned out to be 35 Btu per sq foot. Times my 380 sq feet came out to 11,400 Btu. So the unit is not constantly maxing out I upsized it to 15,000 Btu and bought a mini split system, in fact I bought this one: http://www.e-comfortusa.com/product_info.php?products_id=3361. I got it in sale for $1,506 shipped plus it will cost about $800 installed with all parts. Mind you the parts aren’t all included you’ll need a line set, some refrigerant oil, a pad and wiring. Heat pumps also require a dedicated circuit, the electrician will have to deal with that. The installation is part of the contracting costs, we can hit that later.

Aight this shit is long enough, let’s break at a total cost of $2304. More next week.

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