I'm one of the voices in the van. Seriously.
What?! You thought she was kidding about the Voices in the Van? You thought we were a metaphor for emotions?! And no shit, she just ran upstairs to reference Strunk and White to make sure I had used the word metaphor correctly. Do you people see what I'm dealing with here?!?!?!
Some would call me the Angry One. Personally, I prefer the name “Scrapper”. In fact, we've already met. Every time you see the word “fuck” in her blog.... that would be me. The blog titled “Con Fun Med”? Yep. That one's mine. Beating the steering wheel into submission I claim without shame. I'm the one ready to jump ugly when the rest of the Voices can't “git 'er done”. Hell I'm ready to jump ugly just because Stupid is not only dangerous, it's annoying.
The only reason I don't exhibit the great power I possess and am entitled to is because I'm outnumbered.
I do have a buddy among the voices—the Comic. As long as he can keep me laughing I can keep it mellow. It's hard to describe the Comic, but if Lewis Black and Ron White spliced their sperm and turkey -basted it into Jeff Dunham’s “Peanut”.... you'd have the Comic—great potential, annoying in large doses, has to grow on you. But we have a great partnership. I'm the keg of dynamite and the Comic is the incredibly long fuse. Mostly we just entertain each other.
More accurately, we distract each other from the truly annoying Voices in the Van.
We've got Otis. If you want to know Otis, think “Forest Gump”. No shit. I think they're related somehow. Thank GOD he doesn't say “life is like a box of chocolates”. Mainly because I would hold him and Comic would hit him. But too often he grins and tucks his chin like Gomer Pyle and says “Well, it just is what it is.” Really?! Just about when that gets on my last nerve, we have to leave the van, encounter People and Otis seems like a “Goddamn Genius.” THAT is the only reason I have not cast him adrift on a shrimp boat in search of Bubba.
And what will make you long for an Otis soliloquy? Sniffles. Oh, she's just damn grand. (Did I mention that sarcasm is my second language?) Sniffles can take crying to a freakin' art form. IF you like cat puke on a plaid carpet. She wrote an entire blog entry on crying. WHO DOES THAT?!?!?! Are you kidding me?!?!?! I'm good. And the worst part? No warning whatsoever. You never know when she's going to dissolve, which means the rest of us, mainly me and the Comic have to be always on the ready to prop her up and gag her into submission. She is wearing me OUT. Seriously. If mucous were a viable energy form, we'd be millionaires.
Then there's “the Buddha”. The Comic gave him that name. I wanted to call him ShitHead. Holy crap he gives me the creeps. He just sits there and watches all of us like we're a play he's already seen, but worth watching again. How creepy is THAT?!??! And he almost never speaks. Out Loud. Even when Sniffles cuddles up next to him and lets the damn flood gates open, he sits calmly and oozes some kind of something that makes the rest of us get real quiet. And wait. I swear to god, I blame him for that blog about Green after the Rain. He does nothing, he says nothing, and just when we're all spiraling into chaos and even Otis is ready to “run, Otis, run!” and I'm reaching for my can opener for the No 10 can of Whoop-Ass, Sniffles is hysterically dehydrating before our eyes, and the Comic is trying to channel Robin Williams.....
The Buddha spreads his arms, the heavens open, Jonathan Livingston circles in the sky above, Daniel Shimoda stands in a grassy field, holding the hand of Whinnie the Pooh who recites a line from the Tao, and I have no idea what to do next. That shit just makes my ass tired.
So there it is. The five of us hangin' with the Bitch. That's B.I.T.C.H. Which stands for Boys, I'm Taking Charge Here. And that's Miss Bitch to you. And thank god I don't get charged for punctuation marks!!!!!!
If you don't hear from us again, you'll know that Her family and/or doctors, and/or the Health Department read this and... well, you can probably imagine. Whatever happens, you may be assured she will never be alone.
Crabbily Yours,
Scrapper
P.S. Thanks, Christy.
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