What Happens When We Die? Part One: ADCs

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I love talking about death, me. Strange considering I have health anxiety, but it’s not death itself that gets me hyperventilating – it’s the dying bit.

What interests me is what happens to us after we die.

I believe that consciousness survives death because I’ve experienced paranormal phenomena – my earliest recollection being when I was 9 years old when on two separate occasions I saw a child in my house who didn’t belong there. In other words, I saw a ghost.

However, the experience that turned me into a ‘bleever’ happened early one December morning..

Something woke me up around 3am. It was a familiar sound but it took a few seconds to comprehend what it was because – you know – brain fog? Once my brain engaged, I realised it was my Bontempi organ..

The organ was operated by batteries and made a whirring sound when you switched it on. Somehow, it had switched itself on despite being visibly off. I wasn’t scared but I was awake. The only way to shut the damn thing up was to take the batteries out. So I did. I also made a mental note to get my dad to look it the next day. Problemo sorted, I got back into bed.

Close Encounters of the Bontempi Kind.

That’s when I saw my rocking chair moving gently back and forth.

I assumed it was movement generated from me walking about. Logical, right? Only the bugger kept on rocking long after I’d stopped moving. It was as if somebody was sitting on it? Except that NOBODY WAS THERE. There were no open windows, no drafts, no heating and NO LOGICAL REASON FOR THIS TO BE HAPPENING! By now you’d imagine that a young girl would be crapping her pajamas? On the contrary, I was exceptionally calm.

At this point that I became aware of a smell of perfume. I knew the smell, but from where?

What happened next is why I believe so strongly that our consciousnesses never die..

Brace yourself, folks, cos it’s about to get wanky..

I was filled with THE MOST INTENSE feeling of love.

Think of how it felt to hold your babies for the first time and then multiply it by about a GAZILLION.

Then I remembered who’s perfume it was..

It was my grandmother’s.

The same grandmother who’d once owned the chair that was rocking by itself. The perfume was hers. I don’t remember it on her, as I was only 6 when she died, but I was given her jewellery which was infused with her perfume – the same perfume that was filling my room.

It was unmistakable.

My Bontempi returned to perfect working order. Dad could find no logical reason for it’s ‘malfunction’. My theory? Grandma had to wake me up somehow, right? Just enough noise to wake me but not enough to scare the shit out of me.

What I experienced was an ADC (after-death communication)

What the actual chuff is an ADC?

Bill and Judy Guggenheim defined the ADC as a “spiritual experience that occurs when someone is contacted directly and spontaneously by a family member or friend who has died.”

There are twelve major forms of after-death communication.

Sentient ADC – Where you sense the presence of the deceased.

Auditory ADC – Where you can hear the voice of the deceased.

Tactile ADC – Where you feel the physical touch of the deceased.

Olfactory ADC – Where you smell a fragrance associated with the deceased.

Partial Appearance ACD – When you see parts of the deceased but they don’t appear to be ‘solid’.

Visual ADC – A full appearance from the deceased where they look ‘solid’ and ‘real’.

Twilight ACD – These occur as you fall asleep or wake up.

Sleep State ACD – When a dream is more than a dream.

Out of Body ACD – Contact with the deceased during an OBE.

Telephone ACD – Phone-calls from heaven – literally.

ACDs of Physical Phenomena – Flickering lights ‘n’ shizz.

Symbolic ACDs – Butterflies, rainbows, robins or inanimate objects as a sign from the deceased.

My experience was sentient, olfactory and physical. To be honest, I’m glad Grandma didn’t choose to ‘appear’ in part OR full because I’m fairly confident I would have shit the bed.

My ADC happened in the early hours, as many do, simply because it’s when we are most relaxed and there are fewer distractions. They also happen during stressful times in our lives or around special days, like birthdays or anniversaries. My ADC happened on December the 18th 1981. My Grandma died on December the 18th 1976. Coincidence?

The experience is very special to me. The reason I don’t fear death is because five years after she died, my grandmother was still around. I couldn’t see her but I was aware of her.

Sceptics have belittled my experience as a ‘dream’ or ‘psychotic episode’. Thing is, you don’t remember dreams decades later and I find the ‘psychotic episode’ theory to be insulting – not to mention lazy.

Psychosis is an abnormal condition of the mind that involves a loss of contact with reality.

I might be a fully-fledged psycho now but I wasn’t then. I was 11 years old. My head was full of Duran Duran and Smash Hits. If I was going to have a hallucination – it would have been Nick Rhodes, mate, not the grandmother who I could barely remember.

Believing in the afterlife doesn’t make people stupid or gullible. Some hard-line sceptics  openly ridicule people’s experiences and ignore the fact that many believers are credible people. Scientific people with letters after their names and shit.

In a review of research on ADCs, Streit-Horn (2011) found that they occur with people of all nationalities, intelligence levels, religions, ethnicity etc. People who report these experiences are typically NOT mentally ill.

None of this matters to the closed-minds of the sceptics, mostly because they have reputations to live up to. They demand scientific proof, or it didn’t happen.

I can’t prove any of what happened to me and those who could verify certain things are no longer here. Does this mean it didn’t happen?

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” Albus Dumbledore

A big thank you to Lori from Days Gone By Etsy shop who kindly allowed me to use and adapt her Bontempi photograph.

 

 

 

Life in Plastic, It’s Fantastic!

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I came across the story of Alicia Amira in the news. I say news, it was the Daily Mail..

I want to assure you that I’m not in the habit of reading the DM but sometimes you click on a link and before you know it, you are confronted with Z list celebrities doing power lunges in the middle of the road or Colleen Rooney’s latest bikini, which, by the way, is black and white stripes.

Anyways, Alicia is 27 from Copenhagen and it’s her dream to transform herself into a ‘living doll’ but not just any old doll. Oh no. She wants to look like a sex doll.

Alicia appeared on a reality TV show called, ‘Botched’. Clue’s in the name. She wanted doctors to repair her breasts after a botched implant procedure left her with a hard boob. During her consultation she informed the surgeons that she wanted them to perform other procedures because she wanted to become a real-life, ‘f*** doll’.

Yes, you read that correctly..

The surgeons were up for repairing her botched boob job but refused to do the other work which included a ‘Brazilian butt lift’ and some ribs removed to give her a smaller waist. As the mouths of the surgeons fell open in shock, Alicia informed them that the ‘bimbofication’ process had already been started with implants, Botox and fillers in her nose, cheeks and lips.

bimbofication (uncountable) The process of making or becoming a bimbo.

Enlightened?

“I don’t want to be an airhead but basically what it is, is to look like a male fantasy.”

Here’s what some males think..

‘Errr…Barbie doesn’t have tattoos.’

I’d argue that technically she can. All you need is a three year old and a Sharpie.

She looks like a trucker’.

‘Its a brain replacement op you need luv.’

‘Makes me embarrassed to be a Dane’

‘Most men would’

There’s ALWAYS one.

Alicia had her boobs inflated to 650CCs and she now has to wear lead boots to keep her from becoming airborne. JOKING!

As boobs go. They are E-NORMOUS.

Thankfully, the surgeons of Botched were unwilling to assist her in her quest to become a living f*** doll and they informed her of the risks to her health should she go through with the procedures. Unfazed, Alicia told them that she would just get the jobs done somewhere else and you can bet your flabby butts that there will some unscrupulous back street surgeon who will be only too happy to fulfill her wish – for the right price.

‘At one point I even thought about sewing my fingers together because that would create a doll hand.’ 

I’ll run that one past you again..

‘At one point I even thought about sewing my fingers together because that would create a doll hand.’ 

Doreen, did she really just say that?

I haven’t included a picture of Alicia because of copyright shizzle so you might want to Google ‘Botched’ to come to your own conclusions?

This is a MENTAL DISORDER. Any person who chooses to mutilate themselves in order to look like an inanimate object needs PSYCHIATRIC HELP.

THIS made my blood run cold..

‘I want to look as plastic as possible and inspire other girls to do the same.’

Oh no you frickin don’t, Barbie Girl!

This is NOT what a woman looks like!

Real women have flab and fingers that move independently.

DO NOT ENCOURAGE YOUNG GIRLS TO FOLLOW IN YOUR FOOTSTEPS. GET SOME THERAPY!

The majority of men don’t appear to find the Barbie sex-doll look attractive but there will always be the exceptions. After all, there is a market for kinky stuff, no? Like the woman who is offering home-made jam in return for some bloke allowing her to ‘fart into his penis hole’.

No words, right?

Me? I find the whole ‘sex-doll’ thing most unsavory. However, if a Nick Rhodes one was to come onto the market I might be tempted? Then again, I prefer the idea of inflatable ones that you can chuck in the drawer when you’ve done. Either that or sod the whole idea altogether and have a cup of tea, eh?

What about you? Does the Barbie/Ken doll look float your boat?

Images via Creative Commons

Mumisms: Things My Mother Used To Say

Parents have a language all of their own. Some phrases we understand, like ‘NO, YOU CAN’T’ and ‘I’M GOING TO COUNT TO TEN’ but there are other things we haven’t a clue about because they don’t make sense. You probably find yourself using the same lingo with your own children because it’s ingrained, innit? You wake up one day and you’ve gone from relatively cool to OH MY GOD, I AM MY MOTHER! It’s a rite of passage of Motherdom, along with droopy boobs and incontinence.

My mother, bless her, had a plethora of phrases that I’d like to share with you readers..

Number 10

‘Gone For A Burton’

Meaning: A reference to a person who had died or an item that was broken.

First heard at the age of 7 when I limped into the kitchen with a broken strap on my brand new sandals. Mum took a puff on her fag and said, ‘Well. That’s them gone for a Burton then.’ I didn’t know who or what this ‘Burton’ was. Richard Burton was big at the time so it could have been him. All I know is that I cried PROPER TEARS over those wretched sandals because in those days, money was short and I knew I wasn’t going to get another pair anytime soon. *sobs*

Number 9

‘Clod-Hoppers’

Meaning: A rough, unsophisticated countryman.

Since the early 19th century, in the UK and USA, ‘clod-hoppers’ were also the name given to ploughmen’s boots.

Mum used to refer to my eldest brother’s 1970s platform shoes and work-boots as ‘Clod-Hoppers’. My brother would often be greeted at the door with, “And you can take those clod-hoppers off as well, Matey!”

Number 8

‘Getting On My Wick’

Meaning: Annoy me; get on my nerves.

Usually heard during weekends and school holidays, especially Wimbledon fortnight. Alone, my brother and I were tolerable. Together, we were little shits.

“You two are getting on my wick. Go to the park!”

Number 7

‘You’ve Blotted Your Copy Book’

Meaning: To do something that makes other people trust you less.

In our case, it was any minor misdemeanor at home or at school. Ink and blotting paper were still a thing in the 70s so I took it quite literally until it was explained to me…

Number 6

‘Away With The Fairies’

Meaning: Not facing reality; in a dreamworld.

Where Mum thought I always was…

Number 5

‘Guts For Garters’

Meaning: A threat of a serious reprisal.

“If you come home late, I’ll have your (varying expletives) guts for garters!”

This saying probably originated from the Middle Ages where they liked to disembowel people and stuff.

Number 4

‘I’ll Give You..’

This one was where, whatever we said to Mum, she would turn it back on us.

Me “I’m bored”

Mum “I’ll give you I’m bored!”

Me “Yeah, in a minute, Mum.”

Mum ” I’ll give you in a minute!”

Me “Why?”

Mum “I’ll give you why”

You get my drift?

The variation on ‘I’ll give you is I’ll give it you.

Or on hearing me WHISPERING an expletive..

“I’LL BLOODY WELL GIVE IT YOU IN A MINUTE, MY GIRL!”

It meant a wollop on the backside so at this point I’d fly out out through the back door flicking Mum the V’s from inside my coat pocket. She rarely caught me but I would ALWAYS return to find my Jackie mag cancelled, damn it.

Number 3

‘Because I Said So’

That’s why.

Number 2

‘The Pits’

Meaning: the WORST possible person, place, or thing.

In this case, my brother’s bedroom.

Mum to Dad “His bedroom is the bloody pits! Records as coasters and unidentified life-forms in cups? That’s it. I’m on strike!.”

To be fair, it WAS a pit. We’re talking MAJOR BIO-HAZARD here.

Number 1

‘I’ll Swing For You’

I think I have the album somewhere. Or is it Swing When You Are Winning? Anyhoo. Initially I took this literally and pictured Mum having a fun time on the swings in the local park. I thought this was DEAD FUNNY, albeit highly unlikely. However the imagery didn’t match her frowny expression, so I came to realise that it meant that I’d done something wrong.

WHOOOOOPS!

Often, a minor expletive would be inserted for dramatic effect so it became “I’ll SODDING well swing for you” Later on I came to realise the origin of the phrase came from HANGING, as hanging was still in fashion in my mother’s day. Mother saying she’d ‘swing’ for us meant that she’d murder us and be hung for her crime. However, she would never have actually murdered us. She wasn’t fast enough for a start. She came close several times – especially during her menopausal years when she was a bit, well, psycho.

Sometimes this phrase was used in jest but mostly we knew we were in deep poo if we heard it and we’d suddenly be incredibly helpful – like doing the dishes without being told or tidying our rooms, including Bro’s ‘pit’.

Occasionally, I catch myself muttering ‘Because I said so’ and I start twitching and have to go shout at some crisp packets as self-punishment. My mother may have passed on her early menopause to me, but there is no way I’m talking like her as well. Why? BECAUSE I SAID SO!

*twitch*

It pays to be as literal as possible when you have an autistic child, trust me. Saves time. Maybe you recoginse a few of these from your own childhoods? Feel free to share!

Next time, Dadisms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Five Reasons Why Ageing Sucks

 

Teeth

Dental hygiene plays an important part in gum health. Brushing ‘n’ flossing keeps Gingivitis at bay but for some people receding gums can be a matter of genetics, so if several members of your family have receded gums, the odds are that you will too. I know, it’s shit.

I have nice teeth but there’s more tooth on show than there used to be, hence, I am starting to resemble Shergar. The good news is that I still have all my own teeth at 47, which is fang-bloody-tastic considering my mother had a full set of false teeth by the time she was 50. WIN!

Skin

As we age, our skin loses elasticity – it’s called Elastosis.

It’s where all those years of lying on the lawn nuking yourself come back to haunt you with skin that looks like crepe paper. You know, CREPE PAPER? The crinkly stuff we used to make flowers with at school?

Another perk (not) of ageing is that skin becomes translucent which is why we start to resemble AA road maps by the time we are in our 50s. At this stage, PLEASE GOD, DON’T WEAR MINI SKIRTS!

That said, what the hell, it’s your life so wear what you like. Just don’t whinge when somebody turns your saggy backside into a GIF and gets it trending on social media.

Eyesight

Eyesight naturally deteriorates with age. Over time the lens hardens and you struggle to focus. You’re permanently squinting and find yourself holding everything at arm’s length, including your kids. You can’t thread needles anymore and you have to ask your family to read the small print on food packaging or you run the risk of giving them the shits.

You also have your Kindle font on size ENORMOUS.

So, you book an appointment at your local opticians for an eye-test and end up with a pair of specs (two in my case) that will cost you the same price as a week in Barbados, depending on what extras they con you into. However, the good thing about blurry eyesight is the instant soft focus you get without your specs on. YOU DON’T LOOK AS CRAP IN THE MIRROR!

Gimme a high-five!

Feet

Feet, like everything else, change with age. The changes in our feet are largely due to good old gravity and the pounding that they take over years.

The result is more hoof, than foot.

Corns, bunions, deformities, flat and calloused feet are par for the course when it comes to feet unless you REALLY look after them but most people will succumb to at least one of these things after decades of stuffing their foot neglect.

It’s safe to say that my own feet have hit their fugly stage. Boo. 😦

However, it’s my own fault because my idea of a pedicure is to cock my feet over the loo twice a month to cut my nails. No filing them or shaving the balls of my feet with a pumice stone/Black and Decker belt sander, depending on what state the skin is in.

When it comes to shoes, the mid-life woman is more into Pavers than six-inch stilettos and men naturally gravitate towards trainers, slip-ons and sandals. The problem is when they wear sandals with SOCKS to hide their ingrowing toe-nails. To such an offender, my advice is this:

Mate, you look a div. No human over the age of 5 should wear socks with sandals. Lose the socks OR the sandals. You’re welcome.

Hairy toes?

Don’t start me.

Farting

Two thirds of menopausal women report an increase in farting. Fact.

Being post-menopausal, I can vouch for this. I’m definitely more flatulent than before my ovaries pensioned themselves off. Some experts say it’s due to lack of oestrogen, while others say it’s due to an ageing digestive system. It’s not just women though, as middle-aged men are more prone to ‘bottom-blasting’ too.

We literally become old farts.

My theory is that when we reach middle age, most of us will have had some kind of health scare requiring a radical diet change, usually to include more fruit and veg. Combine an increase of fiber with a digestive system that’s buggered from years of trying to digest junk food and you basically start farting yourself into a coma. Am I wrong?

Growing old is a privilege, so we should be grateful that we’ve got this far. However, we can still have a laugh at ourselves, eh? Laughing is what keeps us young inside..

“…inside every old person is a young person wondering what happened.” Terry Pratchett – Moving Pictures

Creative Commons Images Via Pixabay

 

 

Dedicated Non-Follower of Fashion

I don’t do fashion, me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had my moments over the years where I’ve tried to be fashionable in order to fit in, but it was hard work because all I ever really wanted to wear were my jeans and tee shirts. In my most creative phase I wore black lace skirts, gloves, vest tops, studded belts/cuffs and high-heeled boots, which I couldn’t walk in. What can I say? I was into Siousxie Sioux and her glorious gothness. I wanted to look like her, only with Madonna’s hairdo.

Over the years I must have spent hundreds of pounds on clothes (albeit via charity shops) only for them to sit unloved in the nether regions of my wardrobe. I’ve bought so many clothes on a whim during my monthly hormonal malfunctions. I CRINGE thinking back to some of the disasters I’ve bought, such as floor length green and pink striped WOOLEN skirts, which is fine if you want to look like a. sodding. caterpillar.

I think that women should stay the HELL away from clothes shops when they are on their periods (or going through the menopause) because they buy shit clothes that languish in their wardrobes with the tags on until they get a charity bag through the door.

“Women are more likely to have accidents in the few days leading up to their period and during their period.”

This includes accidental purchases of shit clothes that don’t fit and which look HIDEOUS. I vote they install sensors in shops that pick up on hormone imbalances, so as soon as the hormonally bewildered wander in, alarms go off and said women are escorted off the premises and propelled in the direction of the nearest Thorntons. Me? I don’t have that problem anymore because I’m post-menopausal which means that my hormones no longer fluctuate. I am psychotic 24/7. However, I can wear white jeans now WHENEVER I PLEASE. HA!

The thing is that I was, and still am, a tomboy.

In 1982 I lived in skin-tight jeans and AC/DC t-shirts, so maybe you can imagine my distress when my mother informed me that I was going to be a bridesmaid at my brother’s wedding…

To most 11-year-old girls, being a bridesmaid is a dream come true. Me? I sat down on my bed and wept because the thought of being center of attention terrified me, not to mention the indignity of having to wear a dress. In hindsight, I wish I had spoken up because at least then they wouldn’t have my sulky chops ruining their wedding album and video. In my defence, I was on the verge of starting my periods, therefore, MEGA CRANKY, and the photographer kept insisting on telling me to ‘smile ducky’ which just made me want to beat him to death with his Nikon, or whatever it was..

To make matters worse, my ‘evening do’ outfit was a pair of CANARY YELLOW pedal pushers with an equally hideous blouse. I had/have legs like chicken drumsticks, so my mother saw fit to buy me a pair of PEDAL PUSHERS. Also, she wanted her money’s worth out of the wedding sandals, so I had to wear those again, only with my SCHOOL socks.

Way to go, Ma. Could the outfit have been any bolder shade of yellow? I think not. There is a good reason why people don’t nick yellow cars. IT’S BECAUSE THEY ARE ABOUT AS INCONSPICUOUS AS LORD VOLDEMORT STROLLING AROUND TESCO DOING HIS WEEKLY SHOP!

Actually, I might bring this one up in my next therapy session?

Bro, if you are reading this, I’m sorry I spoiled your day with my sulky face. I was SO out of my comfort zone with all those people (inc scary old vicars and photographers) and then having to wear a girlie dress when I was about as girlie as a dog turd. I just wasn’t bridesmaid material. Bridesmaids should LOVE every second of being a bridesmaid but I was one big sweaty, miserable mess. I am honored that you asked me, truly, and I love you for it. However, I also know that Mum would have killed you if you didn’t. Love, Sis.

It’s taken me forty odd years but I finally understand that I am a woman of simple tastes. My wardrobe consists of jeans, tunic tops and umpteen tee shirts. Everything is 100% cotton. I own one pair of boots, four pairs of Converse (bit of an obsession) and a pair of sandals. No skirts. No dresses.

I’ve finally sussed that wearing certain materials only aggravates my sensory issues which makes me more of a miserable cow than I already am. Life is hard enough without handing myself more ammo, no?

I would quite like to die wearing a pair of Converse, but knowing my luck, I’ll shuffle off my mortal coil wearing my tea-stained dressing gown and pyjama bottoms with the holey crotch. Such is life, eh?

What I do know is that my days of wearing uncomfortable shoes and clothes are over. I wasn’t designed to totter in heels and I will never again inflict my bony ankles on the general public. Whoever designed boot cut and flared jeans has my eternal gratitude. From the bottom of my bell-bottomed heart, thank you.

“Anyway, there is one thing I have learned and that is not to dress uncomfortably, in styles which hurt: winklepicker shoes that cripple your feet and tight pants that squash your balls. Indian clothes are better.” ~ George Harrison

Creative Commons via Pixabay

 

 

 

 

Our Selfish Society

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Have we become a selfish society?

It’s a YES from me!

*drags up a soapbox*

Parking Prats

Wing-mirrors are more precious than lives, apparently. Drivers park on the pavement to the point of causing an obstruction in an attempt to prevent their mirrors being knocked or God forbid, broken, because we all know that people can replaced, right?

Living opposite a school we see this kind of douchebaggery every day. Parents blocking pavements and parking on the zig-zag lines despite school notices politely asking them not to and the NO STOPPING sign which forbids them BY LAW to park there. About twice a year the police will turn up and occasionally we get traffic wardens. Talk about rats leaving a sinking ship? Shifty looking parents breaking all kinds of records sprinting to their illegally parked cars!

As residents we accept disruption. It’s par for the course living by a school innit? What we don’t accept is parents parking selfishly then giving us a mouthful of abuse when we politely point out they’re illegally parked.

“Do you own the f**king street?” was one response to OH and I’ve had a straight “f**k off!” by one charming parent who almost had all four wheels on the pavement causing people  to walk out into the road. Anybody would think we lived on the set of Shameless instead of a quaint old mill town. *sniffs*

There’s no need to block pavements. You’re driving a Clio dear, not a Sherman tank!

Unbelievably, a parent actually parked in my next door neighbours driveway. Not blocking it, she actually parked IN the driveway! I’d seen her park up and presumed she had permission to do so but then my neighbour turned up (who was usually at work) and judging by state of my neighbours face (and finger gestures) it was obvious that the parent had taken it upon herself to park there.

As Nan Tate would say, “WOT A FUCKIN’ LIBERTY!”

Just this morning there was a car with ALL FOUR WHEELS parked on the pavement rendering it impossible for pedestrians to get past. It’s a pavement for PEDESTRIANS yet the driver obviously considered it their personal parking space.

Then there are those who park in disabled or parent and child bays when they have no child or disability..

This is a genuine question I found on the internet..

“Hi, I parked at disable bay around 9pm at night and I was issued a ticket. Is that possible to issue parking ticket after working hours?”

The answer should be as follows..

Dear Mr/Mrs/Miss Selfish Twat,

Yes, I’m afraid you WILL be issued a parking ticket after working hours because people don’t stop being disabled after 5pm.

Kind regards

Car Parks R Us

Mobile Morons

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People full of their own importance who shout into their phones in supermarket cafes while they tap away at their laptops. The woman in the far aisle buying cat food can hear EVERY word as can the elderly bloke with both his hearing aids turned off.

Dear Annoying Shouty Person,

I’m not interested in whose ‘brains you want to pick’ or if you’re thinking outside the box, inside the box or in someone else’s box. I just want to drink my Cappuccino decaf in relative peace. GO SIT IN YOUR CAR DAMN YOU!

They DON’T CARE about anybody but themselves.

Litter Louts

The people who throw their McDonald’s litter out of car windows and flick their fag ends onto the pavement. They think the floor is a bin. These people care nothing for the environment (or world in general) and if there is a hell, I hope theirs is to flounder about in Satan’s maggoty- filled wheelie bin for ETERNITY!!!!

These people are littering the planet and killing wildlife and do they care? Nope.

When I die, I will hunt them down and empty the contents of their bins (especially the smelly food waste one) over them while they sleep. I’ll be the ‘Litterer Finder General’ patrolling the planet and ridding it of littering douche-bags. Consider it extended services to humanity..

These are but a few examples of how inconsiderate society has become but it wasn’t that long ago when people were law abiding, courteous and respectful. Those who died defending our country must surely be spinning in their graves at the state that society is in. They experienced horrors the likes of which the majority of us could never comprehend and for what? To give people the freedom to be selfish arseholes, that’s what!

Louts in General

One evening last year, I watched from my front window as a teenager spat on the floor TWENTY times in the space of a minute. NOT an exaggeration. He was draped against the school railings trying to impress two younger kids with his gobbing prowess. The last one was aimed at my car so I almost put the window through alerting him to my displeasure. The lad saw that I had the phone to my ear and probably thought I was calling the police so the the little shit legged it up the street as fast as his Nike’s could carry him. As it was, I was telling OH (who was round the sports and social club) to get his arse back round home, PRONTO, to deal with a yob who’d just violated my Yaris..

Somehow we’ve managed to spawn a generation who think they are owed everything for nothing. They hang around outside Co-ops being obnoxious and disrespectful. Some don’t know how to spell respect, let alone be act it. To think that lads, not much older than them, were prepared to die for their freedom?

It sickens me.

Of course there are exceptions. There are polite people. There are respectful people but they are becoming the exception rather than the rule. However, it would be wrong to lay the blame exclusively on today’s youth as a lot of older people wouldn’t know respect if it tapped them on the shoulder and announced itself. So maybe the problem is with society in general?

Do we, as a society, actually give a shit anymore?

I’ve lost count at the amount of parents who ignorantly sail past me as I stand with the door open for them at school and guess what..their children do EXACTLY the same!

Am I invisible?

It’s what it feels like sometimes..

Manners cost nothing. Respect? It’s free!

Is saying ‘Thank you’ really too much to ask?

My upbringing won’t allow me to lower myself to today’s standards or lack of. Also, the ghost of Mum would clip me one round the ear-hole if I so much as tried it. I just wish that people would consider others and stop being so selfish and rude.

Our standards. What’s happened to em? ~ Dot Cotton – Eastenders

Creative Commons Images Via Pixabay and Wikimedia Commons