Marge

Marge can’t be blamed this time, I know that. But there’s so much frustration in me I can’t see this thing straight. I feel such resentment toward her for all of it, all the bullshit she’s put me through. Not just since this latest episode either; I mean since the day we married.

I’ve been told over and over that I lash out. Been told I have since the day I was born—if you asked my mom, she’d say since even before I was born. But you can’t ask her since she passed giving birth to my little brother. He didn’t make it either. Christ, what a little shit he would’ve been. For the best, I say. There’s only one McGregor asshole in this town and it’s me.

Maybe my lashing out isn’t the best for making friends, but I say fuck friends. I live in a world where two men are allowed, expected even, to spend time together and tell each other their secrets and feelings. From where I’m standing, friends are for chicks and fags. If you want to solve your problems, you’ve got to start by finding who caused them. If that’s lashing out then, by god, I lash out quite a bit.

As I stand here looking down at Marge, I feel all the anger I’ve ever felt for her all at once. I can’t remember hating a person more than I hate Marge right now. Sure, my dad pissed me off every single day of his life. Always whining about losing my mom and that dip shit kid she would’ve had. My dad always was a big pussy. And the worst part is people bought his shit, ate it up. He’d cry for no good goddamn reason and some aunt or sister of his would hold him by his shoulders and cry with him. My god, what a sorry bunch of pussies raised me. Hell, they didn’t raise me; they just fed me ‘til I could hunt. That old man won’t be missed. Not by me, that’s for sure. But even his sorry ass never pissed me off like I’m pissed at Marge today.

My miserable dad even told me once that I can’t blame Marge for every little thing that goes wrong in my life. Told me I have to accept responsibility and admit when I make mistakes. That’s just the whiny pussy shit I expected from him, too. Accept responsibility, ha! Any person with half a human brain could tell Marge isn’t exactly the brightest light in the harbor. Damn woman’s about as sharp as a marble. If something goes wrong, there’s a helluva good chance she’s at the heart of it.

Trouble is, this time I can’t give her hell for it. Lord knows she deserves it, leaving me to milk the cows and feed the hogs and every little goddamn thing by myself day in and day out. Yes sir, as I look down at her face right now I’d like to grab her and shake her by the shoulders. Tell her what a mess she’s made of everything. Tell her I hate her, that I really, truly hate her. But I can’t rightly go makin’ a fool of myself in front of all these damned crybabies at her funeral, can I?