Crazy lady illustrates just how very far we’ve fallen—as a nation; as Americans; as individuals; as civilized, rational, well-meaning human adults.
i’m telling ya, gang, you ain’t gonna believe this one.
A woman lost her mind and manners today at Mount Tabor Dog Park — because a man had purebred dogs.
Just in case you didn’t get your daily dose of crazy… pic.twitter.com/jYPFUFFLb1
— PDX Real (@PDXReal1)
This rage junkie’s unprovoked hissy fit deserves some kind of token of recognition—say, a trophy; a statuette along the lines of the Oscar, the Tony, or the Grammy; a colorful silk ribbon sizeable enough that it can be tied in back of the neck and draped over the collarbones and down to about mid-sternum, the way a proper necklace is usually worn; a gold medal to hang from said ribbon/necklace, a one-two knockout punch which results in a stylish accessory that, for all intents and purposes, might have been made to be shown off at private parties, film/art-show openings, next year’s Kentucky Derby, or some other such event; a generous cash prize; a professionally printed, suitable-for-framing certificate of merit presented personally by Hizzoner the Mayor’s very own hand; an honorary diploma from the nearest cow-college.
Then there’s the charity-fundraising dinner in a ritzy restaurant so jam-packed with minor to middling local celebutards that whenever at least two of said celebs stands close together and smiles for the cameras, the high-wattage light bouncing off the razzle-dazzle dentition on display produces a reflection so intensely retina-singing that any diner, restaurant employee, sidewalk-dwelling stewbum, or luckless looky-loo gawking through the establishment’s big front window who gets hit smack dab in the middle of his/her/its eyeball by the tooth polish-enhanced reflection will be blinded completely until mid-afternoon of the next day, a painful injury to delicate, highly sensitive tissue which hurts in a way reminiscent of the also-blinding eyeball burns incurred by looking directly at a welding torch’s brilliant light without welding goggles*.
There’s sure to be lots more bright ideas floating around out there regarding how best to recognize Miz Cray-Cray McNutcake’s and any subsequent amusing mental/emotional self-detonations, but the above ones should suffice to get the intellectual spark plugs firing, the creative juices flowing, and the internal kick-ball rolling in the right direction, I think.
One final thought: can you even begin to imagine what life must be like for this woman’s husband/boyfriend.significant other (if any)? Y’know, the poor soul who has to go to bed every night and wake up every morning beside this psychopath? Because I gotta say, I can’t. In fact, I really don’t want to. My life sucks bad enough as it is; I don’t like the idea of using my imagination to put my astral projection (a term I picked up from PG Wodehouse’s Laughing Gas) in that pyrsynzzn’s shoes for even one second, which pointless experience would only make things worse for myself than they already were. I ain’t nearly masochist enough to make myself suffer so gratuitously, and with any luck I never will be.
* Although I’ve had countless opportunities to score myself some welding-torch eyeball blisters, I never did; whenever I heard the snap, crackle, and pop seam-building soundtrack warning all shop-rats that Goose had one of our three (3) torches fired up and was starting another of his incredibly flawless welds, I made damned good and sure to keep my back turned to him. From what friends of mine who would know say, the blindness hits shortly after the damage has been done, while the godawful pain usually holds off until sometime next day. The only effective treatment for those blisters I know of is to cut up a raw potato into thin rounds and place a slice on the closed lids of the affected ocular orb, then let it/them sit there for hours and hours. Eventually, the pain goes away, the vision comes back, and the lesson has been learned, to be remembered forever.
It’s all but certain not to go that way, though, as you probably figured out by now. Thanks to inborn human blockheadedness, Nature’s eternal cycle begins anew: the lesson will be forgotten; the attention will stray; the primordial flesh-memory of what it felt like will fade. And before you know it, there you are: somebody is about to get hurt again.
Shop Life 101, that’s all, Shop Life 101.
- Entries
Yea, it’s unbelievable for sure. There are
mentally illbug nut crazy people out among us.I am compelled to deal with the mentally ill on the reg, because of my employment.
Somebody, anybody walks up to me like that on the street, let alone in a forest park, and accosts me like that, they’re going to be beaten to a pulp, as a public service.
They’ll learn decorum, or they’ll eat through a straw for years.
Makes not a damned bit of difference which way they choose.
My recount if ever found will be “She picked up a rock, and started hitting herself in the face with it, hard enough to draw blood, at least 10-20 times, so presuming she was bat shit crazy, I departed the scene.”
Every dog I’ve owned had boundaries when we walk, roughly the size of my or their personal space. I’d have held my ground, knowing full well the lunatic would cross that boundary and get schooled.
I had a 90 lb lab/shepherd that looked like a big black shepherd with floppy ears. One toe into his zone of protection, and he’d light up like he was about to eat their soul.
Man, I miss that dude.
The two I have now clock in at 75-80 lbs, and they are the same way. No warning, no growling. Just 0 to 11 in a nanosecond.
As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man—
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:—
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
Why…why…why…that pome sounds RAYCISS! Musta been written by some RAYCISS or other, I bet.
Judging by pictures, the poet appears to be huwyte. So, yah, absolutely he’s a rayciss.
Yes, crazy bullshit but, that has some pure entertainment value. To bad she didn’t pull that with a pit bull owner.