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Come here, now go away.

Leave me the fuck alone.

Caffeinated and annoyed is a bad place to be.

The problem seems silly to be putting it down on a page, but it is what it is.

My dealer will not leave me alone.

Here it is:

I am in my favorite breakfast place, eating and getting my java on.

I have said many times that, as far as addictions go, caffeine is one of the better ones.

Mainly because it is easy to get, cheap compared to other drugs and the acceptability factor is off the charts.

But there is this new waitress in the diner and its slow.

Which means the new girl does not have enough pressing work to do and needs to look busy, but has not been here long enough to know all of the methods of looking busy, so she is doing the easiest one.

Wandering around with a coffee pot, offering refills.

I love that, to a point.

Don’t get me wrong, there are times when its busy that I cannot get a refill and am on the verge of performing sex acts in dirty alleys to get a top off. (Yes, its a stretch, but this is not about you. Put your hand down and shut your pie hole.)

But the new girl, lets call her Bitsy.

Bitsy has so far asked me 4 times if I need a refill in the last 5 minutes.

I do not want to discourage her, mainly because I will need her sometime soon for that refill she is offering.

She has a very innocent look on her face, which either makes it harder to be an ass to her, or just might make it more fun to be a total dick to her.

She looks familiar enough that I have begun to wonder if I know her mother.

Possibly, I fathered the girl. (There are penalties to living in the same town all of your life and being a prolific male slut in your early years.)

And then it hits me.

On my 9th birthday, I received an odd gift from a relative.

A pet rock.

I named it Alfonzo and put it in its little nest on my dresser.

A few years later, in a fit of boredom, I painted a little face on Alfonzo, complete with huge blue eyes.

Bitzy looks like my pet rock.

Its almost spooky, but there it is.

I still have Afonzo, by the way.

He and I have been thru a lot of shit over the years.

I would be proud of the fact that I have kept my pet rock all these years, but the reality of a pet rock is that it is a rock.
To have a pet rock for a long time only means that you never threw it out.

Its not a living pet.

Let’s be real, if Alfonzo were real, he would be dead by now, I am not that consistant with the whole “Daily feeding” regimen that living things need.

Bitsy just topped off my cup.

I thanked her and smiled at her.

In memory of the Alfonzo that might have been.

Ahhhhh, morning coffee.

 
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Posted by on January 23, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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I don’t need a BFF, dude.

There is such a thing as being too damned friendly.

When I am writing, I try to give off an unfriendly, “Asshole” kind of vibe. (As opposed to the friendly asshole vibe I give off the rest of the time.)

Mainly because nothing sucks worse than getting a line in my head that has just the right amount of cerebral stank on it only to have it evaporate like early morning mist because a stranger has decided I was BFF material.

“What are you writing?”

This is the witty opening line that ruined my thought process and sewered the killer blog idea in my head.

The unspoken here is that now you are stuck with my pissy, angst-filled rant of a post about shitting on strangers.

Suck it up, life is like that.

As I pull myself away from my writing I take a good look at “Magoo”. (I can’t remember what he said his name was, but Magoo fits.)

Magoo is one of nature’s children. He has an innocence about him that is almost charming and in any other setting, I would be happy to chat.

But he is in the wrong creative neighborhood at the wrong cerebral time of the night.

Lot of mind assault and battery happens in those settings. (He would be the star of the show if there was a mental episode of “Cops”. And I realize this imagery is a stretch. Work with me.)

But his question does demand an answer.

“Obituaries. I write obituaries for the LA Times.”

“Oh.” Deer in the headlights. The little smile is gone.

I’m not finished.

“Pays better than you think. Plus you get to spend a lot of time talking to grieving families.” (Its important to smile and be too excited at this point. It twists up the deeply ingrained expectation of being really serious on a serious topic. Like a giggling mortician, its out of place and more than a little disturbing.)

“Is that a good thing?” The question kind of tumbles confusedly out of his mouth.

“Its awesome, really gives you a heads up on estate sales and used cars.”

“Oh.” The deer in the headlights is beginning to realize that the headlights are not friendly.

“I am up for a promotion. Sex crimes beat. You talk with a LOT of rape and shooting victims.”

Eye contact breaks at this point and you can feel the flight part of the fight or flight reflex taking over.

He’s not sure what is wrong with me or the situation, but he knows SOMETHING is wrong and its making him antsy.

Bingo.

Almost on cue, the guy mutters something that sounds like something between a hiccup and a word that sounded like “Megosh” and walked away.

More like scurries away. I watch him go, smile and put my headphones back on.

Yeah, I know.

Asshole.

It is what it is.

What kills me is, I had my headphones on.

I could put a sign on the table that says, “Fuck off” but I figured the headphones were enough.

Besides, the last time I put the sign out, enough people complained that the manager asked me to take it down.

Once again, I know.

 
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Posted by on January 16, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Calm before the asshole storm.

It’s 1955, I’m sure of it.

I am in a diner, having breakfast.

Never been here before, but the waitress poured me a cup of coffee when I sat down without my having said anything.

This is how she took my order.

“What’ll you have, sweetie?”

She is snapping her gum as she takes my order.

The fact that she is about 70 is almost an afterthought.

And then, Vince came in.

I know his name is Vince, because the hostess, my waitress and several customers all said “Vince” when he came in.

He sat at the bar with the air of a man in his place of power and confidence.

He never ordered, but he got coffee, eggs and toast.

Pretty much all he did from when he came thru the door, till he walked out about an hour later, was hit on the waitress.

Did I mention he looked to be in his 70’s?

The counter I am sitting at with Vince has a full view of the parking lot.

Vince rolled into the parking lot in a vintage Buick Roadmaster, circa 1955.

Thats the one with the steel dashboard.

Like Jay Leno said, you hit your head on that, they hose it off and sell it to someone else.

I watched the interplay between Vince and the waitress and really felt better about life.

That makes me nervous, because I rarely feel better about life. (Call me a cynic, But I am usually convinced we are all fucked and out to screw each other over as a general rule.)

There was an innocence to the symbiotic relationship.

If either one of them was under the age of 50, this would be sexual harassment.

As it is, its a relationship that existed during a particular bubble in time.

Like the attitude/perception version of a unicorn, rare and almost mythical in this day and age.

Eventually, breakfast came to an end. (They don’t offer wifi, and I had some writing to do. All of my stuff is in the cloud and, yeah, its annoying at times.)

Outside, the real world intruded.

I was about four blocks away, the light had just changed to green, when the 500lbs beast in the car ahead of me lost his shit.

The lady ahead of him must have been texting, or just not paying attention, but she did not drive off immediately when the light turned green.

So the beast laid on his horn and began actually screaming.

“MOVE YOU STUPID BITCH!!!!”

There was more, but it was worse.

Karma, it seems, is reminiscing about a gentler time today right along with me.

To the left and back half a car length of the beast and his battered Oldsmobuick, was a sheriff, sitting right in the beast’s blind spot.

And his window was open.

Sheriff’s deputies are known for 2 things.

The first is, they are usually huge human beings that DO NOT TAKE SHIT.

The second is, there is nothing they love more than to protect good people from bad people. (The phrasing there is very specific, by the way.)

His lights came on and I was more than happy to let him over as traffic moved forward.

They pulled into a parking lot and I rolled past.

I am truly bummed that I did not pull in to watch.

But, just in case the beast shot his mouth off and forced the sheriff to beat the living shit out of him, there shouldn’t be any witnesses.

Mainly because the beast deserved it, and I am on the sheriff’s side on this one.

Because some people just need their ass kicked sometimes.

“What’ll you have, sweetie?”

 
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Posted by on January 9, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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What did you get her?

The setting is this.

Starbucks. Morning. Saturday. Insomnia. Coffee. Mmmmm. Few people. Guy on phone. Talking too loud. I am sitting too close. GO.

Here is what I have figured out so far.

He is talking to someone on the phone. Has to be a woman and based on a comment about “When we were kids.” I am guessing its his sister.

He is divorced. Its a Saturday, he is alone and not working on a “Honey-do” list. Also, there is no wedding ring, but perhaps a dent in his ring finger from a ring in the past.

Plus there is that single guy confusion rather than that married guy “certainty of being just plain fucked” aura to him.

And it seems that he has run into an impasse with a woman he is dating.

Evidently, he screwed things up last night and has called his sister to get her perspective on his mistakes.

He has yet to sleep with said woman he is dating yet.

But, they have discussed it.

She has mentioned being good at blowjobs. (Odds are she never said this. She said something that he interpreted as concerning blowjobs.)

He, surprise surprise here, likes a good bj. (You and every other swinging dick out there, buddy.)

Don’t start groaning yet, we all know its coming, but don’t get ahead of the story.

So, he got her a rather expensive jacket, and gave it to her a few days before Christmas.

So, deer in the headlights, no gift to give him back, she indicated that she hadn’t gotten him anything yet.

So he suggested a blowjob.

The stupid peeps out there are wondering what is wrong with this.

There are a number of ways to take this, and none of them are good.

The nicest way I can think of is that he gave her dick for Christmas, wrapped in a jacket.

And you want to save the paper on that one.

The worst way is that he called her an old school whore.

I have yet to make this particular mistake, not sure how I missed that.

I never intend to make mistakes, but I have a problem with running my mouth.

And, if you ramble long enough, just about anything is capable of coming out of your mouth.

I have been dealing with this for so long, that when everything goes wrong, I tend to just laugh.

And that never helps.

Nothing takes a pissed off woman and shoves her rage thru the freaking rafters than laughing when she’s pissed.

But this guy has an innocent stupidity to him that is almost endearing.

I mean, he’s giving away dick for Christmas, and she is at the head of the line.

She should feel good that he holds her in such high esteem.

And she could be at the front of that line or the back. Count your blessings.

Seems like a win-win, right?

All of a sudden he and I both being divorced makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?

Remember, always save the paper, no matter what its wrapped around.

 
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Posted by on January 2, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Merry frickin Christmas.

Christmas always has the potential of being epic, one way or the other.

I mean that, good or bad.

It can be that twisted, screwed up kind of day that gives all involved baggage to tote around for the rest of their lives.

Or, it can be the kind of day that reminds you what Christmas can be, like when you were a kid type of good.

And that was today.

I have a few requirements to make the holidays good.

Since I could not have the #1 requirements, being with my kids, my second requirement is that the whole family gets together.

Done.

Third on that list is that I get to cook breakfast for everyone.

Done.

The unspoken is that a touch too much bacon is available for cooking and sampling by all throughout the cooking, also, coffee is involved, but I figure we all know that one. Kind of a gimme, really.

I was also given the perfect gift today.

Its a travel mug from Starbucks that has a special feature for the caffeine addicted.

Free refills for the month of January. I shit you not.

Its like a meth lab handing out unlimited free samples.

Its like Krispy Kremes handing out.. ok, bad example.

I may not make it thru the month of January. My heart may not hold out.

Just saying.

As far as gifts go, its incredibly inciteful and somewhat brutal.

Christmas as an adult is much different than when you are a kid.

When you are a child, you are told what you will be doing on Christmas.

And there is nothing that you really have to do.

When you are an adult, you balance what you want to do with what you have to do.

And there are a lot of have to’s as an adult.

And the one thing you can’t ask Santa for is to take over your responsibilities.

He will not pay your rent or make a car payment.

He will not explain your internet browser history to your wife.

He will not not even pay for the gifts you put under the tree with his name on them.

Sounds a lot like old saint Nicky is getting a butt-load of free advertising from all of us.

But, to quote Janet Jackson… (Jeez, how desperate am I?)

What have you done for me lately?

Nope, growing up means that, except in rare occasions, nobody covers your shit but you.

So, by default, this ends up being the time of the year that we are all forced to untwist our big boy (Or girl) pants and get our shit in some semblance of together.

Which is good as a general rule.

Being a kid means that you believe in stuff that is not real.

Being an adult means you have to believe in stuff that is brutally real.

The secret to keeping your shit together and still be able to laugh.

 
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Posted by on December 26, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Elf on the shelf.

Elf on the shelf.

I am huge on holiday tradition.

Being Irish and Catholic, its not like I have a choice.

But there is one recent tradition I have noticed that I absolutely refuse to take part in.

Elf on the shelf.

It starts out with seemingly good intent.

The elf is watching, so it compels your kids to behave in the weeks leading up to Christmas under the vague threat that the elf will shit can their gifts if they cop an attitude.

I can only assume this was invented by weak minded parents that lost sight of the “Naughty and Nice List” concept, so they jumped ship for something newer.

But the elf?

Its creepy for starters.

Elf on the shelf.

The only thing that would scare me more is a drunken clown with a hard on chasing me.

If you search Google for “Sexual Predator map” you will find a fully searchable map of anyone convicted of a sex crime in the USA.

Who is in your neighborhood?

But, the one creepy, clammy palmed, sweaty upper lipped predator that should be on that map, is not.

Elf on the shelf.

If the Buddhists believe that your behavior in this life leads to what you are in the next, what the hell kind of depraved screw-head was the Elf on the shelf in his last life?

Just up there staring at your kids all day. You get the feeling that he would be masturbating if he could. He’s not, but you know he wants to.

Have parents truly lost that much control?

Its kind of pathetic, really.

Elf on the shelf.

If your kid’s behavior is at a point that you cannot handle it and have to resort to some sort of good behavior talisman, the game is over, you are raising criminals.

And I realize I am pulling the pin and sending myself into the hate email dunking tank on this one, but I do think there is a point to be made. (A sarcastic point, but a point none the less)

The point is that the holidays are built around guilt, but don’t stray from the traditional guilt instilled in our society by our parents and grandparents.

Because tradition is important.

Elf on the shelf.

The Jews, the Muslims, and the Irish have no elf on the shelf traditions, and for that, I salute them.

The household I grew up in? Elf on the shelf would have died horribly.

Plus the Cooking Witch would never have put up with it.

For those too ignorant to know about Cooking Witches, they are a little witch looking doll that is put on a shelf overlooking your stove.

She is there to bring luck to your cooking and make sure nothing burns.

Elf on the shelf.

Same premise as Elf on the shelf, but is not the new kid on the block, trying to make a name for himself by scaring little kids.

Why is the Cooking Witch more acceptable? I mean besides the fact that she has been there since I was a kid?

One word.

Cookies.

My mothers cookies were epic when I was a kid.

Mrs. Fields is a punk ass bitch compared to my mother’s chocolate chip cookies.

And the Cooking Witch was there, she was a part of it.

But Elf on the shelf? Its only a matter of time before he falls into the same class in society that clowns now occupy.

Once a cool thing, now just creepy and scary.

Good.

I mean, its not like he can cook.

Merry Christmas.

Elf on the shelf.

 
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Posted by on December 19, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Your dirty, sexy mouth.

Picture this in your head.

Picture the woman that says the following phrase.

“Finish your coffee, I’m gonna go push out a gang of tootsie rolls and then we’ll roll.”

What is the image in your head?

More specifically, what does the trailer park she lives in look like?

Is Walmart involved?

Now, here is the reality.

Mid-40’s, attractive brunette.

High end business suit, hair styled by someone that probably costs a fortune.

Mercedes smart key on the keychain.

iPhone 6 sitting on the table.

This is a high end business woman.

With the communication skills of a foul mouthed teenager before curse words come into play.

It really ruins the overall desirability of the rather expensively hot look she has put together.

For the mind, that is.

The penis could care less if she shit herself, he is still up for play time.

Very one track mind, the penis.

The woman disturbed me for a few minutes mainly because she didn’t fit the niche I had carved out for her in my head.

In my head, she was a sophisticated, flirty, wholly desirable business woman in an age range that is totally at her peak, physically and sexually.

And then, my mind made the correction and put her in the niche she belongs in, and all was better.

Salesman.

And now her phrasing made sense.

Salesman have a relationship with the spoken word much like a john with a Bangkok hooker.

Use it to do things you should be ashamed of, for money.

Sales is the type of profession that kind of removes your filters when you are not speaking to a client.

You have to be very controlled in not only what you say to a client, but also, how you say it.

When that is no longer required, the kid gloves come off.

I was a salesman for about 10 years, and this blog reminds me a lot of my mouth during that period.

Not a lot of filtering going on.

But back to the situation at hand.

My disappointment is huge.

I hate having my semi ruined mid-lust. (Anyone but me get this one?)

Eventually the hot, potty mouthed business woman returns from her presumed tootsie roll dropping, and they leave.

And the whole thing has left me slightly twisted.

I spend a lot of my time slightly twisted as it is, so when I hit something that shoves me further down that road against my will, it ruins my equilibrium.

Even coffee is not helping.

That alone tells you how disconcerting this is, because coffee usually fixes EVERYTHING.

I was so upset, I got another vente house drip.

And if you follow the news, you know that Starbucks house drip has the highest caffeine content of any national coffee house.

A vente cup has roughly 415mg of caffeine.

I have had 2 in the span of an hour.

There is a legal limit of 250mg of caffeine per hour in the state of California. (I could be wrong)

So, having ingested 830mg puts me over 3 times the legal limit.

Which explains my attraction to the hot, yet dirty, businesswoman.

I no longer question what goes on when I am under the influence.

This comes from years of morning after examinations.

At least with caffeine, you will never wake up with indelible marker writing on your face.

And sadly, with caffeine, you will never wake up after a black out evening to find yourself in bed with a hot businesswoman, dirty mouth or not.

 
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Posted by on December 12, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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