Trying not to start WW III

I am taking deep breaths, big fat yoga breaths. I am the king of yoga. I am the oxygen man; my blood cells are just bursting with the stuff; my veins are coursing with love and peace and pituli (sp?) and hugs, Fozzy the bear wocka wocka wocka hugs; they are not frantic with a million savage fire ants; my brain is not a Heavy Metal spectacular.

I am not going to misuse my martial training.

Only one "person" is capable of setting me off in a berserker rage, the girl who put the kicker in babykicker, my sister.

Her boyfriend, will call here--looking for her---incessantly. Once he gets started, he can't seem to stop. I kid you know he will call here 10 times in the course of two hours. This might be cute if he was a fifteen year old stricken with puppy love (the slobbering stupid love that gives you fleas), and if he didn't drive around our col-de-sac (sigh, sp?) when she didn't answer, AND IF the babykicker got her lazy ass up just long enough to answer the fucking phone.

If I see his name on the caller ID I don't answer it; I want as little to do with him as I do her.

Most of the time I don't say anything about it, but today it was just too much. There had been more phone calls than usual, a few of them even, were sane people. I didn't check the caller ID, as he had called the last three times. "Babykicker, answer the phone, bitch, it's your boyfriend"
Now I admit, I cursed, which is a no-no in the rhetoric of argument in this house, as it allows the other person to claim the pseudo-moral high ground. It was off the cuff, both babykicker and myself are prone to tarantino-esque tirades.

She answers. She talks. She clicks. She shouts "That wasn't my boyfriend, it was mom, blah blah angry blah don't call me bitch angry blah-blah" I shouted back he was 90% of the calls in the morning, she said something about males thinking they are entitled, and I tried to let it die at that. I bit my tongue, astounded by her hypocrisy. (Project much? No one behaves as if they are entitled more than you), but it just wasn't worth it.

I thought the issue was dead, when mom came home from work though, Babykicker complains, assuming a posture of false outrage. How dare I call her a bitch blah blah blah angry blah. You couldn't wash her mouth out with two magic erasers, a swiffer, a pound of soap, and a olympic pool of shock treated chlorinated water. I told mom "the real reason she's pissed is I dared to wake her for a phone call, when it turned out to be you instead of the psycho boyfriend she was mad" Babykicker started to say something but I just added, calmly to mom, "sometimes, he will drive by the house when she doesn't answer, it's fucking creepy" I removed myself from the conversation , deciding to take Captain Charisma (one of Radar's many nicknames) outside. She went to tell my mother about how she could speak ghetto, using as much motherfucking profantity as motherfucking possible to motherfuck the point.

It was wet, and Radar surveyed the pool for turtles. She was trying to start a fight with me, looking for a way to push my buttons. I thought about why doing anything would be wrong; if I hold out long enough, maybe her nutjob boyfriend will do it for me...as long as he doesn't come here to do it.