Thursday, October 18, 2018

Bayonned Beyond Belief

No, there are no reviews again this week. (Though I will say that Jodie Whittaker is KiILLING IT!!! Love the authoritative flourish she wields the Sonic with.)  Instead is a special - off schedule-  George Award for myself due to shattering a previous record.

This post contains bad, foul, filthy and unacceptable language - the words that “will curve your spine, grow hair on your hands and maybe, even bring us, God help us, peace without honor.”

This is not a post for children.  Kids, take a hike.
This is also not a post for those adults who are offended by this type of language.  Do yourself a favor, and go read some of my cute stuff before moral outrage can kick in.
Just about everything else on this blog is clean…Stupid sometimes, but clean.

End of Warning.

I had to make an airport run before work, something I’ve done countless times before.

There was unusual traffic on 287 on the way down. My sister, brother in law and I all knew some alternate routes and it was avoided and handled, something I’ve done countless times before.

I needed to go to my place of employment afterwards instead of home, causing me to seek out the forty minute trip up the New Jersey Turnpike to Route 3 instead of returning along 78 to 24 to 287, something I’ve done countless times before.

What I have not done countless times before is have myself and the GPS get simultaneously confused by poor signage mixed with excessive construction then have the traffic make me unable to recover as I realized I was taking the wrong path. This forced me to miss the lanes for the entrance to the Turnpike and instead spiral into an excessive diversion through the manufacturing distribution hub of Bayonne.

Only in New Jersey can a six foot horizontal car location error translate into a sixty minute detour…not counting the increase in the drive time of the correct portion of the route due to taking it later into the evils of Newark area rush hour.

I believed I had previously held the NJ state record for the number of times and volume of saying “Fuck” consecutively while driving. It was on the way home from the mall when the first I heard on WDHA of the 2000 KISS “farewell” tour stopping at the Meadowlands was the night they were playing there.  I let loose a stream of continuous staccato “fucks” for the entire length of the distance from the Rockaway Mall to my Lincoln Park condo.  Y'know, I feel like this may have actually been an earlier year's concert (maybe "Revenge" when I was home for Harvest Festival or something), and  it happened when I was returning to Denville from a comic book run, but I'm not sure of a tour that lines up with a date that makes sense.  I don't really give a shit, since both my opinion of the band, and the “farewellness” of that tour has faded substantially over time.  I still know the general setting of establishing the record.

That record was eclipsed massively in both volume and frequency quite easily during only the first leg of this fuckpockalypse level disaster while I was heading toward the Bayonne Bridge in the wrong direction on the three mile stretch without any exits my error dumped me on.  Ever more fucktastic expulsions initiated and expanded from seeing the unmoving line of truck traffic that I would have to battle through on the way back just to reach my starting point.

The construction woes didn't end. I was supposed to get off the highway and right back on into the static shitload of trucks imperceptibly working their way back towards the Bayonne Bridge.  However, the GPS and I both yelled, “WHAT THE FIDDELY FUCK?!?!?”(*note*)   due to lane shifts and closures throughout the exit ramps and we ended up not facing directly back to our starting point. Instead we were driving in and around the motherfuckingly convoluted, seldom maintained and heavily travelled my gi-fucking-normous rigs,  back roads of shipper truck loading in Bayonne.

By the time I joined the far back end of the near infinite line of fucktruckdom, my continuous fuckstream had morphed into combinations, permutations and compounds the likes which I had never heard nor imagined before.  Frankly I still cannot recall most of them through the red haze of the moment.

We (the GPS and I were now a bewildered twosome) creeped up the road a millimeter at a time, and I could see my estimated arrival time growing later and later. By the time we passed the Bayonne Bridge and traffic had sped up to a slow crawl, I had shouted myself completely hoarse.  My voice was still shot well into the afternoon. I had fortunately been out with a sinus infection earlier in the week, allowing me to truthfully, gutturally whisper, "Yes" when asked, "Are you sick?" back at work. This was a far more job friendly answer than, "No, I 'fucked' myself mute."

In a feeble attempt to preserve some sanity, I shifted ITunes onto shuffling all of my Lewis Black albums, because compared to the level I had risen to; Anger from Inside Out himself was a significant step down in ire to help in calming me the fuck down.

By the time I got back to where I should have been, Route 3 had backed up enough that taking Route 80 through Paterson was preferable. Those of you who’ve ever lived in this state know what level of turbo bitch shit storm is required to make that road the best option.

I left the GPS on at that point only so the voices screaming in my head didn’t feel lonely, but I knew exactly where I was and where I needed to go.

Even so, I missed one of the final turns onto a road I travel two to three times a week when alternating divisions of the company I have shuttled between for the past four fucking years.

The reason was- all of my attention was focused on the ass-mazing shit polisher in the white van swerving back and forth along the road ahead of me for several miles of the final leg of my journey.

The snot munching possum fucker's path across the lanes nearly caused over a half dozen accidents, forcing me, and all other motorists in the county, to stay as fucking far be-fucking-hind him as possible.  

Arriving at work at what I felt was an hour and a half late; I noticed a bunch of folks pulling at the same time as me. Therefore, I stayed true to the original planned time of leaving work to take Anabelle to see Venom.

The combination of dark and violent humor with nonstop entertaining carnage (Ha!) was exactly the end cap needed to restore a dram of sanity to this fuckin’ day. 

(*note*)    I have absolutely no recollection through the veil of pissedoffness what exact profanities were used on the Bayonne drive.  I said this more lightheartedly  based on standard mall traffic idiocy on the way to Venom and Anabelle laughed so hard she almost fell out of the car, and asked if I used it earlier in the day.  Consider it a theoretical  example, and payback for "Poopyface Magee."

Click here for this year's George Awards


Cousin Michael said...

Well, I never thought anyone could beat my father when it came to using the "F" word especially when he couldn't start the lawnmower but, my cousin you have taken it to another level and blown him away! Dad used the "F" word interspersed with female genatalia and sometimes identifying it with either a family members name or position they held in the family. Such as one of his favorites:"Your mothers fucking cunt! "That would be the correct grammatical description of it but when he said it, it came out more like "Ya mudders fucking CUNT!" This often happened when my Mom was in the house vacuuming the floor and couldn't hear him. One time this happened and he let it go real loud and I heard the neighbor 2 houses down and across the street say, "Mr. Frissora's trying to start the lawnmower again." Don't get me wrong the neighbors loved Dad. In spite of his language. I asked Chick one time what it meant and he said to me "Is Daddy trying to start the lawnmower again?" Chick never answered my question but went out and started the lawnmower for him to which Dad responded, "Thank you. Now get the mother fuck outta here ya smart ass." I'm rolling on the floor as I write this. I have the whole thing somewhere around the house on 8mm film. Sorry no sound. One day I'm going to find it and see about getting it converted to a video so I can send to you Jeff.
You're post this week was hysterical as I had to read it more than once because the first time I was laughing so hard my eyes were closed.
Funny, Cousin Maria and I had this conversation once not long ago when we both decided that the Frissora brothers with the exception of Uncle Frisco used the "F" word beyond anybody's comparison. She asked me what my fathers favorite cuss word was and I told her. I asked her what Uncle Orry's was and she told me. In fairness to her, I will keep that between us as she deserves the courtesy of privacy of not sharing with your readers. However, you might be able to convince her to confide in you if you promised confidentiality. I for one, would like to know what your grandfathers was.
Once again, great post Jeff. The moral of today's story could have been "Traffic and road construction can bring out the worse in us all."
Ciao cuz,

Jeff McGinley said...

Many thanks cuz. I can assure you that any profanity with that satisfying hard "C" or "K" sound was used voluminously and in combinations. In our house, when Anabelle was little we had smelly words (words school said were bad but really weren't) bad words (typical profanities) and "the snowblower word" (the big "F"). I'm guessing my relationship with that piece of equipment matches your dad's with the lawnmower.

I don't really remember grandpa cursing in English, and I remember much more of Grandma in Italian , especially when I'd say one of the words, she'd ask where I heard it and answer, "From you" and then she'd punch me. Even "Go shit in your hat" was hers. I'll have to do some research.

Thanx again for sharing.

Cousin Michael said...

I can remember being maybe 8 or 9 years old or younger and listening to Uncle Ackie and my father having a conversation in his kitchen at the house on Baychester. Uncle Ackie was telling my father a story of him telling somebody off. He told my father that he told the guy to "Go shit in his hat and pull it over his ears." After a few seconds when I envisioned that in my mind and understood it in its literal meaning I let out a big oooooooh! They looked at me and started cracking up. Why does that kind of stuff stay with you forever. That had to be 50 or more years ago.

Jeff McGinley said...

Because that is the power of that kind of language when used correctly. Been listening to a Carlin interview CD I have, he understood it perfectly, which is why I named the George Awards after him, and why I've kept them up for five, going on six years.

Those words have emotional power, and the Frissora's wield them professionally.

Thanx again for sharing.

Jeff McGinley said...

Update: Cousin Michael- After consulting with the family, all we can really remember from my Grandfather (your Uncle Morgan for those playing the home game) cursing is a rare, quite "bastard" or "son of a bitch." This makes perfect sense, as his primary job in the Frissora Family Profanity Division was to keep his calm and think of ways to make Uncle Ackie curse.

Thank you.

Cousin Michael said...

This is without doubt 100% correct. When Frisco and Dottie lived here Frisco would always tell me stories about jobs around the house that he and Uncle Ackie were doing. Along would come Uncle Morgan and he would comment on everything and question why they did it this way and not that way. This would go on for 10 or 15 minutes and Uncle Ackie and Uncle Frisco would explain why they did what they did but Uncle Morgan was "RELENTLESS" with his questioning and criticisms. Frisco said after a while Uncle Ackie would finally lose it and tell Uncle Morgan to go Fuck himself and follow it up with a "Now get the Fuck outta here." Uncle Morgan would quietly walk away but Frisco learned after awhile that he was walking away while he was laughing under his breath. Frisco said when they would see him coming Uncle Ackie would say "Oh shit, here comes the inspector again. Frisco would tell Uncle Ackie to just ignore him. That usually lasted about 5 minutes and then Uncle Ackie would explode. Frisco said, Ackie just couldn't do it!

Jeff McGinley said...

That makes perfect sense, and sounds like stories my Dad would tell of building cabins with them Up the Lake. (Eventually , Uncle Nicky would just tell Dad, "come work with me," and left them to argue.)

I know (and documented in "Up the Lake" stories) that my Grandfather goaded Ackie on after both the famous "Cart ride down from the dump" and "Lost flashlight after the fireworks in the boat" incidents, as well as catching a bee and mailing it to his insectophobic brother.

It was certainly a unique relationship.

Thanx again so much for sharing.