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Moronic Monday 3/5/18

I went to Karen's house to see how she was doing.
Her dog bit me.
I think I need a rabies shot.
Edit: For those of you who asked for more detail.
Here's the story.
Saturday - March 13, 2010
Beware, the ides of march the soothsayer said. The soothsayer was right. This is/was not a drill. My blackberry buzzes. It's 11:45PM. Karen is calling me.
FC: Hey babe, what's shaking?
Karen: I'm having a crisis
(Karen dates investment bankers EXCLUSIVELY and she lives in Dallas. She has two masters degrees and is halfway to her doctorate at this point. She works in high finance and has more cars with horses on their hoods as emblems than most men will ever dream of. She has a house in NRH with a detached 4 car garage. When she filled it with 4 cars, she had four ben pearson 4 posts lifts installed so she could park another car under each spot. Yeah.)
FC: Let me guess, your ferarri is in the shop again? Oh wait your firm's private jet has to stop in Halifax to refuel to get to London?
Karen: I'm at my parent's place. And they're treating me like crap. I have to get out of here.
She's choking back tears, I can hear her gasping for breath inbetween sentences. She's NEVER called me for help. Ever.
FC: Alright, send the address to me. You have my blackberry messenger handle right?
Karen: Yeah. I'll be here. I really need you to get here as soon as you can.
FC: Sit tight. I'm on the way.
I get in my F350 and haul ass up the highway, she's 25 minutes up the road out in the boonies of Baton Rouge just past Zachary. I get to her parent's house at damn near midnight.
Now, for those of you who are not in the know. YOU DO NOT EVER JUST ROLL UP TO SOMEONE'S HOUSE DOWN IN THE BAYOU AT MIDNIGHT. That's an easy way to get yourself shot and there's a lot of hungry gators out in them parts. Don't be stupid, lest you wind up as gator bait.
I call her up and there's no answer. I call her again. I leave her a VM telling her I'm at the end of the driveway by the mailbox.
Next thing I know, I hear the following unmistakable sounds.
(opening door)
(door slam)
I reach into my center console and pull out a 357 magnum S&W model 686 and a bottle of Flintstones chewable vitamins. I have a feeling I'm gonna need one of these tonight. I pop a barney as I realize this is not going to end well.
The next sound I hear is the low guttural moan of two rollaboard suitcases traveling down a concrete driveway. She arrives at the end with excess baggage in more ways than one. Her left hand has the handles of the two suitcases. In her right, she's clutching 8 pairs of stripper shoes by the laces/heels with a powerbook tucked under her arm and her birkin.
This is REALLY not going to end well. I throw her bags in the bed of my truck and help her into the front seat and her jimmy choo's slip off the nerf bar and I catch her before she falls. Helping her up, I notice she smells like a macallan distillery and her eyes are more bloodshot than the plate of a pittsburgh style filet served at Ruths Chris I had the night before.
My plan A was to get her to dennys, get some coffee in her and talk out her problems and get her back to her parent's place. The marines have a saying. No plan survives first contact.
I glance at my pepsi bezel GMT as I put it in gear and get us the fuck out of there. It's 12 past midnight.
Sunday- March 14, 2010
Karen starts crying her eyes out and telling me about the emotional abuse she's suffered from her parents. She was adopted and they treated her badly and her mom calls her and she cries and screams at her on the phone as I'm pulling onto the highway. Karen sobs loudly and tells her mom that she's already tried to kill herself once and neither one of them give a shit.
Although my 7.3 liters of Navistar built diesel domination puts down 500 ft/lbs of torque at the crank - it is no match for the weight of the emotion filled fifth wheel from hell I've just hooked into. My engine and my soul groan from the weight of what I've just picked up and will be taking back home.
Now, my plan A involves being out in public. If I take her to a restaurant or a diner like this, there is a 100% chance someone is calling the cops and even though I didn't do anything - the odds of me going to jail for apparently abusing this poor woman are damn near 75 maybe even 80 percent. That's out. There's only one thing you can do with a hysterical woman. You can't fix it, but you can calm her down and get her stable and deal with it later. Out of all the possible outcomes, that is as good as we're gonna get. It's time for a plan B. NO NOT THAT KIND.
As I drive EXACTLY THE SPEED LIMIT, the hysterical sobbing and the cries for help continue on the phone all the way back to my ranch - her battery gives out 15 minutes into the conversation and she throws her phone out the window as I'm pulling off the highway.
I guess pressing end just isn't enough sometimes.
We're back at Maison du FC, I tell her to stay put. I open the door, she tries to get out and stumbles back into my arms again. I get her stood up next to my truck and I grab her things and we get to my front door and I dump everything in the foyer. She sits down at my formal dining room table and starts bawling her eyes out.
Did I go into this head first?
Just like Pete Rose?
We're in this together.
FC: Karen, you want a drink?
Karen: Sure.
FC: Blantons, Basil Hadyens, Bookers or Buffalo Trace?
Karen: I'll have what you're having.
I grab a bottle of Buffalo Trace and two glasses. Never had it before so I crack the seal and pour her one finger and I pour myself two. Neat, because I will not have my bourbon adulterated with an icy cock of dilution. She grabs my glass as I glare at her silently and downs the two fingers in one gulp.
Karen, you may not know this but right now you are playing with fire.
I pour her another finger and I sip mine slowly. It's not bad. Still prefer Makers though. She tells me about her emotional abuse as a child, and she's an adult, a grown woman making her own choices and she still can't get the acceptance of her father. She asks me if I had any issues with my father.
My drink is now a shot. I pour myself another. Of course I had issues with my father. She asks how I overcame them. I take her by the hand and lead her into my den and I point at the bronze urn that contains my father's cremated remains. I point at it.
FC: That's how.
She's confused.
Karen: What are you talking about?
FC: I never overcame squat with him. Jack Daniels killed my father so I didn't have to.
Karen: I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked that question.
FC: It's okay. You didn't know.
Karen: How long has he been gone?
FC: Lets see. It's 2AM. So in about 12 hours, exactly 365 days.
FC: Yes.
FC: Yes.
FC: Didn't think it was relevant to you driving fast cars, building racecars and sucking dick on a private jet.
Karen starts to swing and I catch her wrist midair. She looks at me and starts crying uncontrollably again and we hug. I take her back to the dining room table and she asks me to grab her birkin from the foyer. I head back to grab it, I return to the table to see she has poured herself an entire glass of bourbon - neat. A FULL EIGHT OUNCE TUMBLER. This bottle is now literally half full. If I don't stop her, she's going to drink the whole goddamned thing and I'm going to have to take her to the ER. I take the bottle and put it back in the cabinet. She asks me to get her asthma inhaler out of there.
I open the bag and staring back at me is a Glock 23 with a magazine in it.
She's drunk.
She's angry at her parents.
She's already claimed to have made one attempt at suicide.
For those young readers of the reddit, let me tell you something right now.
There are things that you do when nobody is looking and things you don't do EVER.
Going into a womans purse without permission is one of those things you don't do EVER.
I reach into her bag and I graze the extractoloaded chamber indicator as I fish around for her inhaler. It's flush with the slide. I'm not 100% positive but I do it again on the way up. I slide over the purple hockey puck and she takes her medicine. She cries some more and talks some more as she drinks more bourbon. I tell her when that glass is done, we are going to sleep.
She unloads even more on me and asks me what burned the bridge between me and my dad.
I sigh deeply because deep down when presented with some hard choices we always have to choose wisely. My old philosophy professor, who dressed up as God on the first day of class (!!!!!!) decided the first impression he would make with us was throwing us a line. He opened his power point and the slide read:
Are we willing to do the right thing for the wrong reasons or the wrong thing for the right reasons?
Years of catholic school have prepared me for this moment.
Forgive me father, for I am about to sin.....
I told her about how terrible my dad was and the times he was insensitive as all hell to me and my brother and he treated me like an employee rather than a son. About how he would lie to me over and over again, about how he would promise me things and never deliver. This one time, I had to get this human garbage to sign a contract with me just to get him to hold up his end of the bargain and he still didn't do it.
She began bawling her eyes out hysterically and hyperventilating.
Which is exactly what I wanted her to do.
As she cried loudly, the sounds of her tears masked the sound of me going into her bag removing the loaded magazine from her pistol.
When she turned her head to get more kleenex from the box that I tactically positioned behind and to the right of her, she wouldn't see me pocket the magazine.
Perfect is the enemy of good.
Was this a perfect plan? Not really.
Was it perfect enough? Absolutely.
She finishes her glass and I get her suitcases out of the foyer and take them to my guest suite. I roll both bags in to find that she's grabbed my bottle of Buffalo Trace back out of the cabinet and is now drinking it straight from the bottle. You know what? Fuck it. She went to Tulane. She knows how to party. I make up the bed for her as she takes a shower. She cleans up nicely but still reeks of alcohol and poor life decisions, kinda like the 4 years she spent at Tulane.
I tuck her in and I tell her we will deal with this in the morning. I put a bottle of water and 4 advil next to the nightstand.
I get to my bed and look at my alarm clock. It's 4AM. Fuck.
Falling asleep in your clothes, with your contacts in - SUCKS.
Falling asleep in your clothes, with your contacts in with a hot mess across your house - SUCKS HARDER.
My alarm goes off at 8AM. I get dressed and head out. Karen is awake and sitting at my table with a tall glass of orange juice and there's a fifth of stoli on my counter that was not on my counter last night.
Really, Karen? Really?
I grab my berry and I call her mother and tell her to drive over here and get this mess out of my house. I have company coming over later in the day and I am not about to make her problem my problem. Her parents get here and they try apologizing to me. I won't have any of it. I told both her parents to fix their fucking family so I don't have to do it. She needs help. And that says a lot coming from me. Get her out of here and into an inpatient facility or group therapy or something.
They take her, her suitcases, stripper shoes and laptop. I tell them her blackberry is somewhere in the vicinity of the offramp from US 190.
My company comes over and asks how my day was. I tell them it's a long story.
Fast forward four weeks. I email her to see how she's doing.
She tells me she's doing better and she's glad that I was there for her when she needed it and that when she visits her parents for her dad's birthday next month she's going to make me an amazing casserole. I tell her I don't need her to make me an amazing casserole or an amazing anything. Just get better.
That was 8 years ago.
Every year, since 2010 in March a week before the 14th:
I call Karen. No answer.
I email Karen. No answer.
I semaphore Karen. No answer.
I have been putting up with this for eight goddamn years. I want to know if she's still fucking alive or not. This afternoon, I drive over to her parent's house. I get there and I see her dad playing with the dogs in the backyard. I wave and walk up and I say hi to Mr. Jones and I tell him I'm one of Karen's old friends. He's like yeah you're FC right? Yep that's me, I wanted to know how she was doing - she alive? doing okay? still at the same firm? She never calls, she never writes.....
He tells me she's fine and just made partner. Same firm. Doing good. He tells me that he will tell her I stopped by. Right then, one of their dogs busts through the gate from the house that's behind me. I realize that it's a dog because this mongrel has decided to latch it's mandibles of fury onto the fleshy part of my leg.
FC: OW! THAT FUCKING HURTS! Do all your dogs bite that hard?
Him: (no response)
FC: (in terrible pain and reasonably sure he is bleeding)
FC: Okay I didn't mean to make this weird. Have a good night.
I limp away from their property and get in my car. I call a friend of mine who lives a mile down the road and his wife is a nurse. Perhaps she can save me a trip to the ER. Call Ray. His wife is still sleeping since she just ran a night shift. Fuck it. I go to the gunshot wound trauma bag in my car and I put some gauze on it and drive myself home. My neighbor is a vet tech and she looks at it and she does not think it will need stitches but helps me clean the wound and tells me what to do. So now, my monday is shot.
Rabies shot.
Tetanus shot.
Penicillin shot.
You want moronic Monday? Here's your moronic Monday.
She drinks my bourbon.
She tests my sanity.
She takes a swing at me.
She won't return my phone calls to tell me she's still alive.
AND AFTER ALL THAT I try to be the nice guy and check in on her and her asshole father (I didn't think he was an asshole then but he's certainly an asshole now) DOES NOT EVEN ACKNOWLEDGE THE FACT THAT THE FAMILY DOG FUCKING BIT ME ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME? WHAT'S NEXT? WHAT'S NEXT?
Morons of Monday, I am FC.
Bow before your king.
submitted by FirearmConcierge to guns

1 Big App - 14 in 1 apps

Hey all!
So three weeks ago I have finished my brainchild app. Literally, it has been buggering me for ages to create it, but I have finally found some time to turn it to app.It took me around 6 months to achieve, working after work hours, during the weekends, during short holidays that we had.My wife was mad at me most of the time, for not spending time with her.
So I have made this app 1 Big App. What is it? 14 in 1 apps. For now.I don't even know if it has market fit. As it's just a bunch of features, that I tend to use to save my precious time. I believe it might be helpful to others as well. Or not :DI plan to update it regularly with other feature apps. The main purpose of my app - to make life easier for me & fellow victims, who spend too much time, doing small repetitive errands, which could be completed much faster with some outside help.Basically app helps to quickly complete all those small tasks, which sometimes take way more time than it should.
At the moment, it contains Codes Generator, Email Extractor, Image Mirror, Image Resizer, Image Rotator, 3x Resizer, Image to JPEG, Image Metadata Remover, Thumbnail Creator, PDF Merger, PDF Page Exporter, Text Randomizer, Text Sorter, Winner Picker.
Feedback is more than welcome! Let me know if you have any questions or solutions!Maybe you could help me evaluate the market fit? Maybe you can download the app and test it out?Does it make sense? Would you be willing to subscribe to this kind of service? Any suggestions and ideas are welcome.Don't worry about the payment, first 7 days are free, just don't forget to cancel.
Any ideas for marketing are welcome as well.
Thank you all in advance.
submitted by spacecash21 to SideProject

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