The story goes like this.  Her and I dated some time ago.  Somehow, we ended up by a secluded spot by a river and I got out of the car.  She would not get out of the car because she was afraid I would kill her.  I am a dangerous and unstable individual.

     Yet another bunch of ridiculous accusations.

     So why do they matter? 

     Well…

     Because not a word of it’s true, and I haven’t seen or spoken to this Debbie Hughes Maxwell in eleven years. 

     I wonder, why, if there was any such incident and issue, that getting out of the car would matter at all?  Seriously, confined space, limited mobility?  That’s a perfect place to commit a brutal, or even a non-brutal, murder!  And with this magnificent, secluded spot by the river, being “secluded,” no one would hear her scream, right?  
     Who drove there?  Me?  Her?  I guess we can assume that she drove away, since she claims to have stayed in the car.  So how did I get home?  I certainly didn’t live within any easy walking distance to any secluded spots by rivers? 
     Come on, give me some answers to these relevant questions!

     Character Assassinations shouldn’t be that easy these days, but apparently some people enjoy using whatever reaction you make to crazy bullshit like this against you in order to prove their point.  That’s why I like to take the wind out of their sails by being the first to bring crap like this to serious light where it can be dissected and made fun of when it’s not true.

     The fact is, I never dated this woman.  I did not have any sexual relationship with this woman.  I haven’t seen or spoken to her in eleven years, so why all this crap now?

     It must be because she saw my name mentioned somewhere, or read a blog and figured she could inject herself into the “news” again because she just can’t let go of that rejection eleven years ago!  What actually happened, eleven years ago, is that she called me late one night with important news that could not wait.
     “I’ll be right there!” she said frantically on the phone.
     When I opened my door, she was standing there out of breath from running up the stairs.
     “I have to tell you something really important!”
     “What?  What’s up?”
     “Hang on, let me come in and catch my breath,” she said, forcing her way inside and standing near the door.  “Mark,” she said, exasperated.  “I’m in love with you.”
     “What the Hell are you talking about?” I asked, confused.
     “Well, I’m getting older, and my biological clock is ticking.  I need a baby.  And I want to do that with you.”
     “Uhh,” I stammered.  “I just don’t even know what to say, but, why don’t you try having a baby with your husband?  Because not only can I not have kids, I don’t need to practice, either…”
     “Fuck you, you asshole!  God you’re a fucking piece of shit!  This was a fucking mistake!”
     “Yeah, kinda…”
     “I hope we can still be friends…”
     “Yeah, I think you just kinda ruined that…”
     I slammed the door, locked it, and sat stunned on the couch for quite a while.  I even sat through the frantic knocking several minutes later, and ignored the subsequent telephone calls.  I refused any and all contact with her.
     And I never heard from her again. 

     She’d been a friend of friends of mine, friends I haven’t spoken to since back then.  Outside of the group, I was only even around her a couple times.  Once, we cooked some Indian stuff, because I do enjoy cooking.  She rode along on a three hour trip when I had to go to Atlanta to sort out some things with a distributor I had down there at the time. 
     Lastly, she drove me home and crashed at my place once when I was fully well intent on drinking a bottle of Crown Royal and thought getting a DUI was a bad idea.  As she stated to other friends at the time, she slept in my bed.
     Apparently, the detail that I slept on the couch was unimportant.

     Eleven years is a long time… I remember it like it was yesterday.  How can my memory be so sharp about it?  Because it’s pretty damned shocking when a married woman, ten years older, taller, and larger than you are comes onto you without solicitation asking you to help her make a baby because her life sucks…
     Stuff like that doesn’t happen every day.  It sticks in your mind in a permanent, “What the fuck was that?” kinda way.  Even after eleven years.

     But I wonder.  Did this incident she keeps lying about happen before or after I cut off all contact with her?

     Enquiring minds wanna know!  Good God, woman.  Take that shit to Maury!  I’m *ALL* up for a LIE detector test up in here!  And maybe I can break a few chairs! 

     Of course, you know I’ll end this with the requisite punchline.  In this case, it’s rather obvious…

     Where is this secluded spot and by what river? 

     Because I tell ya, it really sounds like a cool place to take chicks…

     We ignored it when the British childrens’ show Rainbow taught such habits…

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kclq2zGQy4w)

     But as time progressed, they strayed from innuendo…

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWIlBqUNbZU)

     Alas, now the problem seems to have crossed into our borders.  Even our beloved Sesame Street has become a refuge for such perversion…

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RQgB4424SIM)

     Sick and twisted, all of it!  And I, for one, intend to do all I can to draw attention this sort of rampant sexual innuendo!

Note: Hat tip to Anton Olsen for his dilligence in bringing this mtter to my attention.

     I had work to do today, run a bunch of errands, and do some laundry.

     Everywhere I went had the foul odor of baby shit.

     It actually gave me a complex.

     I checked my shoes and my ass. 

     It wasn’t me. 

     Why do parents take their children out like that, for all day shopping sprees, and never have the decency to change a diaper? 

     Sorry to all you on-the-go mothers out there, but I really don’t feel like smelling your kid’s poop… You had six months to do Holiday shopping (they started it in July this year for fucksakes!) and the rest of us having to put up with your Holiday Poo-Fest is even more rude than having to put up with your Demolition Derby tactics in the parking lot and Shopping Cart Homicide at the checkouts…

     You’ve even managed to put me off my hummus…

     Of course, I can’t say much about the fathers, either.  I’ve never seen so many kids on leashes… Like that’s not going to turn them totally kinky when they hit their mid-40’s….

     And what the fuck are you people taking your kids shopping for, anyway?  “You can’t have it til Christmas” is considered cruel and unusual punishment in many areas.  So for a week before Christmas, they’re bursting with excitement, and know exactly what they’re going to get…

     Great, ruin the element of surprise and create severe agitation all at once!  They’ll be book-phobic, cheating at video games and popping ritalin like candy before you know it!

     Yeah, Happy Fucking Holidays, you bastards!

     This John Nichols guy is a special kind of asshat.  His misdeeds span across a mutitude of levels, and a couple of different companies, namely his Mr. Transmission business (aka Mr. Transerv 100, Inc. dba Mr. Transmission / MILEX) & Rhino Linings of Knoxville.  Knowing that another friend of mine, a photographer, has been repeatedly screwed by this, and knowing that in his Rhino Linings business he tried to screw me out of the hosting bill, I have no idea why I thought doing any sort of business with this asshat was a good idea.
     Except that I need the business these days…

     I know at least one person who works for Mr. Transmission on Clinton Highway in Knoxville, and so I dropped by last week to see if they could get the rusted clamp off my muffler since I didn’t have a die grinder or a dremel handy, and I knew they did.  But when I walked into the office, John Nichols son, Scott, said, “There it is.”
     “What’s going on?”
     “That computer is all screwed up.  Please fix it!” said Scott.
     “What’s it doing?”
     “It’s really slow, and its taking forever just to enter an invoice,” Mike replied.  “So please do.”
     “Ok,” I agreed.  After the last billing fiasco, where John repeatedly blames Scott, he’d told me that if he wasn’t there, Mike was in charge.  Mike authorized me to the computer, and so I went to work.

     I removed several viruses, several bit of spyware, several trojans, a fake antivirus program, and did all the updates.  During one of the updates, I asked them about the muffler.  Fifteen seconds with a grinder, five seconds with a hammer, and the rusted clamp was off.  They offered to put it on for me if I’d grab the parts.  I took off just down the road and grab a couple of muffler clamps and a 2.25 I/D converter.  That took fifteen minutes, but it was also during the time the system was doing a an antivirus and antispyware scan.  When I got back, they said, they removed the old pipe from the muffler, threw the converter in, clamped it all down and tightened it all up.  A whole fiften minute job.  Couldda done it myself, but I figured I’d take the price outta their bill.

     Once the computer was was finished, and I was satisfied that everything was in proper working order, I started writing up the final bill.
     “Hey, Mike?  How much do I owe ya for the muffler?”
     “Ahh, man, that was nothing.  Don’t worry about it, you don’t owe us anything for that,” he replied.

     I tallied…

Service (Onsite) – 10/15/2008
[systemname] Not Working – System slow and uncooperative
Infected W32.Magistr, W32.Backdoor.Gen, W32.Sality (not AA), W32.SDbot.ETA. Malware/Trojan ScreenView, HexBinAdWare, Virtumundo.Gen(Smitfraud). All Removed Manually, then re-scanned with Windows Defender & Spybot 1.6. Re-Enabled Regedit & Task Manager. Removed Damaged Malware / Fake Antivirus (Antivirus). Removed Damaged/non-working antivirus (Symantec Antivirus 2004). Removed Fake AntiSpyware (Spyware Blaster, RemedyAntispy). Software Updates installed (XPSP3, All Windows Updates, Spybot 1.6, Adobe Acrobat 9, Codec Pack)

     Two hours, at $125 an hour — that’s what I’ve charged for years.  $250 seemed steep given the assistance with the muffler.  And for that trouble, which Mike claimed I “didn’t owe anything” for since they ‘didn’t provide any parts” or “have to do any major surgery,” I knocked a half hour off and gave them a final bill of $187.50.

     On Friday, October 17th, John Nichols called me up cussing me out, telling me that he had already told me that his son, Scott, was not authorized to make decisions for his business.  I told him Mike authorized it, and John began screaming that Mike wasn’t authorized, that every bit of business we did had to go through him, and he wasn’t going to pay.  I cussed the guy up one side and down the other for calling and yelling at me and cussing me out.  He’s a lousy piece of shit that way.
     I printed out the bill, and at 2PM, I went over there.  I recorded the conversation for posterity.  John says he’s not paying, and that we’re even since they installed a muffler.  And that he was the only one to authorize any work or bills.
     I told him that he had said in his absence he had authorized Mike to make those decisions, and in a moment of severe WIMP-ASS, Mike tells me, “No, I didn’t authorize it.”
     And so, Mike, too, is a damn liar.  He didn’t authorize it?  He just told me what was wrong with it for the plain hell of it, and said, “See what you can do?”  And didn’t charge me for a muffler job, said that I didn’t owe anything?  Cool.  Mike’s won’t stand up to John.
     “Well, tell ya what, I either get a check, or you get a warrant.”  And I left.  And I was pissed.

     Ya see, that’s where our first fiasco happened.  Back a few months ago, John himself asked me to register their Rhino Linings domain and put up a splash page, offer e-mail, and prove to him that I could do SEO.  I offered to do that for him on the basis that he paid for the domain, $25 a month in hosting and agreed that we would do the final website in a content management system for around $2500.  He agreed, but his bill got up to $103.75 at the beginning of October because he hadn’t bother to pay for any of it.  I subsequently pointed the domain at this site for a couple of days for non-payment.
     On October 6th, he called me up screaming that his son had no authorization to setup that site, and I screamed right back at him that his friggin’ idea, and then went and picked up my check for $103.75.  He was apologetic, didn’t remember the deal we’d made (right), and told me then that if he wasn’t there, Mike was the only one who had any authority for any business we would do, that his son Scott would have no say whatsoever.  And that’s fine, I agreed, and he agreed to retain the website for an additional year at $25/mo., and eventually use us to build the final site at $2500.

     Now, this Scott thing is kinda pertinent, because this asshole goes off on Scott every second when I’m around, and I’m sure it doesn’t stop when I’m not.  He’s a beligerant asshole to his son, seeking to mock and belittle him in front of customers, other businesses, friends, etc.  John Nichols is a total piece of work… if you can call it that.

     It’s no surprise, of course, that earlier today, I received a bill from Mr. TranServ 100, Inc., dba Mr. Transmission / MILEX, owner, John Nichols.
     For work completed on 10/17/2008.  On a 1991 Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais. 

Shop Supplies, $3.51
Hazardous Materials, $3.99
Install Muffler, $187.50
Sales Tax, $18.40
Total: $213:40

     Sorry, WHAT THE FUCK?  That won’t even stand up in court.  No work was performed on my vehicle on 10/17/2008, which is clearly printed on the invoice.  I do not own, nor do I know anyone who does own, a 1991 Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais.  No parts were supplied, hazardous materials handled, or mufflers installed — however, on 10/16/2008, on an entirely different car, a muffler converter was installed because the pipe had rusted through, and the job took 15 minutes, and Mike assured me that I owed nothing for that.  And I removed a half hour from their bill?

     John Nichols clearly wrote this invoice to avoid paying his bill.  I mean, CLEARLY — who the Hell charges $213.40 to install a muffler that wasn’t purchased there and no parts were purchased for? 

     Only you, John.

     You think this is over, you are sadly mistaken.  I consider this a breach of our contract.

     See ya in court, deadbeat!

     [ The following is angry.  If you don't like anger and angst, don't read it.  But it's shit like this that's a big part of my problem. ]

     When I was three years old, some pretty bad things happened to me.  When I told my dear, sweet, innocent mother about those things, she beat the living crap out of me for it, and called me a liar.  So, at three years old, she took a wide, thick leather belt and wailed on me with it until my legs were bloody.  She did it a million times — wherever and whenever she could.  Legs, ass, arms, torso, face … you name it.  And it wasn’t just the belt.  It was anything she could pick up.

     Whenever anyone asked what happened to my legs, she’d always say that I got eaten up by mosquitos, and had scratched myself to death.  When they asked about the stripes which went most of the way around my arms (lengths of belt tend to wrap unless doubled, and she never did), she’d tell them that I was tying things around my arms, and to not let me do that.  A blow to the head, “Oh, he fell off the swing.”  A bloody nose, “Oh, he’s prone to nosebleeds.”
     I don’t scratch my bites.  Wrapping things around my arms is laughable.  I’m only clumsy when drunk.  And I’ve only had two nosebleeds in my life outside of the ones she gave me because she had no self control.

     Nobody ever bothered to think or even to try and stop it. 

     In public, she was so coy.  So convincing, calm, victimized.  There were facades to keep up, you see.  She had to appear to be financially secure, while spending every dime they both made.  And she never let my father live down the fact that she made more money than him.

     And so, I wish him a Belated, yet Happy, Father’s day.

     Happy Father’s day to my father, who watched the Devil he married beat me my entire life.  Happy Father’s day to the man who, just last year, let her come and trash my house and start breaking computers and beating me with a plastic bethroom shelf.  Happy Fathers day to the man who, when I got a restraining order against his wife, he allowed her to have me evicted, thus destroying my credit regardless of the fact that the judgement said I didn’t owe her a dime.  Happy Father’s day, to the man who got up in court and perjured himself repeatedly during the restraining order hearing, so much so that the Judge saw right through the inconsistent bullshit of his, his Devil wife and his son.  Happy Father’s day, to the man who’s whining to everyone in the world about how it’s tearing him up that he doesn’t hear from his son, and the day that I finally call, all he can do is bitch and call me a liar.

     Ultimately, it is you, Father, who allowed that situation to continue. 

     It was you, Father, who came to my house threatening me to drop the Order of Protection that I needed.

     It was you, Father, who made up your story in court.

     It was you, Father, who didn’t call me or return any e-mails.

     And it was you, Father, who turned on me — yet again.

     And it was you, Father, who perpetrated and condoned her lies and condemnation — “See?  He’s a liar, just like he was when he was three years old!” — even when you knew better.

     You, Father, are why I never had a family.

     I never deserved any of that, Father.

     And unlike you, Father, I could never do to people that I care about what you both did to me.

     So, to the biggest liar of them all, and the perfect role model of a crying, useless husband, Happy Father’s Day!

     Are you Happy now, Mr. Good Christian Man?

     I certainly hope so.

     The opposite Love is not Hate. 

     It’s Apathy.

     Something you’ve always had plenty of.

     I have no Father.