One bourbon, one scotch, and one mav

One thing you will not see me complain about here is the way I’ve been treated by my employer and manager during the last week. My manager has been outstanding, and my employer’s grievance policy has made it such that I could take the rest of the week off. That’s nice, because my mom and I have been rushing like hell to try and get all the shit done that we could get done during this time. One of the big hangups is that bank accounts, county assessor, etc. want death certificates, which have to be signed by Dad’s primary physician. His name is Dr. Dan Preucil, and he’s a worthless fuckass, and while I won’t be one to hasten his death, I hope that when it comes it involves fire.

The really nice lady from Parke’s mortuary has been trying to reach this worthless fucknut for two days to get him to sign off on Dad’s death certificate so he could be cremated, we could start making service plans, etc. Dr. Dan has apparently been holed up in his Mountain Fortress of Doom, because he can’t even bother to stick his scrawny little neck out long enough to sign a death certificate.

So here we sit, I’m going back to work on Monday, and Mom’s gonna have to do all this shit by herself. Also, we still have no fucking clue when the service is gonna be because it may be the middle of next week before Dad gets to be cremated.

Please note that during my dad’s last hospital day the longest time my dad went without a doctor’s visit was five fucking days. I don’t know what the dick Dr. Dan’s problem is, but it sure felt to me like he just quit giving a shit about my dad. Now in death he’s proving beyond the shadow of a doubt that he doesn’t give a fuck about us.

So Dan, if you ever happen to read this, I’d just like you to know that you’re pretty much worthless, and I really hate you quite a bit for making my mom’s life just that more difficult. You weren’t there when we needed you, didn’t even try. Thanks for phoning it in, you asshole.