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Hoping for that Snooky sucker punch.

There is something about being born in Southern California that keeps you from using the word “Cali” in a sentence.

That has always been the big three of identifying a tourist or worse, someone trying to pretend they were born here.

  1. Use of the word Cali. You were not raised here, stop faking this, its just sad.
  2. Mullet. Can’t get around the hairstyle as an instant identifier of someone raised “Elsewhere”. Its an ugly hairstyle indicative of trailer parks and trucks up on blocks in your front yard. See also inbreeding.
  3. Calling a soda “Pop”. May as well have a piece of hay sticking out of your teeth, Jethro.

Do I have a point here? Not sure.

What I do have is indigestion based on the conversation going on at the next table.

My muse this morning is a mid-30’s woman that is a walking cliche.

Jersey hair, too much perfume, too much jewelry, too much…

Just too much.

And she is on her cell phone, which has been bedazzled too much.

Volume of her voice? Too much.

“I have been in Cali for 5 years now. I’m practically a native.”

I just about shit myself when that little gem slipped out of her mouth, too much lipstick, with her thick Jersey accent.

Like a more mannish Snooky who may, or may not, have penis.

You would think I would be repulsed.

However, like a slow motion train wreck, I cannot look away.

But its a painful perspective.

One that is tough to endure and also tough to hide.

The person she is talking to is located somewhere called “Back in Dirty D”.

Not sure where that is, but it sounds like a pit.

(My apologies to pit inhabitants everywhere. I am sure your place is much nicer.)

Don’t get me wrong, I am fully in favor of migrating if you do not like your present surroundings.

But at least make the effort to blend in before you declare your native standing.

Its a lot like those that become Irish each and every St. Patrick’s day.

No, you are not. Green beer and wolfing down corned beef and cabbage by the metric ton does not make you Irish any more than having few years of rent paid west of the West of the 405 makes you a native. (Mostly just natives will get this. If you aren’t a native, but you do get it, you are still not a native)

So where does that leave us?
For me, it leaves me in a Starbucks sitting with an irritated nose next to the second coming of Snooky the terrible.

Eventually, she hung up the phone and began texting.

And if you have never had the pleasure of watching a woman with inch long fingernails texting, it is a case study in blissful frustration.

It appears to be 3-4 times the effort of normal texting, but all done with a smile and the low humming of a tune.

No brains, no headaches, everything is streamlined and simple.

Its a little like watching Winnie the Pooh, if he had Jersey hair and a push up bra, but that same innocent ignorance.

Except that I have never despised Winnie the Pooh.

But maybe thats just me.

 
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Posted by on July 31, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Easy rider it isn’t.

Its called “Right of way”, asshole.

No one knows how to drive these days.

And I am not just talking about turning the wheel and pushing the pedals, you could hook electrodes to a dead earthworm and he get push the pedal enough to get you a ticket. (Plus you would probably get hit with the “No seatbelt” ticket too. They are so small, it would totally slip your mind.)

I am talking about those pesky little nitpicking annoyances that those of us who are just being assholes like to call THE FUCKING TRAFFIC LAWS.

You know, silly concepts like right of way, signalling a lane change and driving in the bike lane.

I swear, riding my bike to work has been an interesting mix of blessing and curse.

On the one hand, its a great way to get a morning and afternoon workout in my efforts to change the shape I am in. (Mainly from round into something that looks better.)

However, as I watch my fellow motorists zooming past me, a couple of things are abundantly clear.

  • The shittiest driver’s on the road have the nicest or the crappiest cars. Your high end Mercedes drivers are the most clueless d-bags on the road. Crappy cars are known for erratic driving. no look lane changes and right turns are their stock in trade.
  • Motorcyclists scream the loudest about how everyone doesn’t look out for them, but they look out for NO ONE. An even 50% of observed motorcycles on my daily trek speed, do NOT use turn signals, accelerate 3-4 times faster than everyone else and weave in and out of traffic. I am stunned they are not dropping like flies on an hourly basis.

On the good side of things, and we all know how I love the positive side of things, the ride to work was a great one.

Long enough to get a workout, not so long I am destroyed when I get there.

Hoping to ride a 100 mile race next month, so I need the work out.

But enough about me.

I did see a friend of sorts on my way.

Pauline, my latest homeless meth-head friend, happened to be walking down the street as I was riding to work.

Meth, it seems, does not have a bed time.

I waved and shouted her name and she just looked blankly at me, like she didn’t recognize me.

And she probably didn’t. Hard core drug use is a bitch on the short-term memory.

The morning ride was vastly different from the afternoon ride.

Morning ride starts just before sunup. The streets are deserted except for those with the really shitty commute. (Which was me for a long time.)

Its cool out, slight breeze, and more than enough light to see, but I use my bike lights anyway, more for them to see me than for me to see the road.

The afternoon ride is busy. Lots of cars on the road. Its hot and real humid out, so the sweat starts quickly and truly shocks me with the quantity.

But its a good ride, mainly flat, a few small hills, but nothing even approaching hard.

Had an interesting encounter on the ride home.

Pulled up to a stoplight and waited at the curb for the light to change.

There is a massive street dude standing there, truly a beast of a human being with all the earmarks of the thug life, up to and including facial tattoos.

His shirt print is a really interesting design, kind of an urban cityscape, but with colorful air brushing and some sci fi imagery mixed in.

And then I realized I was staring.

And then I realized he was staring at me, staring at him.

Among the thug world, mono a mono stare downs can get you shot. The best course of action its to change the setting.

“I like that shirt.”

He looks confused, and pulls out his earbuds. He didn’t hear me.

“What?”

“I like that print.”

And just like that, the moment is defused.

A huge grin spreads across his face.

“Its my design. I’m the artist.”

“You are a talented human-being.”

Andre and I talk for a good twenty minutes.

Awesome dude. Grew up in a really bad section of town, had an uncle who wanted to keep him out of trouble, so he taught him to draw when he was little. It worked, sort of.

But uncle died recently and left Andre a 4 color silk screen press.

And Andre is doing 4 color shirts, then doing further painting on them to create some truly incredible stuff. He showed me picks on his phone of a dozen shirts he has done. He sells them for $40. Doing well, he says.

The light has changed a number of times, and I am finally ready to go.

The white walk signal comes up and Andre steps off the curb, heading in the same direction.

And a car tries to turn right with no signal, against the light.

Had I jackrabbited, he might have clipped me.

Andre smacks the hood with his fist and the driver looks terrified and backs up.

As I ride off, I wonder if I can talk Andre into doing the daily ride with me.

Because people drive like shit.

 
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Posted by on July 24, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Turning the other cheek has never been my thing.

50 shades of blog.

That is my life right now.

For those that didn’t put down their Highlights magazine or the latest copy of 17 magazine in order to read the book or couldn’t get an adult to buy you a ticket for the movie, 50 Shades of Grey is housewife porn about S & M.

I always found the concept of S & M a little silly, and then I realized something.

Turns out, I am totally into it.

I write a weekly blog, and I really work on the rude, like more than most people would think.

Over 4 years, close to 600 posts.

Thats a lot of rude.

But the hate mail has been pretty solid for the last two years.

And it suddenly occurred to me that I am setting myself up for a weekly flogging, all the while whining like some sort of prison bitch about my lot in life.

Here is the issue.

Its all email.

I was perplexed as to why people would send a private message to chastise me when they could comment at the bottom of the post and do it publicly.

And then it hit me.

Because its public.

The whining fucking maggots that piss and moan every week prefer to hide in the shadows as they take their shots.

Confrontation in a public forum might lead to the one thing they fear most.

Someone might chastise them.

And they can’t take that.

So, I have made a little change in the set up.

This will be the last week an email option will be available on this site.

Got something to say? Do it in public or shut up and take it.

So, this is your last chance to take a private swing.

Next week? We will throw down in public.

I have said it before, but you came into my yard.

Welcome to Thunderdome, bitch.

I am not getting misty eyed about it, but there are a few of my dedicated critics that I will miss.

I only know them by their email names.

Tiny Mouse, from New Zealand, sent me the first hate email I ever received.

Calls me a belligerent cis-male every now and then.

Has never understood that I do not view that as an insult.  (A cis-male is someone who insists on being viewed as the gender they were born to. The connotation being that you are doing it just to be an ass.

I view my gender as the default setting. I am a guy. So is Bruce Jenner. I will call him Caitlin, but I will not call him a woman until he has his junk removed.)

Another favorite critic is Newhall who is lurking somewhere in Southern California.

Newhall is a unicorn with a winning lottery ticket in his mouth.

Male, and has about a dozen cats. (I have replied to his most heated hate emails with accusations of cat-rape and that just throws him into a frenzy.)

Usually your crazy cat person is a woman.

And while Newhall has tried so hard to make me see my misogynistic racism, its just not a concept I can understand. No doubt a side effort of my cis-maleness.

And he has found it in places that I had no idea that misogyny could exist in.

I have written tens of thousands of words about a married couple that I named the “Evil Couple”.

My bewildered confusion at the antics of those two are some of my favorites.

It turns out that my comments about them, equally spaced amounts of shit heaped on both, are misogynistic.

How? I am still in the dark on that one.

I would like to say that I will miss them, but I won’t.

Much like wiping shit off of my shoe, I will tell myself that its ok, but I will always feel a little dirty, in the back of my head.

So, with all that being said, I invite you pussies to step out of the shadows and into the Fight Club.

And if its your first time at my Fight Club?

You fight.

Bring it.

 

 
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Posted by on July 17, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Saint Bitter, patron saint of the homeless.

There is a certain crazed symmetry to watching a meth head beg for money.

I know what you are thinking – “There he goes again, making fun of people less fortunate.”

You’re wrong.

I am making fun, but these people are in a living hell.

But, even the making fun is reserved as I watch how absolutely exhausting it must be inside of the head of Pauline.

Pauline is mid 30’s, looks 60.

There are only a few teeth left, the rest have fallen out.

Her eyes are tired, yet dart back and forth in a manic frenzy.

I am parked at the corner, on my bike, waiting for the light to change.

I have been bicycle commuting as much as I can lately, trying to change my shape from round to more of a V.

Jury is still out on how that is still working.

I have my cycling shades on, so no one can see my eyes.

Which destroys Pauline’s whole game, she relies on eye contact as the go ahead to start her pitch.

The light turns green and Pauline has had no success in her fundraising activities.

Everyone starts to cross the street.

Except me.

Its not often I break outside of the rotten little shell of shittyness that I wear like a new coat and feel something different.

Pity.

Pauline is a broken toy.

Like well and truly broken beyond repair.

She is watching me, so I take off my glasses and look at her.

The story, when she launches into it, makes severe ADD look focussed.

Her purse was stolen, or she lost it, or she needs cigarettes, or money, or a ride.

I hold up my hand, shushing her.

“What do you want from me?”

Tears well up in her eyes.

“I want to talk to someone.”

First complete sentence from her so far.

Tears well up in my eyes.

I tell her my name and ask hers.

She begins to slow down.

It occurs to me I might be the first person that is not telling her no or avoiding her in weeks.

Its a sobering thought.

I would throw out a “There but for the grace of God…” line, but it would wring false.

I figured out a long time ago that addictions never stick with me.

Luck of the draw.

 

I tell Pauline why I am riding and about the 100 mile race I want to do.

She stars a little blankly at me as if the idea of riding for any reason other than to get some place makes no sense.
And maybe it doesn’t.

And I do something I rarely do.

Part with cash.

Same deal as before.

Reach into the wallet, pull out a bill at random.

No matter what it is, I have to give it.

Its a dumb game that is designed to make me feel better on a base emotional level.

Last time I did it, it was just a five.

This time, luck is on Pauline’s side.

She folds the twenty and puts it in her pocket, like a squirrel hiding a nut that someone might steal without warning.

The light turns green for about the fifth time, this time, I decide to go.

“Bye!” Pauline stands on the corner and waves as I ride off.

Not many days I do this, I don’t think I could survive the emotional rip tide of it all.

But I feel better, in a shallow, superficial way.

And I am ok with that.

I’m a fucking saint.

 
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Posted by on July 10, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Bunny and the Glazed Donut Monster

There is a certain insanity to a child.

More of a delusional logic that disappears over time.

The really bad part is when we get pulled into it to the point that we accept the delusion.

Because you and I both know that a stuffed animal, as a general rule, do not speak foreign languages.

Case in point.

Bunny.

Bunny is currently sharing the child’s seat in a shopping cart in a supermarket.

The child with the strangle hold on Bunny is a grubby little rugrat, to say the least.

His shirt was white, once.

Key word is once.

Not a lot of thought has gone into his wardrobe.

Blame dad for that, mom is most likely the bread winner in this little scenario, because she is no where to be found.

Dad has that barely keeping all the plates in the air, half assed approach of the stay at home dad.

Further re-enforcing this theory is that fact that, if mom was involved, I can’t help but think that she would wipe this kid’s face, specifically his nose.

Its like a glazed donut screwed a Chatty Kathy doll and this was their unholy offspring.

Its filthy, sticky and will NOT shut up.

I could hear this kid running his mouth from 2 aisles away.

And what was the subject of discussion?

Throwing Bunny under the bus.

Ratting out Bunny seems to be a serious past time for the Glazed Donut Monster.

The insanely delusional list of crimes Bunny is guilty of is like watching a miniature Alzheimer’s patient in the early stages.

And here is where we find out the problem with this whole situation.

Because most kids flap their little underaged festering pie hole and I rarely notice.

I usually just assume they are a little slow, mainly because they are not mine, and I move on.

But dad is the problem.

Dad is  buying into the insanity.

“I really doubt Bunny is cussing in German!” Dad says this almost pissed off.

First of all, its cursing. Cussing isn’t even a word.

Second of all, seriously dude?

Its one thing to make the conscious decision to raise this little melon-head even after the doctor told you and the misses that he would never be right in the head. More power to you. Its a selfless thing to do.

But when you buy into the madness, you start down a path that only has one final destination.

But like I said before, stuffed animals rarely speak in foreign languages. They tend to stick to the native tongue of their owner.

And if they did, it would not be German.

Stuffed animals, even filthy snot-covered ones like Bunny, tend to evoke a warm and fuzzy feeling. Summoning images of loving and caring mothers.

Which, if you have never been to Germany, is not what you will find in the old country.

Think of an entire country and a people with resting bitch face.

Show of hands, who have I not pissed off so far?

Sometimes, the truth can be brutal.

Sometimes, outright lying can be just as brutal. Mainly because it has some unpleasant truth to it.

But insane father’s that argue in public about the linguistic abilities of stuffed animals are a different kind of unpleasant.

Because Bunny might be the only sane one here.

 
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Posted by on July 3, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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She chose the thug life, it didn’t chose her.

A day of loss.

Every now and then, I turn around and suddenly have an “Oh Shit!” moment.

They are usually due to my own stupidity and the last 24 hours have been no exception to that rule.

The first Oh Shit happened last night at about 5:30pm.

I had finished the bicycle commute and just showered.

I was happy hour bound.
A cocktail at the end of my work week to take the edge off.. (Thursday is the end of my week. Odd story there.)

Put my pants on, and went to put my wallet in my pocket. (No pockets in my bike shorts.)

Oh Shit!

Left my wallet at work.

Made a call and got some coworkers involved in my little personal scavenger hunt.

Luckily, I keep spare cash at the house, so happy hour would be where I would await word of if I was only inconvenienced or truly screwed.

I was halfway thru my first libation when I got the text, life goes on, financially. My wallet was secured and waiting for me.

Suddenly, the drink tasted that much better.

Before I left, I decided to get some dinner to go.

As I was standing at the bar, waiting for my food, and surprise, having another drink, I met Betty.

Betty is the puzzle, in the conundrum, in the enigma.

Because there are parts that fit.

And parts that don’t.

Her hair is done in a “Gladys Kravis” mini boof hairdo from the 50’s.

Little old lady specs rest at the tip of her nose.

Her dress is a fashionable flower print moomoo, possibly a size 20.

Maybe in her mid to late 60’s.

I talked with her as I waited.

I was having a Dos Equis, one of my favorites.

Betty is having a vodka gimlet.

So you have the whole picture in your head of Betty, right?

Did I mention she has to full sleeves of tattoos?

Fresh.

It seems that Betty got a wild hair up her ass a few months ago when her granddaughter turned 18 and got a tattoo.

Betty loved it.

So, she turned on the new fangled “COM PEW TOR” that her son got her, and looked at tattoos on the internet.

And something happened to Betty.

I am not against tattoos, hell I have two good sized ones on my shoulders.

But Betty got an idea in her little squishy head and went on down to the local tattoo parlor.

And she told the tattoo artist to tattoo her arms with something that reflected life.

Those were her total instructions.

So the artist free-handed two sleeves in several sittings, giving Betty what she asked for.

Tattoos that reflected life.

The thug life.

To his credit, the tattoo artist definitely had some talent.

But, if I had to call it, the artist had a good amount of old school cholo and modern gangbanger.

The only other place I have seen tattoos this harsh was on convicts.

The “Laugh now, Cry later” theater masks are prominent on her left arm as it leaves the sleeve, with a picture of a beautiful topless young Latina beneath it. An evil clown with a joint sticking out of his lips has a gun to his head and just blew his brains out all over an 8-ball and a set of dice.

I was mesmerized at how wildly over the top this little sweet old lady’s tattoos went. On her right wrist was an angry pitbull being mounted by a larger pitbull.

Nobody went to the tattoo parlor with Betty to ask her what the fuck she was thinking that morning.

I am not against tattoos, but they should reflect your life.

Your thug life.

All of a sudden, my Oh Shit moment doesn’t seem like much.

 
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Posted by on June 26, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Riding a pale meth-horse

A few thoughts on armageddon.

When the end comes, and trust me, its coming, it won’t be what you think.

Zombie holocaust? Nope. Nuclear war? Not a chance.

Homeless clowns.

Most chilling fucking thing I have ever witnessed.

Let me paint you a scene.

I am off work, unlocking my bike.

And then I hear the screaming.

“F-YOU, YOU M-FING M_FERS!”

Stop.

Who do you see in your head?

Who says this?

You are thinking homeless meth-head, right?

You are only half right.

Across the street, stomping and swearing her unwashed ass around bus stop…

Is a HOMELESS CLOWN METH-HEAD!

I may shit myself and have a heart attack.

This is hands down the most terrifying thing I have ever seen.

I am not sure how I got here, but I am crouched down behind some bikes locked to a fence.

This is horrible.

The “Pucker factor” of seeing a homeless clown meth-head far exceeds 10 right now.

I am so clenched at this point I could crush pool balls with my asscheeks.

Watching this horror of nature stomp around the bus stop and scream is like something either out of a horror film or Revelations.

Who is like the Beast? Who can make war like the Beast?

So, now that I have offended everyone I ever went to Catholic school with, you poor tortured

bastards, let me bring my entire blasphemous witticisms full circle.

On Judgement day, once the horn blows, armies of homeless meth-head clowns will descend upon on us like locusts.

And at the head of that army, Kris Jenner, also known as “Babylon, mother of Harlots and abominations in the world.” (I think I am dead right on this one.)

Whew! That got a little long winded, sorry about that.

It was a long walk, for such a small drink, but one I am willing to make. (There are like 5 people I know who will get this.)

Anyway, while I am not totally afraid of clowns, in a purely “Grown ass man” sense, but a homeless meth-head clown is a little too much for the senses.

Its overwhelming, like a visual brain-freeze.

And the only fix for it is to hunker down and just wait for it to pass.

This too shall pass.

So, once I stopped being terrified and hiding, I began to watch the vile little scene going on across the street. (I had my bike ready to take off just in case Babylon saw me and gave me the bulls rush. I am curious, but not stupid.)

Most of her rage, and there was a LOT of it, was directed at 2 people on the corner who were pushing a broken lawn mower.

Which should have tipped me off.

So the clown is pissed at the other two homeless meth-heads who may or may not have stolen her broken lawn mower. (For the record, they were not dressed as clowns.)

There are some of you who are right now asking “How do you know they are homeless?”

Because, WHO ELSE would push around a broken lawn mower.

Everyone else throws that shit away in the trash.

Which is where the homeless find it.

However, even the drug addled denizens of alleyways can only push a broken mower around until they figure out that it is not worth shit.

And that is when the homeless meth-head clown will get it back.

 

 
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Posted by on June 19, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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