Tim Flanagan

What youre going to find here, through this story, is a brief history of my life. It really isnt sad at all really; there have been so many dreams come true for me that even the bad things are seen as mere stepping stones to a greater, more balanced me. Though there are lots of things I would like to go back and do again, I have never really chosen to live in the past. A wizened old man once told me Just because things have happened to us in the past doesnt mean we should base our decisions or actions upon preordained ideas of that history and our future., doing so limits us in the present. Another thing I hope to accomplish is to beat the odds. Someone else once said to me people who are born into one socio-economic class tend to stay there through a series of self-defeating decisions and preconceived notions pertaining to what we deserve, rather than excelling through our gifts, talents and abilities.Eleanor Roosevelt once said, People with small minds converse about other people, those with average minds discuss events, but great minds simply talk about ideas. I think the ideas have it here; the idea that we can be whatever we want through hard work, sacrifice and hope. May you find some too!A little squirt of Squeak!My name may not be what you think. I wasnt born the son of Irish descent as I sometimes like to imagine. I was born on the first day of summer in 1972, June 21st. My given name was Oshal Patrick Miller, after my father, and his father, and I think his father. That family name has since died and gone to a small family grave site near second creek in West Virginia. Though I have been there I still couldnt tell you anything about how to get there, other than its up there in them hills somewhere. Directly after my birth I was separated from my mother for about a year and a half. I lived with my father in a little house across from my maternal grandparents on Tyrone, off of Valley Street in East Dayton. My fathers nickname was Squeak, and when I came around my Grandpa Younce decided I should be called Squirt (after all he said, You were a little squirt of Squeak. Nice!) There were eleven other aunts and uncles in the area, and I was given a lot of attention there. However, the real job of raising me was taken on by my paternal grandmother, as my father had a tremendous amount of running around to do much of the time.When my mother returned to my life, I was nearly two years old. I had never really been around her and therefore had no real mother-son bond. She ran around a lot as well. So, my Grandma Miller kept custody over me, and we lived in the Huffman Historical District off of Fifth Street in Dayton.Both my Mother and Father had problems with alcohol and drugs. Each also had a tremendous temper. There are many stories of violence both between themselves, as well as others. There was the time my mother emptied a revolver into my father, went to the house and gave him a couple of more slugs with a rifle (he was shot nine times on that occasion alone). There was the time a woman pulled a knife on my mother and she again used a gun. Most of her spouses/boyfriends at some point lost their teeth. And, eventually my father wound up dead outside of an East Dayton bar. That case remains unsolved.Shortly afterwards, my paternal grandfather committed suicide, while I was in pre-school across the street at Huffman school. He called my Aunt Dorothy in Florida and blew his brains out there in the living room while he was telling her he loved her on the phone. I came across the street as the police and forensics people were leaving. My grandmother was accusing the police of shooting him for stealing a Twinkie. Denial and metal illness run deep in my family I believe.With this kind of craziness, it was certainly a wonder that either of my parents are still living. However, after my father died, my mother began to settle down some. I was two when my sister Nancy was born and four when my brother Ronnie came to us with his father. I visited with my mother on extended stays, but my grandmother Miller was reluctant to give my mother custody.When my grandmother finally relinquished her rights to guardianship of me, it was with acute trepidation. I can only remember a couple of days with my mother, possibly four events in all. I remember she used to jerk the steering wheel back and forth while driving, the way stock car drivers do when they are warming up or breaking their cars in after a yellow flag. I remember hiding a package of Lifesavers or Certs behind the stereo in our living room, so that my sister and I could have some whenever we wanted. I remember we didnt have a bed what we had was a mattress on the floor across the hall from my mothers room where Ronnies crib was kept while his father was out driving his truck.I can remember only one thing my mother ever cautioned me about. I was probably five or so at the time. I had just started kindergarten, it was my first day and we walked to school. When she came to get me from school again we walked. And jokingly, she told me in a little rhyme, Dont step on a crack, youll break your mothers back. What it meant then, I dont know. But after she said that I remember repeatedly stomping on every crack the rest of the way home.Quite possibly, with my mothers temper, our shaky relationship, the memories of my crazy father, and my outright demonstrations of poor listening skills, I think her choice was made clear. One evening soon after that, she asked me to Get all of your toys gathered up, youre leaving in the morning. I remember the rest of it exactly as it happened. I awoke the next morning to find a box of those little Hostess doughnuts, chocolate ones, on the table with a glass of milk. I thought it was strange that I never got doughnuts on school days until this one. The house was really quite until about nine oclock or so. There was a knock at the door, my mother answered it. And in walked the first black woman I had ever set eyes on. She was also the largest woman I had ever set eyes on. My mother said Oshal, you need to go with this lady.Perhaps there were tears. I cant say. I was in a daze as we drove the highway for what seemed an eternity. Down I-75 South, over the big curving overpass downtown, near where I would later go to high school, up SR-35 East to the Woodman drive exit. We turned right, and then down a mile just after the Red Barn restaurant we took a left, then a right. The street curved around and the woman slowed and parked at a one story ranch style home.I made my way out of the car probably a little more slowly than I had gotten into it, considering it was nothing for me to be tossed from home to home, or from family member to family member. But this time, well with the presence of the rather obese black woman who would not talk to me in the car, I sensed the prospects of this house we had arrived at did not bode well for me. There was no porch, just two steps and some bushes, high bushes that covered the windows in the front of the house, on either side of the large stained wooden door.My life in a foster home!The woman who met me at the door was pleasant enough, she asked me my name and how old I was. I told her my name was Oshal and that I was seven years old. Before we entered the house, I decided I had better find out who this person was who was interrogating me, as if I had personally driven that Montgomery County Childrens Services car, a blue dodge dynasty, over to her home and interrupted her lazy afternoon. I asked her simply, and probably with some misgivings, What should I call you?You can call me Mom., she said. This was not my mother! My mother was full of life; she was young and strikingly beautiful, vivacious, a little crazy too. I said nothing as I followed her inside the house. We put my clothes in a room of to the right of the living room. She led me into the kitchen, where she asked if I was hungry. No, Mom, I said. Letting the gravity of that word sink into and through my heart, my head, and my vocal box, was like straining mud through a pair of stocking hose. Well, theres a sandbox in the back, why dont you take your Matchbox cars outside and play. And I did.The Wasners were a fairly simple, decent family. Mrs. Wasner was a stay at home mother. She had very curly salt and pepper hair. Mr. Wasner was a rather robust man, probably in his early forties, drove a cement truck for a living and most memorably had the largest hands I had ever seen. They had adopted several children, and were housing a couple of other foster children as well.A couple of the kids that were adopted by them had moved out, we visited them infrequently. They had one daughter who lived at home. She was their pride and joy. A bona-fide seventeen year old beauty queen, she had lots of dates and phone calls all the time. I remember her giving me a piece of chocolate from her closet, and can recall feeling as if her room was Fort Knox, and her closet the safe where the entire worlds gold was kept. No one was ever to enter without her explicit permission.To be honest about the situation, I knew, even at seven, that these were people I would not know for long. These were people that came and went daily. We had people live with us for a month and people that were adopted. But not me. I was never adopted. I was relegated to spending my time waiting for someone to pass the time with me. Something was wrong with me. People kept getting adopted, but I remained unaffected, for little did I know at the time my grandmothers were fighting the legality of my being put into this crazy system, built for all the adults who dont care anything about responsibility.Foster homes do not have the best reputations. You should probably spend a couple years there yourself to know for sure, uh? But, plainly when you bring together people who have been either neglected, abused, or simply not wanted and tell them here you are; welcome to the club - theres really no way of approaching hope for the situation. The Its just me against the world philosophy begins to take shape. They did this to me, the system is to blame. I hate my mother. I hate my father. No one loves me. These are real significant at the age of six. They say perhaps 75% of all prison inmates at some point went through the foster home system. And we worry about reforming them, to be better citizens and productive member of society. Too late! Reform the system that ignites their criminal intents, the Department of Childrens Services.Not to get on a pulpit but its near to the same philosophy that the government went to with the War on Drugs, in the end informing parents and educating kids was the needed remedy. Adding cops and prisons will be reduced, was one of the fundamental principals used to gain support for DARE and other programs. In the long run education works better than those negative reinforcements. Again, same principles apply.What happened to me at the foster home was typical of what happened to everyone that came through that foster home. And I hope to understand why it happened as well. I extinguished the idea of Love as part of my vocabulary. We did not say I love you. Cards were not signed with Love, Mom or Dad. This was a financially driven opportunity. We were charges and that was that. Do not break things that will need to be replaced. Steal from one another, fine. Steal from a Wasner and you were duly punished.We used to hide behind those bushes in the front of the house and wait for Carl (I guess Dad, he was never as genuinely fake as was Mrs. Wasner - Im sure I called her Mom at some point, but in my mind she has always been and always will be Mrs. Wasner) to toss out the cigarette he smoked on the way home from work each day. This worked to get us high, oh that euphoric state of not being able to think clearly for three minutes at a time, on nicotine. We got a little braver and took a pack from the carton. That was not a good idea. Remember the fact about the hands.One night my foster sister who was eight or so, got caught smoking in her room. We had used the same match to light each of us a cigarette. She booked it to her room, and I to mine. As they drug her thrashing and flailing through the hallway past my door. I heard rather than saw her crying and saying, but Oshal has one too. I promptly threw the cigarette on the floor behind me. Heedless of what cigarettes might do to the sixties shag carpeting which covered my shared bedroom in a mossy green and pop-stained brownish blend. The door suddenly was not there; it was opened so fast. The silhouette of the largest man in the world was plain through the bare light of the hallways uncovered bulb. The light draped him as though he was wearing a phosphorescent rectangle, and smoke filtered through to the hallway, making it plain that I too was guilty. I thought quickly, I wouldnt have told on her.Wheres it at? I was too scared to talk. He grabbed me by my pajama top along my bicep. Wheres the goddamn cigarette. I know youre smoking boy. Where is the fucking cigarette? I felt the need to pee right there in my pajama bottoms. I began to feel it dampen the cotton front. He wouldnt care. He jerked me into the hallway. He shoved me to the ground by his chair in front of the large console TV that had on some game show blaring Chuck Barris lame attempts at humor.The jerk and pull philosophy was used extensively to train the enormous German shepherd which was our only household pet. He lay trembling as he saw my pajamas used as my leash to bring me to attention there at the base of the chair. Though I had not once used my legs to move, in a jerk, pull and toss move I had traversed two rooms and a hallway and hadnt even touch a foot to the floor. I think the severity of the whole tossing the kid to the floor thing stopped me from wanting to pee. Otherwise, at this point I might have just gone ahead and shit myself.He found the cigarette smoldering in the carpet and came storming out of the room down the hall. he past me and went through the front door, tossing the cigarette to the left where he tossed the other after-work cigarettes I used to enjoy with much less ire than what we were witnessing here, now. He sat down and looked me in the forehead, I certainly was not looking at him at this point, but at the striped knee-high gym sock, which was, I supposed, the preferred style in 1979. You nearly set the house on fire.The voice that spoke was one I had never heard before. This was one of pre-meditated, highly calculative sterile neutrality. It was the sound of the first heel touching the floor of the hallway in a museum which has no visitors. It was the simple yet telling ker-chick of a rifle bullet being snapped into the chamber. There was no disputing that this would be bad. This was going to be more than bad. This was going to hurt.I received not forty-nine or fifty-one, but fifty whacks from that hand that drove the concrete truck. Each and every one made my butt a little bit puffier, redder and sorer. They were not menacing or murderous or undisciplined. They were the whacks of a spanking practitioner. This guy probably was sought out to spank other parents kids who nearly burnt down the house after stealing a pack of cigarettes from the carton and smoking in their little two-year old sisters room where she was asleep and throwing it down on the floor next to her bed, as if to say the child sleeping the closest to the cigarette at the point it is found will be blamed. It hurt for weeks.I felt I was getting what I deserved, but I didnt know how to express my remorse. I cried the entire night with my head tucked into the pillow. I did not go to school the next day. I did not get out of bed until he arrived home that evening. I had not eaten or bathed or used the rest room. I simply slept fitfully in a bleary-eyed state of murkiness. He came to my room and told me to get up and go into the kitchen. I did as he said. , though the same path that I had taken the night before took a great deal longer to navigate.You want to smoke he said. I brought you home a present. He flipped a little rectangular box of the longest fattest cigarettes I had ever scene. I would later recall them as been Backwoods Cigars. There were five in a pack. I made it through two before I turned green, puked in the kitchen trash can and passed out. I didnt smoke again for 10 years after that. He never again mentioned the day I nearly burnt him and his family out of their house and home.There are lots of things that happen in a childs life that they can become very defensive about. Children teasing, parents yelling, were socialized to believe the people who are bringing us up are in control of our given surroundings, but I dont think the Wasners really had a clue about the inner workings of their house or the surrounding neighborhood.I have to admit, I was inclined to believe sexual abuse was something other people experienced. Because, as you grow into a man, there is a definite sense that sex is something you should be doing, and doing on a regular basis and the earlier the better. This was the case for me.One night, one of the older girls, foster sister? I dont know, she was given the charge of watching me and Carla. Carla was a girl that came to foster care after I did and that fact always made me feel a little closer to her. Somehow I guess I thought that since I got into the system first, those following in my tiny footsteps were in my charge, funny I can see throughout my whole life this same savior behavior.Anyway, my first experience of a sexual nature came at the age of six or seven with this older girl, who was asked to watch us while Mr. and Mrs. Wasner went out for the evening. All I know really remember is that we climbed up on this rather plumb adolescent, she raised her shirt and each of us, Carla and myself, took a tit and began licking, nibbling and biting and our guide writhed and giggled in delight.That was nice. Here I am with a member of what I at that point was asked to consider as a family member and here I am making her happy by touching her in inappropriate ways. This was just a beginning. When you are surrounded by stimulus, that seems exciting and noticeable it becomes obvious that you are either a participant in life or merely an observer. By the very nature of pleasing this other child, who was perhaps thirteen or fourteen years old, I was setting myself up for a very menacing character defect. I became a people pleaser. If I could somehow make you like me, it didnt matter that it didnt feel right. The gratification of my need for attention and approval overrode those nagging suspicions that secrets were bad.For me it became a regular habit, lying about what you did or worse still, simply not disclosing anything at all for fear that someone might not approve of what was going on and that idea that I may bring about an end to the attention I was getting and be faced with what may become a consequence and get in trouble. Getting in trouble, at this point, elicited thoughts of large black women dragging children off to nasty dark places that were devoid of childlike joys, or very large hands playing the thump game with bare bottoms of boys that do wrong. You know the thump game. Its when you were in school and you took your pointer finger and your middle finger and held them together and tried to get your opponent to give up through thumping them on their wrist, your can also play it by tucking your middle finger back and flipping it across the opposing players knuckles. Anyway, disclosure to me meant ill feelings; hence no disclosure was seen as the more preferred choice of action.The sexual awakening I experienced was no more than that a feeling. There was no inflammation of the resources necessary to go further down the road and actually consummate the idea of intercourse. But, I do know that I tried on a regular basis to penetrate the orifice of my fellow prisoners there at cell block Wasner. Failure wasnt really the inability to complete the process; failure would have been simply not trying to gain the approval of the other participant.There were some obvious developments when you have children behaving inappropriately behind close doors or even in a public forum. Most of the forays at attempted sex happened in the tent Carla and I had built beside the house. On the north-east side of the house we had a large; I want to call it a tree that had somehow developed into a kind of roughage cave. You could crawl in through one end and follow it along the ell-shaped length of chain-link fence the circled the backyard. Carla and I had added an old white sheet to the chain-link side of our play house to give us some sense of privacy. She was eight or nine and I was six or seven, but inside the tent, you would have thought we were much older for the dedication and practice we were giving to our attempt at pseudo-incestuous behavior.These games as we called them, progressed to the point of naked dancing to the tunes on the radio. This was discovered by Mr. Wasner, though I received no undue punishment other than the embarrassment of being caught with my pants down, literally.The only time I can remember being discovered behaving badly with regards to outlandish sexual escapades was during a family function. We had some new neighbors who moved two houses down from us. I can recall, I was in the back of their house doing my best to tempt the neighbors daughter, who was a year older than myself, into a game of show and tell. She wasnt buying into my pitch. I was forever trying to please people into getting them to do whatever it was I really wanted, so I decided I must try something profoundly exciting to convince her that this wasnt really an attempt at merely exposing her goods and humiliating her through that process. Showing your stuff was a right and by far, everyone who has anything to be proud of should show it off as much as possible. Some people that know me as an adult know that this probably hasnt worn itself out of my system yet.My attempt at daring, was flawed as it depended upon complete secrecy between those present, which included Dennis the Menace (a kid Carlas age who lived across the street, and really was a menace), Carla, the new neighbor girl and another little boy for whom I had a knack of getting to be my partner in these debaucheries. So, I went to the front of the house, and as a car came by I whipped my pants down and sunned the occupants who immediately came screeching to a halt.I was taken by the arm down the street, and in front of an entire porch filled with extended family (maybe exponential family, as everyone and no one were related at the same time), I was publicly declared a flasher.At the age of seven, I was now a known sex-offender, for thats how I viewed this debacle. I was showing my sex parts, and I got caught and humiliated in front of everyone, and then I was banished from the public eye to a life of constant social depravation. They grounded me to my room. Now, let me just say, I know a lot of us got grounded to our room. But for me this was worse than being beaten into an inflamed pink-butted boy. I was stuck with myself. I cant give myself attention. All I could do was Think, Think, Think. It was a good lesson, I havent flashed myself in public where I could be exposed by someone that I didnt already know since that day.I want to touch on one event that I have forever carried in my heart, as a skeleton in the closet of childhood. One day, I noticed the Menaces, Dennis and his two older brothers were dragging or forcing Carla into the woods just down the street from our house. I never knew them to play with Carla, other than Dennis making fun of her, or us, for being orphans or some such nasty ridicule. I approached where they were clumsily leading her over the railroad tracks with more than a little fear in my heart. Something was not going right here.I saw them throw Carla to the ground, and then one of the older boys climb down on top of her. I screamed, No! Im telling! This brought about a sudden rush from the two boys watching, and I was over-taken before I ever got to the rail road tracks and up to the road. I was trapped. Carla was begging me not to tell, the boys were forcing me on top of her, to somehow get me to participate in this violation and violence, for I knew when Carla wanted to be touched and this was not one of those secret times we had had in the tree tent by the house. I laid there crying with my pants around my ankles and clung to Carla.As we walked home together, she made me promise not to tell anyone about what had happened. She said the were just being mean and that just like the name calling, if you ignore them it will go away. So when nasty things happen, we should ignore them and hope they will go away. Wow, what a concept. Denial, the new and most profound coping mechanism I have ever found in my entire life, took on a life of its own. That is how I dealt with every defeat of self-inflicted purgatory I had ever manufactured for myself. If it was something great I did, then I would shout it from the roof tops, Look at me ma! Im on top of the world. But, if it was something as sinister as taking something that I shouldnt, then I convinced myself that it wasnt me that had been guilty. There must be another explanation.Have you ever helped someone look for something that you actually took? Only a person suffering from some sort of mental defect should be able to pull it off successfully. But let denial in your life and rationalization will allow someone to not only pull it off but sincerely believe they have no blame in the situation whatsoever.I met one of the nicest people I had ever known in my whole life that last winter in the Wasner household. His name was Tim. He worked with the Big Brother, Big Sister program. He came over pretty frequently and took me to do things like, play catch, or swimming, and once he even took me to fly a kite in a large field not far from or house. It was a good time, until he had to go away to school. Somehow, I could tell that last time he came over that he wasnt going to be seeing me again. Before he left, he took me to the side and gave me some photographs and the ball mitt that he was always pulling out of the trunk for me to use when we played catch. He told me he was going to have to go away to school (or military service, I dont really remember), but that he would be back to see me again. It didnt matter, I knew when he handed me the things I associated with the bond he and I had been forming that he was saying goodbye.Anytime, anywhere anyone shows up and starts handing you things that you think they value and the items are not wrapped in gift paper or being drawn out of a gift bag, you can bet your sweet ass it does not bode well for continued development in regards to that relationship. Give it up. So, thats what I did that day. I dont remember much those next few weeks, except that it was dreary.Spring in Ohio is four months long, and the first three and a half months of the season are very dreary. Rain showers and gray skies are the daily forecast. Loneliness and depression are the emotional counter-parts to the season here. But something was happening in the Ohio Supreme Court that was about to set me on a new journey.I would later find out all about the court battles my maternal and paternal grandmothers had waged legal battles with the Department of Childrens Services and the system by which an innocent child can be taken into their custody without the express permission of family members who have had the task of raising the child for the majority of that childs life. The end result was which was handed down that Spring was two-fold. In opposition to my grandmothers it was decided that they had no right to regain custody and I was to be processed through the adoption system. On the other hand, to the benefit of countless families since, there was instituted a grandparents clause, which stated a child may not be placed with another family prior to notifying the childs grandparents of the intended action pending.A year and a half after coming to the Wasners I would see the results played out in my life, but it was years before I knew the true details to that part of the story. Never-the-less one day, Mrs. Wasner told me to go and get cleaned up, that some people were coming over to take me to the park. I dont remember exactly when they came, but I remember the day was pretty laid back, and this family seemed different than the one I had been living with for the last couple of years.The mother was very lively and nice. What a concept. Someone was nice just because it was the right thing to be, seemingly the thought of a Christmas chorus comes to mind. So be good for goodness sakes. O you better The brother was a little aloof, preferring to explore and such, and the father was kind of quiet at this point, probably trying to figure a way out of what was going on there. Who knows what really went on the first time we all went to the park, what I remember was that when they dropped me off, they said theyd return again and that they had had a good time. Amazingly enough, this was the first time in my life anyone had ever lived up to that promise.And then there were four - The Flanagan's.... to be continued!

A Day in the Life.

I haven’t written anything in awhile. There hasn’t really been much to say really. The fact remains however that I love to write and honestly that should be enough. So, why now? This evening I went to fix myself a cocktail, and low and behold, I find the ice tray had been refilled. Doesn’t sound like much of a problem right? Did I write that last sentence correctly? It had been refilled. Well get to that question in a minute, but first I should expound on what I would refer to as the ice cube tray cycle of life. See here’s the proper rotation for ice as I see it.
Any icebox should have a minimum of three ice trays. One tray should always contain frozen cube and that tray should be found on top of the pile of trays. Why? Does this not make the most sense for retrieving the cubes without making a mess? The second tray should contain partially frozen cubes, if not fully frozen. There may be some days when there will be a high cube-to-drink ration, such as those when you have company over. However, I am not really writing about those days, as proper etiquette for company and high cube traffic times should prompt the owner of the, lets call them personal cubes, to go out and purchase a larger portion of the solidified H2O, hence fortifying the position of the personal cubes standard cycle. In this way, even moderate usage would find the middle tray of cubes with a sufficient amount of solidification, enough to ensure there are no mishaps from incidental spillage occurring were someone to jar the second tray or perhaps grabbing more than just the uppermost tray. This leaves us to our final participant of the ice cube tray cycle of life, that of the third and final tray. By matter of elimination, one should always assume that the bottom tray would be the newbie of the cube groups, and therefore the most likely to contain the least amount of hardened matter, or for simplicity’s sake, ice. So the proper rotation would be taking from the top, until the tray is empty then refill with water, and insert the tray into the bottom of the pile, carefully, having assumed the bottommost tray may contain a portion of the matter in question that may still be in a liquid state.
Alright, assuming you have some semblance of rational, what might we do to totally destroy the order inherent to the ice cube tray cycle of life? Well lets take the simple ones first. One way to totally disrupt the cycle would be to reverse the order, right? You put the newly filled tray on top of the partially frozen cubes, which in turn are sitting atop the lowermost tray of frozen cubes. Obviously it could be messy to attempt a retrieval in this manner, and I’m guessing the person unawares of the reverse rotation would be rather unpleasant upon their enlightenment. Lets, look at another example of how the cycle of life for our ice cube trays might be usurped. Placing an empty tray into the cycle is also a valid way of foiling the proper rotation, as you ultimately stand to have what could be multiple trays in our three tray system in a state of uselessness. Consider a high cube day where someone has returned an empty tray to the top of the stack. You might have to remove it from the stack to get cubes, which may or may not be solid, from the middle tray. In the case of a multi-pick (more than one drink) this could result in two newly empty trays as well as the bottom tray which we’ve suggested is typically your liquefied ice cube tray. All of this would result in three trays of liquid H2O. Anyone coming in after would have no way of cooling their beverage through the use of our standard system, as there would be no cubes. This again could become fiercely aggravating, especially if were talking about a situation where adult beverages are being served.
Now lets go back to the beginning. I’m having a few cocktails in the company of another individual who is perhaps having a soda. My rotation is well within the guidelines of this proof, moving ice up from the bottom where it is reintroduced to the lineup as water only from the bottom. My pace is not so fast as to become aggressive hence several hours have seen my rotating three or more trays without incident. However, as I return for another load of cubes to cool my libations, I am affronted by an anomaly of such proportions that I become rapidly unstable. Someone has undermined the very decency of a systematic society which by all estimates has only done them well and has never failed them. Someone added a half tray of water to half a tray of frozen cubes. To add insult to injury the tray has not been inserted from the bottom, it has been placed atop the middle tray and by proxy is the next to be retrieved by the unsuspecting citizen who above all has respected all by merely following the dictates taught by ones forebear’s. I pick the tray up and there’s water on my arm, in the freezer, and on the floor. What the fuck kind of shit is that? That’s some bull-stuffAmerica and it pisses me off! What monkeys ass, who in the fuck, what the… Fuck!!!
So, a word of advice; learn the fucking system. And don’t go giving me any of that, well, we have a container you empty all the trays into, and we just grab cubes from there. That’s like telling me you don’t need to know math, because they have a cash register at the fucking Wendy’s your dumb-ass works for, you fuck. And don’t give me the we’ve got a automatic ice maker, you social misfit that’s like losing your virginity to your cousins vibrator. You’re inbred and you need a machine to keep you going. If you learned to tie your fucking shoes, you can learn to put the mother fucking ice cube trays in the fucking freezer in the proper fucking order, you stupid fucking moron fucker.
Anyway, thanks to all my normal readers; all those down to earth people who don’t need a fucking manual on life. Learn it, live it, love it or more plainly Just Do It!