How comfy is your family screwing you?
Monday 19 August 2013, 5.28am HKT
TOMORROW (19 Aug 2013) is the fifth anniversary of The Naked Listener’s Weblog on WordPress. Not more than half an hour ago, Life handed me something that most people in their right mind wouldn’t think of as a gift.
This broadcast is based on actual events.
Yes, folks, it’s a TL;DR rant. Skip it if you want. I preferred it if you didn’t though.
You could just as well call this post The Naked Listener’s Top 10 Lessons Learned From Family Members — because it’s that ‘deep.’
(Adult language follows — one-in-a-million occurrence from me.)
Every family has a turncoat of some sort. Normal turncoats hurt, but when the turncoat turns out to be one of your own, the hurt is down to the core.
Half an hour ago, a close relative and I ran into each other in a busy fast-food joint — let’s nickname him “Scud” for convenience.
Scud and I haven’t seen each other for over 10 years. I asked him what he’s doing.
“Government what?” I asked.
*Eyeroll* (internally, not visibly).
Not more than literally 30 seconds into the conversation, argument ensues.
Then Scud proceeded to use that to start the argument. He has a real talent for riling up people the wrong way in the shortest time possible. Figures — government is mostly filled with people with that kind of talent, which is why any government is what it is.
Scud is probably the only person on Earth whom I can’t stand my ground in an argument with, mainly because of his unctuous condescending behaviour. He knows my weakness and exploits it to great effect — I know it too but couldn’t ‘adjust’ myself to counter it.
‘I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to be around you. You’re a jerk. You’re an asshole […]’
Takes one to know one, doesn’t it?
Why — you think I want to be around an embarrassment like you as well?
No, my attitude is fine. Yours stink.
Not nearly a fucking prune like you
Took you flippin’ WEEKS to learn to ride that stupid bicycle. Fucking took me exactly 21 seconds to do it (because I’ve timed it).
You got your driving licence on first attempt. I didn’t. But I got my motorcycle licence after you left London, and the following year I competed in the TT Race on the Isle of Man, buttface.
You’re nearly 50 years old and you look the part. You’re flabby and deformed, because you couldn’t even fucking manage to hold down 10 minutes of daily exercise. I’m skinny and scrawny, but I’ve still got a body like a 20 year old. You fizzle out by Day 3, but I’ve carried on non-stop since I was 14.
Not nearly as big a wimp as you are
You passed out the moment you caught sight of mum’s blood and burst urine catheter when she had her gallstones out in London. Nurse Anne Fisher had to come to your fucking aid, weenie bo-bo-fuckface.
You were an RAF Cadet, reaching the rank of Sergeant-Major or Colour-Major or something. I got into the TAVR as a commissioned officer. My Service Number was 24505120 and Regimental Number 2537, you prat.
More efficient than you could be
When mum had her gallstones out, I arranged with the GP down the road to get her seen to by that Harley Street specialist. You did jack shit, boie. You were pasting the town with those slags from somewhere and generally fucking about with those drums and turntables of yours. “L” (another relative) and I fetched mum out from hospital on that heavily snowed morning; you disappeared completely. Mum slipped on the iced-up pavement and we had a helluva time repatching her wound. But you never knew that, you pillock.
That Nationality Tribunal we went through in London. You did nothing other than show up on hearing date. I arranged the solicitors, the kindly Mr Pitman the barrister, negotiated the lawyers’ fees, and dealt with the tribunal administrativa. You never went through the bloody paperwork at all. I went to the court rehearsals on my own with the solicitor lady, and you never even cared to know about that.
Not nearly a dumbarse like you
Whatever little talent that I have, at least I maximise it in my own small way.
I ran this blog continuously since 1996. Look at the half dozen blogs you started — you couldn’t even get beyond your third post, and then you abandon them one by one (like you’ve abandoned all your chicks). Busy with work, right? Riiight.
I started a partnership company with mum that was taxable in its first year of operation. If you don’t understand that, it means the firm was profitable in the first year.
I also managed to sue the Inland Revenue Department for the extra taxes I’d paid. See if you can do that, clever clogs.
You got your glorious M.A.’s and Ph.D.’s. Big fucking deal! I’ve ghostwritten 16 doctorate theses for people in my time, and they weren’t just to fix their ghastly English grammar either. How the hell did you think I paid off that mortgage swap you laid on us? Idiot.
Just who the hell d’you think you’re talking to?
He’s just saying that to provoke a reaction from me.
He knows full well I get angry with talk about things which I am not. But it causes me to bring out the HMS Revenge too.
No, actually, I don’t know how much of an arsehole or jerk I’m supposed to be. But I do know this, though:—
- When mum died, an arsehole like me was the only one who picked up the goddamn pieces and arranged her funeral and stuff. If you had been there (and you weren’t), you did nothing, BOIE.
Can you imagine the bad motherfucking attitude of a person like that?
Which I think speaks volumes of a man who’s never seemed able to stick with any girl longer than a couple of years. The sight of a man who treats kith and kin that way, I don’t think any woman would want to continue with such a jerk.
Scud’s a right minge, actually. He’s the epitome of that Cantonese phrase fahn gwut jai (反骨仔 ‘turncoat’). ‘Nuff said.
“Rome knows the value of her own.” — Imperial Roman motto
‘So why can’t you hold down a job?’
Look who’s talking! Yeah, YOU can talk…
You know fuck shit about holding down a job, toilet brush.
If I couldn’t hold down a job, I certainly wouldn’t be writing about it here, dimwit.
Need no fucking lessons from you!
FACT:— I’ve held down jobs longer than Scud has.
I was already working professionally five years before than he did. While Scud himself was flitting from one commercial (mis)adventure to another, I held down every single job I was in.
FACT:— Seven months as a lab tech in a London hospital, and let go because of my nationality issue.
What the fuck would you know about people in illness?
FACT:— Ten years with an international financial newspaper.
The pot calling the kettle black.
FACT:— Five years as a book editor and photographer in London.
The pot calling the kettle shite-black.
FACT:— Ten years for a major British publishing, from London to Hong Kong.
The piss-pot calling the kettle urinal-black.
FACT:— Five or six years with an Anglo-American security printing conglomerate, responsible for global IPO printworks upwards of US$150 million and the printing of banknotes.
The potty calling the kettle-drum filthy lucre black.
I don’t think in good conscience anyone could trust people like Scud with more than $150, let alone a $150 million IPO print deal.
For Scud’s own part, he’s never been in one job longer than three or four years. We could say he’s better able to keep his career evolving — I wouldn’t dispute that because it’s true enough.
- FACT:— Scud got the sack from his French bank for (of all conceivable reasons) not being able to speak French. The French bank employed him on the clear and stated understanding that he DIDN’T know French.
If that were to happen to me, I would’ve sued to the hilt for unfair dismissal, and get a tidy sum as damages. He did nothing about it, as far as I know. Huge fucking mistake, jerko.
- FACT:— Scud’s virtually only long-term job that lasted anything like 10 years or more was his part-time university tutoring/lecturing job.
Then again, academic jobs aren’t exactly too hard to stay long in, give or take a few factors.
But with a Ph.D. in his own chosen field and a native bilingual English/Chinese speaker to boot, Scud’s actually one in a million in the Hong Kong academic world — and he can’t even land himself a full-time teaching post, let alone tenure. How’s about that, eh?
The point is, would you denigrate someone — anyone — whose job simply didn’t meet your expectations?
If you’ve got any semblance of self-respect, you wouldn’t.
‘[S—] is the best thing that ever happened to you. You are a very lucky man to have her.’
No shit, Sherlock. Don’t tell me you’ve just noticed this.
Luckier than you could ever be, sport.
Luckier than his last bird (“H”) or the slagheap of drama queens whom he ditched (or they ditched him) one by one over the years like a piss-stream of sperm-catchment vessels.
At the very least, I’ve exercised good judgment to have S—.
Scud can’t even hold down one chick long enough to lead to giving him a descendant. Scud’s nearly 50, so the game is pretty much up for him.
Whatever accidental or intentional descendants that I might have had, at the very least those women were willing to have kids with me.
Not knowing much about Scud or his chicks, can’t say for sure in this department.
NOW HEAR THIS
Like I’ve explained elsewhere before on this blog, I have just two ways of living:—
- Either I outlive you and hear you squeal like a sweaty, hairless pig when you die,
- Or I die sooner so I don’t have to breathe in the same air as you do.
Here’s what I have to say to Scud — and also faggots like him:—
1. Leave no one behind
At the very least I hadn’t left the woman who mothered the both of us without a proper funeral (with an ordained priest no less) — even though the torturous price negotiation with the funeral directors nearly put ME in a coffin!
Whereas you just went Full Retard Mr Invisible on the lame excuse of ‘work.’
That must’ve been one heck of a job you were holding down…
Shamelessly, you even did a D.B. Cooper on contributing to the funeral price — “L” had to fork out for you. Disgraceful.
When I was on crutches for fully 37 months, Scud and his chick became The Invisible Incredibles — noteworthy for their superhuman powers of invisibility. Not once did it occur to the pair of them that I was in trouble. No wonder his chick split.
You earn hundreds of thousands of dollars every year. Yet you couldn’t even spare literally a dime to me in my shittiest hour of need just so that I could pick myself up and get back on track. You know I don’t ask for much or charity, and you know I would’ve gladly repaid you.
Not only that, you actually had the goddamn nerve to make insolent remarks in my face about my self-motivation, work abilities and umpteen other things just to see how I take the insults.
Can we not say that’s the very definition of a motherfucker?
Gentle Reader, I’ve been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease a couple of years back. So in a few years, thank God I’ll have the little mercy of not being able to remember Scud. My only regret would be not to remember my readers.
Outsiders never forget how you treat your insiders…
2. On your own labours
At the very least I’ve built up some equity — on my own labours too. I own my own home (and more properly when I pay off the mortgage).
Sometimes we don’t have a choice but to use our own labours. But once you use your own labours, maximise them with all available resources.
In short, we pool.
Whereas you got your ‘home’ through the grace of a gift of a flat from Dad that you’ve never had to pay downpayment for. It’s not even in your name, so one fine day you’ll be running into legal problems, boyo.
It’s not sour grapes, Scud — I’m happy that you’ve got that gift. But don’t diss me when I’ve had to save up, pay downpayment, and pay off two punishing mortgages either. You’ve not gone through that and you know jackass about it.
3. Not siding with outsiders
At the very least I’ve tried to build up self-owning businesses. Some worked, some didn’t.
How’s yours, by the way?
Whereas for you, NONE of the commercial adventures you’ve started ever panned out.
Worse, you leave the fruits of your operable endeavours for others to reap.
That’s because you’ve made the huge mistake of liking to work with outsiders (even the competition) than with your own kind — fingers that flex out instead of in.
Give or take a few exceptions in life, it’s mostly family who have your best interests at heart.
Not knowing much about outsiders, can’t say the same for this department.
4. Aboveboard, please
At the very least I don’t do underhanded things.
Like I didn’t cheat kith and kin by running a dirty little mortgage swap on the quiet — one that resulted in me paying off a HK$300,000 (US$38,600 or £24,600) on a superseded mortgage when times were at my hardest.
If you’re too stupid to understand, it’s upstand and not downsit.
5. A career for the time you’re in it
At the very least, I can honestly say I’ve done all that’s ever humanly possible to make a career out of any job I had for duration I was in it.
Scud, I’ve held down jobs longer and more consistently than you ever could by a factor of 2 or 3 times (see foregoing for details).
I don’t flit from job to job every few years because of career progression, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. Two or three years does not a career make, sonny boy.
Mine is a consistent 30-year-long job history.
More like Lou Bega’s 1999 song “A Little Bit of Mambo” — a little bit of this, a little bit of that, and everything in between.
Draw your own conclusions. Government my Aunt Fanny … yours is no more government than some antic outsourced as a government quango. See how long that’ll last…
6. Self-respect and consideration as motivators
At the very least I’m not a odious little man who’s overweening enough to tell others off that they need to faat funn joh yan (發奮做人 ‘to exert or raise oneself’) — considering that I’ve actually stepped up to the plate and paid lock, stock and barrel for mum’s funeral and that dirty little mortgage swap but for the vicious pretense of Scud and his kind.
That’s just fucking disrespectful and condescending, quimface, coming from you.
How is my alleged inability to exert myself an obstacle or detriment to your high and mighty determination, most absolute sir?
At least I’ve tried in my own small way to make things possible instead of trying to look for possibilities all over the place.
In this, I try my best, nothing more, to save up to make myself a home, to build one, be that just for myself or with somebody. I didn’t blow it on wine, women and song, or fair weather friends that don’t contribute.
Anyone’s not arsed to pitch in, gets left behind. (I too can be just as ruthless as you are.)
I’ve also tried to save up for my own funeral, because that’s just going to happen sooner rather than later, what with people like Scud living on the same planet as I do.
7. Courtesy and niceties, minge-face!
At the very least I pay all and sundry their due courtesy and deference, regardless of the characters’ general disagreeableness.
Unlike those people like Scud, I don’t have to be in-your-face with my words every time I open my gob. Shut your gob and wash your fucking mouth, you stupid git.
People like Scud have no fucking manners because they’ve never even learnt to pretend niceties.
These fucking boneheads are all that’s wrong with the world today. Whatever little etiquette that they show, they come off oily and unappetising.
These are people who think everybody else is a disgrace. They pay no courtesy to anyone, therefore others pay no real respect to them.
Which is why Scud got his pink slip from his French bank for the most threadbare reason imaginable (not being able to speak French).
LOL, who’s the jerk, my furry little friend?
8. Sell in, no sacrifice
At the very least I have the gumption to do and speak my mind when it matters.
I sell in, not sell out.
I don’t sacrifice anyone — because I need them all later.
Those who aren’t ‘with’ me, fine by me if that’s fine for themselves. I have no great need to lead or to follow.
It’s called Doing The Decent Thing, you offensive shit.
Any family member in dire straits (money, jobs or whatever), I’d do whatever I can to help out, obviously within limits.
Go against me, then I’ll sell you down the river. It’s that simple.
The number of people in the world who resemble you are just too damn high right now.
People like you are fucking insane.
There are those real bad-ass types in the world who’d do anything like shoot their mothers in the back of the head merely being ordered to. Just like those people who see ethics as more important than humanity.
Their self-centredness completely overrides acting like a normal, breathing human being who can fuck, duck and truck. They won’t lift a nary finger to help because they’re insane enough to buy into and live by some overbearing external standard. They are dreamers with eyes fucking wide open.
People like Scud are exactly this sort. Now that he’s in government (and I’ll take that at face value), my time may well be up.
9. You lie, you die
At the very least I don’t spread lies about anyone — certainly not against family — because in the eyes of others that just builds a case against one’s own character.
I’m not talking about little white lies that lubricate difficult situations. I’m taking about the full-blown .50-calibre sort that could end people’s lives.
Scud says “I don’t have the time to do that” — yeah, riiight, like hell you didn’t, you stinky little fuck … like your shifty eyes and wiggling nose say no. That’s just so out of character for you even for me to believe.
You’ve left trails among your lies. So there.
Nobody thinks of anyone any less for misjudging people or getting things wrong. But lie, and you die bit by bit in the eyes of others.
Even the very worst criminals value trustworthiness or honesty in their partners-in-crime over and above anything else.
At the very least I’m not a smarmy git like Scud — and that’s more than enough said.
He’s always been a smarmy little twat. When is he going to grow out of it?
All I heard down through the years was him crying his vagina to pieces every night. Man the fuck up!
Everything about you has to be qualified with an adjective
At least as a jerk or an arsehole I don’t need one
Still smarting like a castrated wanker
Scud, your fucking trouble is you play your ‘heartless’ number with others because you think you’re smarter than the rest of us.
You’re not. Heartless, yes, I grant you that talent.
You’re just a troublemaker — you’ve always been one. And everyone sees you as one.
You’ve always behaved like an overweening (and over-weeing) moron whose arrogance is like a nuclear warhead stuck deep up your arse most of the time. It’s really tiresome to be around YOU. Back in London, people were saying behind your back that you’re a snotty little bullshitter. In your defence, I told people to give it time and it’s just a phase.
But it wasn’t a fucking phase, was it? The B.S. just got worse.
Everybody knows it, but we just didn’t bank on you going this far. By the time I was 10 years old, I was already four times older than you at 40. You are a fucking joke gone bad, not me.
You act like the arsehole you are towards me is because you’re still smarting from starting a fight with me on hospital grounds while mum lay dying in that dirty little laundry basket they over-named as a hospital ward.
Both our arses got hauled into the favourite local police station. I got released, hi’ddie-hi-hi. And despite the ‘respect’ that the cops paid to you, you still had to spend the night in the holding cells with sundry petty criminals and doped-out lusers. That’s real respect for you, slick.
Fuck off, Scud. I don’t want to be around people like YOU. You’re a fucking jackass.
You diss your family in front of others.
You can’t even stick with a chick, let alone carry on with a simple family for your own self. Look at yourself, you’re not even minimum requisite family material, you dumb piece of shit.
You know fucking jack shit about what was best for mum. You know jack shit about people in illness. You never involved yourself with her treatment or hospitalisation.
Open up your fucking ears and listen to your own fucking bullshit. You’re not even nearly half the man I am. You got no fucking balls for anything, and you’ve done nothing of worth that you could actually call your own.
You think it’s nice and cute to make cheapshots at people? Wait till someone take a serious shot at you just for the lulz.
Wait till it happens to your own kids…
“If you tolerate this, your children will be next.” — English proverb
FUCKIN’ COMMENT AND MAKE MY DAY
Images: Oblivious Asshole Award via 23rd Armored Gallery ♦ Briefcase via Yahoo Voices ♦ Wife of Today via Patwary ♦ Left Behind via Praise Cleveland ♦ The Naked Listener’s Worker logo by the author ♦ Shakespeare’s quote via QuoteHD ♦ Sitting Is Killing You via John Durant/Hunter-Gatherer ♦ Lou Bega’s Mambo No. 5 (A Little Bit of Mambo) via eil.com ♦ Life as Scrabble via Journal of Pakistan Medical Students Blogs ♦ Love of Life Orchestra’s ‘Extended Niceties’ (1980) via ghostcapital ♦ Aztec sacrifice via Scene Change ♦ Twat Waffle via Cable Magazine ♦ Castration by Juan Moyano of Spain via depositphotos.com.
© The Naked Listener’s Weblog, 2013. (B13272)