It's not a law firm, nor the punch line to some crude, incestuous joke just some of the clowns encountered in the freaking circus of life.
A good subtext would be, Why I won't be in "Huntingtucky" for Christmas again this year! Galt-in-Da-Box can tell why he's not a big fan of Johnny-Rebs in two words: Pat Snider. She lived upstairs from Jean and I when I was a kid. There wasn't a problem around to which, for her, screaming and throwing a temper tantrum was not the answer. Like the typical late 1970s "liberated" nag, she demonstrated amazing lack of control over her mind, mouth and especially emotions. Every Friday her husband came home and was able to stand about an hour of her bitching. You could tell he'd had enough and was leaving because the loud-enough-to-hear-three-doors-away bitching turned quickly to whining and sniveling, following the pitiable gamma male all the way downstairs, around the side of the house and out front where he got into his souped up Charger and gunned out of the line of fire. By the time he got to his Dodge, she was back to shriking, and God and Sonny Jesus did she love "that universal adjective"!
Our next exhibit in the freak show is a bottom-feeder that got his wallet fattened by exhibiting fine representatives of humanity like Pat, first on late-nite, then on daytime TV. The first time I ever saw Mr. Springer was late in a Summer's evening in 1997. I developed an almost instant disdain when he trotted out the trailer trash. It was difficult to discern whether he felt sorry for the cussing, screaming hilljacks and chuckers, or just got his rocks off on the smashing chairs, calls to security and blue streaks that would make a sailor blush, but I strongly suspect the latter. Maybe they were former clients working off their debt, or actually volunteered to become part of his exploitation for a few hundred measily bucks, but first impressions were lasting. If I walked into a room and it was on, I kept right on walking. Today of course, there are a dozen knock-offs on daytime idioTVision...Sally Jessie Raphael wept!
Lastly, my dear Deborah, I know you've been through hell: There's no way to grow up with a drunken, abusive, typically duplicitous Papist father and not have scars and baggage. More than anything do I wish that had never happened and life would have come about some other way for us than it did. Families built on the sand foundations of equally self-centered parentage will not last. It may be small and belated comfort to know that the place where altruism actually belongs is the one it is so rarely found. It's just reality we have to deal with, even if its this late in life. Contrary to what you may believe, I do love you and yours, but I also know it's way too late and beyond my capabilities to fix your many issues, and you would resent it anyway, if I tried. I'm not one for polite pretense, and you're not one for any semblance of tolerance for views other than your own - whatever they might be at the moment - so I'll just have to wish you this long-distance Merry Christmas.
You say all you need to say by saying nothing at all, and instructing your progeny likewise...Adieu!
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