The One with the Vienna Sausage

My friend Carole Blair called me up the other day and was on the edge of tears.  Now readers, don’t think she was sad.  She was angry, she was fighting mad.  She had done it.  Finally.  She’d told him off.  That fucker that had broken her rib, that had damn near broken her leg.  Him. HIM!

She finally had enough of his bullshit, and pulled the metaphorical trigger.  She then asked to write this blog post, and who am I to refuse.  She obviously needed the outlet, and afterall that’s what this thing is for.  It’s an outlet, for bad dates, bad relationships, bad thoughts, and the good thoughts, good times, and all the things in between.

Maybe after this first step she can find her way to healing, and Find what she needs to be happy.  Because readers, we don’t need a man to be happy, Men, you don’t need a woman.  We need to find that happiness in beer.

 

(just kidding)

———

Little Weenie Man wasn’t more than two inches at rest. And it was at rest A LOT. For a now-60-plus-year-old man, he had high expectations for that tiny machine, which didn’t get very high too often. Sometimes it even fell to resting state.

LOLOL I might pee myself.

My time with this beer-bellied buffoon began about five years ago. I met him through work, when he introduced himself and gave me his card. He then ignored me each time we met. Once he was at the registration table for an event, and I wanted to speak with him. I’d already registered, and when he asked if I did, he replied, “Then why are you still standing here?” I wanted to sink into the floor.

When he finally did invite me to dinner (at his house) one year later, I brought a fruit salad. “I’m not into fruit, take it home,” he said. I did, crying in the car. I should have thrown it in his face.

This was the beginning. Sad part is I tolerated his behavior, thinking it would change, confused when he turned character from kind and sweet — another façade — to emotionally abusive.

He was helpful at times, going out of his way, although I have a feeling his kindness was most likely noted on a checks-and-balances chart.

One Father’s Day I gave him a gift certificate to get his nails done as my dad (who passed away) used to do. He took it, thanked me, said it’s not his thing, and if he doesn’t use it he’ll return it to me. He did, the following January. I took it and tore it up later. Wish I’d torn it up in front of him.

This is a man rumored to have attempted to strangle his wife, who eventually left him after 10 years of marriage. When I asked why he got divorced, his reply was, “I didn’t think I was a bad husband.

Honey, if you had that teeny weenie when you were married, then good for her for having an affair and then leaving. By the by, women don’t have affairs only for better sex; women have affairs because their hearts and minds aren’t cared for.

He hasn’t gotten over her, and he never will. Three years ago — around the time of his anniversary, I now believe — he burst out while we were talking, “I would have been married 20 years. Instead, I was married for 10 years and divorced for 10 years.”

Gaslighting was — and still is — a favorite pastime. A few months ago we were at a work event, and I called him when I got back to the office to tell him what an awesome time I had. I remember staring at my computer screen, looking at the pictures I took as he asked me if I’d taken a lot of pictures. Yes, I said. He had to get back to work so we said goodbye and ended the call.

Very different from my recent goodbye. I digress.

Someone suggested I look at another set of pictures that were taken, and sonovabitch, there he was in one of those pictures. I called him back and read the riot act, asking why it’s OK not to say hello to a friend in public. He repeated our conversation — the one we had on the phone — except he said it occurred at the work event, and he wanted to get out of my way so he didn’t talk long.

I corrected him, which he hates, so he told me to “get my shit together.”

I reported his behavior to his office as a warning. Wished I’d have reported it formally.

Since his son came home from college — correction: since his son left a top university because his girlfriend broke up with him, and he didn’t want to be on the same campus — he lives with LWM (gotta love abbreviations). The son got another girlfriend, and LWM took to arranging his life around this kid (22) who never caught up to his graduating class.

Graduations are about this time of year.

Back to now.

I recently had to cancel plans to get together, and he freaked. Again I read him the riot act for getting upset when he can’t get his rocks off — maybe he really can’t — and several choice comments about friendship. Namely, that he just lost one: mine. Cars and money won’t talk with him or listen to him or even pay attention to him. They don’t talk back, and they don’t have their own minds. He needs to be in charge.

Maybe the ex-girlfriend will get back with him, the one he dumped after eight years of dating (read: time-wasting). During one of our last conversations, he complained, “Women have babies. You’re small.”

The ex-girlfriend has a daughter.  This is by his definition his ‘big’.  Let his teeny weenie fall into it and get lost, which is what I told him to do.

 

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