Please Respect the Grieving

by Giselle Renarde

I wish I'd written this post when I was in a bad mood, because writing it now is going to destroy my good mood and I thoroughly enjoy a good mood.

As I've mentioned before, I grew up in an impoverished neighbourhood. Now I live in an affluent neighbourhood. Does that mean I'm rich? HAHAHA no. It means I moved here when the rental market was in the crapper. I got lucky.

When you transition from an area populated by poor people to one that's populated by rich people (many of them "old money"), you notice a lot of behavioural differences. I've lived here 12 years and I'm still shocked, constantly, by the arrogance and entitlement I see around me. I hope I'll always be shocked by it, because the moment I don't notice it I've become ONE OF THEM, god help me.

It's one thing for me to say people around here don't think rules apply to them--that doesn't exactly paint a picture. Let me paint you a picture. Let me use the local cemetery as my canvas.

I'm not a religious person (I'm not even a person with a religion), but I do believe we have a social responsibility to preserve the sanctity of spaces that possess a spiritual importance to a great many people.

The cemetery in my neighbourhood has a history of being used as somewhat of a public space, so you're going to find people jogging, cycling, (unicycling, practicing the bagpipes) along the pathways. I'm usually there to walk, although I often stop and say hello to a family friend whose memorial plaque is there.

For the first 130 years of this cemetery's existence, no dogs were permitted on the property. I need to restrain myself because I could easily rant about the exasperatingly entitled nature of the dog owners in my neighbourhood (who truly believe leash laws don't apply to their dogs), but despite their socio-economic heft I never imagined they'd get the cemetery to back down and changed the dog policy. As it now stands, leashed dogs are permitted within the grounds on paved pathways only.

Do you think that stops people from letting their dogs loose like this is some giant off-leash paradise? Or leading their pooches directly to convenient headstones and ENCOURAGING their pets to piss and shit all over graves?

The first time I witnessed this, I almost threw up. I was scandalized by the sheer disregard for what a final resting place represents--not just to the spirit or soul of the departed (if applicable--I don't know what goes on after death), but to the spirit AND the soul of the cemetery itself, not to mention the memory of that individual and the regard their living friends and family members still hold for them.

Is it really too much to ask people not to allow (much less encourage!) their dogs to shit on people's graves? Really?

I'm describing only the beginnings of the bad behaviour I see. A couple weeks ago it was a pair of fancy-ass cyclists in fancy-ass cycling outfits that probably cost more than I pay in rent. We're not talking about kids, here. Teenagers get a bad rap, but I don't want you thinking these were young people. The were grown-ass adults.

Anyway, I guess they're ready for a break so they hop off their bikes, smoke some pot and crank the tunes to full-blast on their awful tinny radio--all while leaning against a sign that reads: QUIET ZONE. PLEASE RESPECT THE GRIEVING.

I could go on. I could tell you about the jogger who spotted the lush green grass on one grave and decided that was the perfect place to take off his shirt and do a bunch of sit-ups. Lord Almighty, I apologize profusely any time I'm forced to step anywhere near someone's grave. Yes, I apologize to their spirit or soul or whatever it may be--out of respect. I can't imagine being the kind of person who does a goddamn exercise routine on someone's grave. You're not at the gym, asshole! This is a fucking cemetery!

Now I feel really complainy. I just see so much entitlement every time I leave the house (or look out my window) and I have this policy of being non-confrontational at the cemetery. My sisters call me a New Yorker because I'm always yelling at people on the street (it's not as crazy as it sounds--they're usually trying to run me over with their cars). I get very argumentative when I see people who lack the fundamentals of respect, but NOT losing my shit on strangers is my way of respecting the grieving.

Trust me, it ain't easy.

Angry Birds

By Lisabet Sarai

“Hey, Liz – isn’t that Bart?”

“Where?”

“Behind you, at the other end of the bar. Talking to the blonde with the big artificial tits.”

“Sounds like him. It’s not worth my energy to check, though.”

“Really? Last week all you could talk about was his six pack and his stamina. You told me you thought you were in love.”

“You’re dreaming. No way I could love that sleazebag.“

“But last week...”

“Last week is ancient history, Jill. Let’s bury it.”

“But...”

“Look, I was briefly deluded into thinking Bartholomew Jackson was a decent and reasonable person. I was wrong.”

“What did he do?”

“Can’t you just drop it? There are so many other, more interesting topics to discuss.”

“C’mon, Liz. I’m your best friend. Spill!”

“You really want to know? Okay, you asked for it. You’re gonna puke.”

“That sounds a bit dramatic.”

“Just wait. You know how he was the perfect gentleman when we met? So solicitous of my comfort and all?”

“Yeah – I have to admit I was a bit jealous that it was you he wanted. His buddy Jeff was a total dud. Couldn’t get it up to save his life.”

“That’s one problem Mr. I’m-a-Stockbroker-So-Bow-Down-to-Me Jackson didn’t have. He had a perpetual boner.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Well, no – I mean I like sex as much as the next girl...”

“More, I’d say.”

“Do you want to hear the story or not, Jill?”

“Sorry. Go ahead.”

“The first night was great, I admit. He rocked my world. I came three times, once all over his face. Very nice indeed.”

“So what happened?”

“It all started when he saw the shelf of my books.”

“Oh, Liz! You didn’t tell him your pseudonym?”

“In a moment of weakness and deep stupidity. What can I say? He seemed so nice, so appreciative. I’m hungry for recognition. As soon as he found out they were my books, though – that I write erotica - he changed. Completely.”

“How?”

“All of a sudden he was channeling Christian Gray or something. Using my stockings to tie me to the bed. Slapping me around. Forcing me to suck his cock. Bending me over and drilling into my ass without any lube. I guess he assumed that I must be a total slut, with no qualms about anything sexual.”

“Well, you are pretty wild, compared to me at least. I thought you liked a bit of kink.”

“Sure, with the right person, under the right circumstances. After the appropriate negotiations. Bart didn’t even ask. Like I said, he just assumed I’d eat it all up, that I’d swallow his cum and lick his butt hole and beg him to fuck me the way I did that first night.”

“So why didn’t you kick him out?”

“I tried! That’s when I found out he’d been secretly filming every damn thing he did to me. Even that first time, when I was all starry-eyed. He threatened to post the videos on the ‘Net, along with my pseudonym, if I didn’t go along with his filthy ideas.”

“Jeez, that would be a disaster for your job!”

“Tell me about it! So I strung him along for a couple of days, while I worked on the problem of how I could get the vids back, or at least destroy them. When he showed up at my door at 3 AM Sunday, with two other guys in tow, ready for a gang bang, I got desperate.”

“Oh my god! What did you do?”

“The first thing that came into my mind. I acted excited, like having my holes stuffed by a trio of slobs was my most cherished fantasy. In fact, I told Bart, I’d always dreamed of having guys piss on me.”

“Yech!”

“I warned you! They loved it! It just confirmed their opinion of me as the ultimate deviant slut. Anyway, I fixed them all drinks, told them I had to get ready but I’d wait for them in the bath tub. While they were chugging down their cocktails, I made some quick alterations to the electrical wiring in the bathroom.”

“You don’t mean...?”

“Hey, there’s got to be some use for all my engineering degrees! I made sure the floor was nice and wet, then I knelt in the tub – on the rubber mat. They stumbled in, barefoot – whipped out their junk – aimed and let fly... The liquid completed the circuit, just as I’d planned. The lights flashed – there was a smell of charred meat – the circuit breaker blew – then everything was quiet. When I turned on my flashlight, I found all three bastards unconscious on the floor, lying in puddles of their own pee.”

“Liz, you’re unbelievable! What if you’d killed them?”

“Unlikely. Anyway, I didn’t. After I’d made sure they were breathing, I slipped Bart’s iPhone and keys out of his pocket. Using his car, I drove to his apartment and let myself in. I flushed his phone down his toilet. Logged on to his computer, deleted all his files on Google Drive and Drop Box, trashed all his email. Then I used his baseball bat – you remember him bragging about being the top hitter in his Saturday league? – and smashed his MacBook into little tiny pieces.”

“God! He could have you arrested.”

“I suppose. Just in case, I made sure to take some shots of him and his cronies. I can always accuse him – with some justification – of rape. Those pictures was the last thing I sent Mr. Jackson before I wiped him from my contacts and unfriended him on Facebook. I sent copies of the pix, along with a somewhat less graphic account of the situation, to my lawyer, too. Just in case. But somehow I doubt Bart will bother me anymore.”

“’Hell hath no fury...’! Hey – do you still have those photos on your mobile?”

“Yeah, sure. I look at them every now and then to remind myself not to trust anyone with the secret of my identity.”

“Let me see... Jeez, that’s totally disgusting! Hey, I’ve got an idea. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure. Ah – Joe – can I please get another G and T?”

“You pervert! Get your hands off me, you creep! Oh no, don’t come any closer or I’ll call the cops...”

“Here you go, Liz. One gin and tonic... What’s her problem? Quite a pair of lungs on her!”

“Thanks, Joe. I think she may have just had her fantasies shattered. Hey, Jill – that was brilliant!”

“I hope that asshole learned his lesson. Never mess with an angry woman.”

“Never mess with a woman – period. Can I buy you another drink, girlfriend?”