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Welcome to hell.

There are times I enjoy flying and times that I am in the 9th circle of hell, thinly disguised as United airlines.

And the reason is, there is an excellent chance that, at any given moment, you could be fucked with by the airlines, the government or other people, often without warning.

It begins subtly, you almost don’t notice it.

The car in front of you at the airport parking garage stalls as they are getting their ticket to raise the gate.

That takes  minutes.

While this is going on, the next lane over admits 15+ vehicles and you don’t have the option of backing up.

You have just had your first slice of “Being fucked with” pie.

Save room, there’s more.

The airport is all about lines. The line at the elevator is more of a mob.

And if you have not been trapped in a metal box on a hot summer day, you are missing out.

Would it KILL people to bath and use some deodorant?

And someone either farted or shit themselves somewhere between the s2nd and 3rd floor.

I remember because it was right after the Chinese woman got on at the 3rd floor with what smelled like dead fish in her bag.

Finally, the doors opened and we began shuffling out.

And we are so conditioned to being contained and shuttled thru shoots, its a lot like being human cattle.

If the English ever invade and start rounding up the Irish to put into prison colonies, they can pull it off if they involve elevators. (And this is their vile plan, according to my great grandma. She told me after her nurse left the room. I was 5, still makes sense today.)

And then we get to the crosswalk.

The crosswalk is being manned by the most heavily armed crossing guard I have ever seen.

Here is the weird part.

The airport has its own police.

That makes perfect sense, we live in a dangerous world, and terrorists seem to have a hard on for The USA and airplanes.

But, and this is where my head stops in place, why would your entire police force be old fat guys?

I did a quick study on the hiring requirements to become an airport cop.

Its the same as regular cops.

Huh.

Anyway, I was waved across the street by a morbidly obese man with a gun and a belly the size of a yoga workout ball.

Inside the terminal, the fun and games continue.

The cattle lines are longer, the tempers are shorter and the base intelligence scores are dropping fast. Its a grim room here, people.

The woman in front of me is losing her fucking mind.

Evidently, her flight leaves in ten minutes.

She is on the phone, complaining to someone who gives a shit. (I know its not me)

Here is the situation:

It seems that she was going to leave for the airport an hour ahead of time. (The airport recommends getting here 2 hours ahead of time. )

But, the cats were being so playful. (Personally, I hate cats)

And traffic sucked. (This is Los Angeles, there isn’t a time when traffic DOESN’T suck.)

And there is a line. (This is an airport, you tard. Of course there is a line.)

Now, by my figuring, and I realize that my not having a degree in physics or higher math I could be wrong, but with 10 people in front of her, there is no way this chick is going to make her flight.

And evidently, this is my problem.

“This is ridiculous, right?” She has pulled the phone away from her head and is talking to me.

“I hate cats.” You may think that is a shitty thing for me to say. It is, but when she realized that I am not who she wants to look for agreement with, she turned her back and continued her phone conversation.

The really shitty thing to say was to stare at her back and, in a creepy monotone voice, tell the story of how I accidentally ate cat once in Mexico and ended up chasing a lying burrito vendor thru the alleys of Tiajuana with a couple of friends, trying to kick his ass for selling us cat.

The moral of the story is that cat is fairly delicious.

I know, it fucks with me too and its been 25 years.

Anyway, of the 3 agents at the counter, cat lady is at agent #1.

Agent #2 has an Asian couple in their 50’s that are pissed and have been there since I came thru the door.

And their problem is bags.

They have a lot of them.

United Airlines  has a baggage policy that was written by either the Bavarian Illuminatus or expatriot Nazi’s.

!st checked bag ? $25. 2nd bag? $35. 3rd and on? $125 a piece.

Thats not a typo. $125

And the couple has a total of 14 bags.

And this is not an International flight, they are going to Portland.

Here is the cost breakdown.

They each get 1 $25 bag and 1 $35 bag. $120 spent and 4 bags down.
The remaining 10? $1250.

And I happen to know that round trip tickets to Portland are around $200.

And the couple’s logic is that if they keep yelling, eventually the airline will cave and ship their luggage for free.

Which will never happen, by the way.

The airlines will do everything but give away money.

They are just like us.

Mercenaries.

Nobody, with the exception of Mother Theresa, does what they do for a living out of love.

You do it for money or recognition.

I get that and have embraced it more than most.

I moved on from Mercenary to whore a long time ago.

Anything else that went on with the Asian couple was lost as I left agent #3 and headed to my gate.

I am early. Perhaps a beverage at yon tavern.

 
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Posted by on September 19, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The old woman in the shoe needs to stop fucking.

I have no idea if this is even medically possible, but, does there come a point where a woman’s lady parts just fall out and scurry out the door like a deranged rat from ill use?

This may be dirty, but not how you think.

I am talking about childbirth.

And I am not even targeting the easy one. The tv show, 19 And Counting.

I am talking about a true reality show going on at El Pollo Loco right now.

You could hear this family before they hit the front door.

Some people teach their kids to be polite in public and not scream an some don’t.

I would like you to meet Ms. Some Don’t.

You might think 13 children might be too many for one person to handle.

And you would be right.

Mrs. Some Don’t does not appear to have a lot of personal skills, like child rearing or discipline, herself or the kids.

However, she can lay prone and kiick out children like a motherfucker.

Watching the woman try to order and keep her kids from killing each other or burning the El Pollo Loco to the ground is like watching a blind man with down syndrome trying to herd kittens.

It stopped being amusing 5 seconds after the first one came thru the door.

I don’t see a wedding ring, so I can only assume that this is a solo adventure.

Feminists will tell you that a woman does not need a partner to have a child.

Can it be done by one person?

Sure.

But, to quote Chris Rock, you can drive your car with your feet if you want to, but that doesn’t make it a good fucking idea.

And then, the part that really pissed me off happened.

She is paying for lunch for her pack of rudeness with WIC.

Welfare, for those who don’t know.

Great, I am paying for this little production of Our Town. Awesome. (It may take a village, but get off your ass.)

I realize this will piss some of you off, that I am not celebrating the joy of life and the new American Dream.

Where everything is free, except for those of us who pay taxes, we’re the suckers that get to pay for room, board, medical, and college for anyone and everyone.

Fine, call me a rotten bastard, I stopped caring 2 weeks after I started this blog. If video games desensitize you to violence then this blog has desensitized me to holding my tongue and not screaming BULLSHIT when I see it.

I am a firm believer in carrying your own weight, and if you can’t afford something, don’t put yourself in that situation. Wipe your own ass.

I can only imagine the shit storm of hate mail I will get from this.

(And if you think I am kidding, consider the fact that I got 14 emails over my use of the phrase “Unholy bitch” a few weeks ago. Whining fucking maggots…)

As I write this, a total of 4 kids have been kicked out of the kitchen and two were involved in a salsa fight over at the condiments bar.

Mom has yet to open her mouth or chastise anyone.

My mother would have beat my ass for the antics I am witnessing.

I wonder if I could talk my mom into heading over here and beating the ass off of Ms. Some Don’t.

Based on my observations of Ms. here, Mom would make short work of this lazy carcass.

But, and I am going by personal memory here, the ass-whipping would pale in comparison to the verbal ripping she will be getting at the same time. (And don’t try telling her you won’t do it again, it just prolongs the ass-whipping.)

 
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Posted by on September 12, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Karma is now my personal hitman.

High school reunions are always a dicey thing, at best.

However, and this comes from crashing several high school reunions for years that I did not graduate in, but there may be a reason why some of us never stayed in touch.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some people I really enjoyed seeing. People that only life and circumstance has kept from hanging out with.

And then there are some that, 10 seconds after you start talking to them, you realize why you last saw or thought about them was in high school itself.

As a last minute thing, I recently went to a reunion for a year I did not graduate in.

Here is why it was last minute. Although I clicked on the “Going” button on Facebook, I was not planning on going, I was just tired of it sitting in the Invites section, staring at me.

It was in a beach city bar that I once got wildly drunk in and almost beaten to death. Call me superstitious but I am a big believer in bad vibes.

However, I found myself walking thru the front door.

And it was fine, I ran into a few people that totally reminded me of why that was one of the best periods of my life.

I also ran into a few that make me sooooo happy we were not closer back then.

A bitch rarely ages well, and there is a special brand of fugly that happens to the “Uber” bitches of our youth.

 Before you go all feminist on me, the primary bitch in my mind is a guy.

Several others were, in fact, women. That being said, I am kind of blind, sexism wise, on the subject of dislike.

Here are my top 5 reasons for dislike overheard at the reunion:

1. “She and I have hated each other since high school. She’s a slut”. (Translation- My boyfriend back then slept with her because I was holding out. I am incapable of blaming him.)

2. “She has hated me since high school, I don’t know why.” (Translation- I knowingly slept with her boyfriend back in school and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

3. “That chick is crazy.” (Translation- I cheated on my girlfriend with her in highschool and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

(Side note: Are you beginning to pick up on the Peyton Place/Jerry Springer drama here?)

4. “I hated you in high school.” (Translation- During the most insecure time in my life, you scarred me for life.)

5. “You were hysterical in high school.” (Translation- I took a lot of voyeristic pleasure in watching you torment others.)

And the only one I regret not hanging out with is the one I tormented. Its for the better, I was a rotten friend back then.

Now, here is the section of the blog were I get into the exciting part.

Just about every woman I went to high school with are at an intoxicating peak of hotness.

Its incredible what happens to a woman after she is done being a scared kid.

There is a level of confidence that only time can give but under the right circumstances, it can hit like a sensual meth for the libido.

Like a kid in a candy store.

But everybody, man or woman alike, breaks up into 3 catagories.

The first category is those friends who hit nirvana at some point, either married or not. They are worth a fortune, don’t talk about their money and seem genuinely happy.

Fuck em. I distrust these people on an instinctive level.

The second group is those who have kind of gone a different route. They have fucked up a lot since high school, but this seems to be the age that they get it together. They are innocent, like children, without that negative connotation.  They are warriors, fighting for every inch to regain ground they lost. More power to them.

The third group are my people. The functionally damaged. We are married or divorced and not wildly happy about one. If the career is high end, the relationship reads like a horror movie. If the career has had some rough turns, the relationship usually sucked in the past and they are on a better road. But the baggage is there, and the stories are better.

These are people who need to unwind.

And, sometimes, you find a little peace in the chaos. A little ray of sunshine among the dark. Some woman age well and then there are the ones that kill it. Always an odd thing to suddenly be overwhelmed by the earthy sensuality of a woman who is empowered and knows what she wants.

Enough said.

In all, I am glad I went, ran into some old friends, saw some old trash I once knew, and met one or two new friends.

And who doesn’t need some new friends?

In all, everyone seemed to have a good time, some more than others. Some, like the poor unfortunate that was being fed into the back of the police car as I was leaving.

Turns out she was the one who hated me, way back when.

I hate you too, sweetie. (And yes, I did laugh)

 
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Posted by on September 5, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Welcome to the party, Karma, you’re late.

Everyone makes such a big deal about karma, like its this serious cosmic force for justice.

If it worked even a third of the time, we would not need laws at all, and not one of the Kardashians would be living.

Sadly, karma has never pulled its own weight.

That being said, when it does show up, the results can be stunning.

And funny to those of us that relish the misfortune of others.

Guilty as charged.

I am at one of my favorite breakfast spots at the beach, a little Mexican place tucked away in a corner, they’ve been there forever.

Mexican places rock for breakfast.

Several that I have been to spike their coffee with cinnamon for that Feliz Navidad feeling, and chips and salsa while you wait is just sprinkles on the “Happy” sundae.

But enchilada sauce and melted cheese on a breakfast burrito allows you to achieve a sense of nirvana only previously reached by the greater yogi’s of history.

That paints quite a picture, doesn’t it?

Let me go further.

I like the patio. View of the ocean kind of open air, with part of the patio covered with an old wood pergola covered with vines.

Ocean breeze and awesome food, what could possibly fuck this up?

The lady at the next table.

Imagine that great aunt of yours that was your grandmother’s best friend growing up? She is big and heavy, always wore those brightly colored mumu/sun dresses with too much fake jewelry?

The makeup was troweled on by someone with a putty knife and perfume was applied by dipping her in a vat of Avon’s finest.

She came from somewhere else, so she had an accent, not something cute, something that only annoyed you more.

Now, take away any goodwill/benefit of the doubt you might have had because she was a relative, and put her at the next table over on the patio at my favorite breakfast spot.

And she is bitching about something, because what else would she be doing?

It doesn’t really matter what she is pissing and moaning about, to me, the fact that she is squawking about it is enough.

But, you are all details people, I can see that.

Here you go:

Comment 1. “I don’t know why you insist on coming to these dive places, the food is rarely good and you don’t know who they have working in kitchen.” (Are you high, lady? You are in Southern California, there are Mexicans in the kitchen.)

Comment 2. “I don’t know why Tammy was shocked when her son flunked out of school, I had that boy pegged early on. Drugs.” (Yes, whispering the word drugs doesn’t make you seem like a rotten bitch of a human being.)

Comment 3. “What HAVE they done to the coffee? Is that cinnamon? That is almost a cliche its so sad.” (Alright bitch, now you have done it. Do NOT fuck with my coffee. I will cut a bitch.)

However, before I can say or do anything, karma shows up like that flaky friend that is late 9 time out of 10. This being the 10th time.

Sparrows like to flit back and forth in the vines above, but in 15+ years of going to this place, I have never seen one shit on the ground, a table, and certainly not a person.

Until today.

With pinpoint accuracy, a sparrow shit 2x times its body weight onto her upper left breast, evenly splitting the material and flesh for a smelly ground zero that I happened to be looking right at when it happened.

Wow. It is one of those rare times that I am speechless.

Except for laughing.

The bark of laughter that exploded from my mouth scared the crap out of her.

The fist pump and harsh explosion of the word “YES!” from my mouth didn’t scare her as much as it pissed her off.

After all, the sparrow had flown off and she couldn’t bitch at it.

But we had both shit on her in different ways, but I was still there.

The evil old-lady glare I got was epic.

If she had any gypsy blood, I was in for a serious cursing.

They comped her breakfast and she stomped her chubby ass out the front door along with her reluctant companion.

And I got to eat my breakfast in peace.

And all was right with the world.

 
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Posted by on August 29, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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I hate you too, pumpkin.

This may come as a shock, but there are some people that hate this blog, and by extension, me.

And I am ok with that.

I didn’t start this weekly screed to make friends, I just wanted to have someplace to literary vomit on a regular basis, the fact that you read it is not something I will be held responsible for.

But, and this is the whole whiny point here, why read it if you don’t like it?

I got 5 hate emails last week for my post.

And not one of those 5 people who emailed were new to me.

EVERY one of them had emailed me before to bitch at me for something.

I had the C-word thrown at me again.

Not that one, Cis-male.

For those that don’t know, a cis-male is someone who insists on being the gender they were “Assigned” at birth. But there is a really pissy connotation like you are just choosing it to be an ass.

So, for my crimes of both being born with testicles and a penis and going the further step of calling myself male, I am getting hate email calling me a “Belligerent cis-male.”

As far as hate email goes, this is the weakest crap I have ever seen.

Part of insulting someone means that you at least use a vernacular that they will consider insulting.

I am a male. That is a physical fact and really does not leave room for debate.

I cannot claim to be a woman because I am, in fact, not.

Even if I go the route of the “Woman trapped in a man’s body” I would still be a man.

Gender is not something that you can argue.

Correction, you can argue about anything you feel like, but if you argue gender, you are wrong.

The physical is the default, that is the way it is.

Now, if you want to surgically alter the physical, that is different.

I am all about personal freedom, just don’t get stupid about it.

And when it comes to insulting me, you have to understand something.

Insulting is my game, welcome to Thunderdome, bitch.

Honestly, here is what insulting me does.

It identifies you as an eligible receiver in the game and screams “I’m open!”

Most of these people that email me are somewhat controlled yet insulting in their first email.

And then they get my reply.

And their second reply is where they lose their shit.

Because my reply doesn’t even try to be polite.

If my reply and polite were in a prison cell together, polite would not be allowed to pee standing up. (Wait for it… Wait for it… BAM! You got it.)

And can you blame them?

The dash off a poorly written, grammatically spotty email to chastise some blogger and the response is obscene, attacking, and, in some instances, against the law in several states.

The utter horror you get back when you call someone’s dog a cunt and intimate that it is a pedophile is stunning to read. The woman I pulled that little stunt on wrote back a 300 word reply that boiled down to “I don’t know how to respond but I hate you.”

I live for those ones.

Its an ugly side of me that I made peace with long ago.

And its gotten worse.

Its like the lunatics have taken over the asylum, but they are doing a better job of running it.

 
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Posted by on August 22, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Because I is a rich mo-fo

The stupidity of people is astonishing at times.

It stuns me that some people can figure out how to draw breath.

I realize that I am kind of a dick and more than willing to think the worst of people, but this time, it is justified.

I would like you to meet Larry, Moe and Curly.

They are gentlemen of leisure in Marina Del Rey, California.

While the phrase “Gentlemen of leisure” usually describes pimps, in this case it describes the homeless.

Gentlemen of leisure is the first thing that came to mind when I saw them so it stays.

They are parked at a table for 3 outside of the Starbucks just across the way from the marina.

Holding court.

Homeless have 3 things to talk about. Just the 3 and nothing more. You can argue this one, but I listen to them a lot and I have yet to hear anyone break from this subject matter.

It is not often that I sit outside of a Starbucks.
I am always on a laptop and even on a cloudy day, it still fades the screen.

But for this three, I will make an exception.

And it all has to do with this phrase:

“Once my banker calls, my money issues are over.”

Here is why this phrase is an awesome one as far as conversation samples go.

Because the guy saying it is dressed in rags with really bad teeth.

And if that doesn’t scream meth at you, you might be half a tard to begin with.

I got my coffee and then hustled back outside to catch the show.

I know, its cruel, its bad karma, its judgemental, whatever.

Its still funny.

Larry, the down on his luck rich guy, has had a disagreement with his business partners.

It seems that he owns several companies, tech stuff, you know.

Anyway, his partners have tried to screw him out of his half.

Like the money is just piled up behind the office door, and while he was out, his evil partners just pushed it to the other side of the room and won’t give it back.

I would say its a childs view of how business works, but it doesn’t add in that distrusting meth factor.

Moe and Curly, have accepted all of his lies without blinking, that is a different side of the meth factor.

Right up until the final meth shoe drops.

“Bullshit.” Curly practically whispered it.

The effect on the table was dramatic.

Moe immediately drummed the table, happy and even yelled “OHHHH!”

Larry jumps up and is ready to fight.

“You calling me a liar?” His hands are curled into fists, except for the ring finger on the left hand, some sort of damage has it gnarled off to the side.

Curly has entered some sort of angry trance state and is staring straight ahead with a furious look on his face.

“I am saying bullshit!”

“Bet me, bet me.” Larry is now dancing from foot to foot, hand held out to shake on it. (Incidentally, this is EXACTLY how Fortune 500 CEO’s settle shit.)

“M-Fer! You don’t even have a cell phone!” That, it seems, is Curly’s whole issue with Larry’s tale.

Really?

Out of all of that, his lack of a cell phone is what red flags it?

And then the police arrive.

“Getting a little loud here, gentlemen.”

In my head, a gentle plea goes out.

(Officer, I totally respect what you do, but could you please go fuck off for 10 minutes?)

Not to be.

The presence of the local LEO has cut the debate short.

Homeless are crazy, but they have a basic understanding of what a bad idea it is to fuck around with the cops in the area.

In short order, Larry, Moe and Curly split up. Literally, they divi the compass into 3rds and each goes his separate way.

And as they left, one thought crept into my head.

At the next board of director’s meeting, Larry should lobby for some teeth.

Obamacare, motherfucker!

 

 
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Posted by on August 15, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The naive 1% who care, but not really.

Stop trying to guilt me into doing something that will do ABSOLUTELY nothing to help someone else.

“99% of you will not share this…” This beautiful little slice of massive guilt is always contained somewhere within the message on Facebook, shared by some soft-headed prole who’s lemming-like instincts FORCED them to stab the “Share” button.

And the message is always some over the top, hideous tale that would make both Sarah McLachlan  and the dogs cry their eyes out.

The bulk of the message is some syrupy wretched tale of woe that is the stuff of nightmares.

But, half or three quarters of the way thru the poorly worded message is a guilt trip that would put a jewish mother to shame.

And, the demand is always the same.

“Please share this and get the word out. I know that 99% of you don’t have the heart, while the 1% who will actually care.”

Translation? “YOU ROTTEN GUILT FUCK!”

Now, and this really is the interesting part, clicking like or share does absolutely nothing for the particular wretch involved.

Even just spreading awareness it still does nothing in terms of forming a response.

It reminds me of the social media campaign to fight human trafficking.

It took picture of celebrities holding a sign that says “Real men don’t buy girls.” And put them on Facebook with the guilt-share demand.

Are we talking about hookers or slaves?

30 seconds of Google research later, it turns out that its both.

Children forced into prostitution and/or forced into porn or old school slavery, presumably out of the country.

An ugly business, but one that has only one certainty.

And that is, clicking “Share” will not help anyone. At all. Seriously. No fucking around here. Really. Like head-out-of-your-ass really.

And the use of Sean Penn as a deterrent is a little iffy at best.

I seem to remember an early interview with him in which he admitted to visiting prostitutes.

His sign should have read, “Real men don’t buy girls, ANYMORE.”

I am probably going to get sued for that one.

I am fine with that, he can have half of a penniless blog as a settlement.

I have been taking Muay Thai and Judo to prepare for his attacking me on the street.

I figure if he is willing to swing at photographers that get too close, he would be more than willing to beat me like a rented mule for outright slander.

Rumor has it that Madonna got into kickboxing shortly after the divorce.

But, that is the problem with the empty headed idiocy of social media.

People can get the emotional quick fix of thinking they are involved and doing something, all the while not doing a damn thing that will actually help.

Like the sex trafficking issue.

The people, mainly men, who engage in that industry, from John’s buying quick time in a gas station bathroom, to the serious slave traders, could care less than a shit about what you think of them.
The people who sell other people understand money and guns and that is pretty much it.

A pimp is never a timid person, easily swayed by public opinion and the slave traders are down right brutal.

The bottom line is, if you want to get involved, get off your ass.

If not, quit making an ass out of yourself by pretending you are.

Some of us are sick of this shit.

 
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Posted by on August 8, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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