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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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Silence of the naughty fruit.

Got your freak flags out? Let em fly.

What is it with cheap motels and squeaky floors?

Just like there is an art to making a squeak free floor, there must be a polar opposing art to making one that squeaks that badly.

Maybe the squeeking flooring masters, much like the Persian rug weavers of old feel that perfection is the sole realm of the Almighty and insert a squeaky flaw as a sign of respect.

Either way, I cannot take a step anywhere inside the bathroom without announcing to the other residents in neighboring rooms that I intend to flip trout.

I even tried to limit my time doing anything in the bathroom, toilet related or not, just so they wouldn’t think I had picked up a sudden case of Montezuma’s Revenge. (No need to Google that. Monty’s revenge is a wicked case of the shits.)

Although, I question the repairs that are obvious throughout the room.

The door jam is a darkly stained wood. But someone kicked in the door at one time or another and tore out the completely ineffective door chain. The replacement wood is white and unstained.

And when someone scratches graffiti into the surface of a mirror, you have to replace the mirror. You cannot sand that section of the mirror  or IT STOPS BEING A MIRROR. But thats just me, I can be picky.

And while I have never heard of using spackle to repair the side of a tv, I applaude the ingenuity. However, if that method of repair is why only 3 channels are available, perhaps they should have used a different type of filler compound.

I had originally decided not to mention the tenants in the room next door, but I kind of feel like I have to now.

I try not to judge, (We all know I do, but I am on my soap box) and I am a firm believer in the rights of people to do whatever vile thing you want, as long as it doesn’t involve me. (Unless I am invited, then I am MUCH more understanding.)

But the lady next door has the ugliest sounding orgasm I have ever heard.

I think if your orgasm has a high end fugly factor, it is perfectly acceptable to fake it at that point.

How the guy did not suffer spontaneous ED is beyond me.

At first I was hoping that she was alone and the only thing being abused was a vibrator or innocent piece of fruit. (Not that I would wish that on anyone, but inanimate objects accept pain so much better than we do. Or maybe they just can’t speak, so we don’t know. But Pfizer doesn’t make Viagra for fruit, so I think I am in the right here. And while we are here, I have never heard of a cucumber screaming or crying.)

Anyway, as I type this, the unpleasant freak show next door is on round three. I may have ED for the rest of my life.

When I first heard and realized what was going on, I smiled, thinking that something naughty and fun was in the offing.

And then, much like getting a strong whiff of sour milk, I suddenly lost my appetite.

And that is tough to do, I have a libido like a runaway freight train, destructive and single minded in purpose.

But the train is currently off of the tracks. Let Freud make of that what he will.

The way I figured out that she had a partner is when I heard him groan.

It sounded like a groan of pain, or maybe a sob.

I wonder if that kills her unpleasant orgasm when her partner sobs uncontrollably?

Or does she even notice?

When a jackal tears the throat out of a water buffalo, does it wonder how the water buffalo feels about all of that?

Probably not.

In the end, I went looking for a cheap motel and that is exactly what I got.

At least I didn’t get crabs from the bed.

So thats a bonus.

 
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Posted by on June 12, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Castration is a bitch.

For the record, Bruce Jenner is dyslexic.

I am not saying that this had anything to do with his gender reassignment.

But what if he went in for a vasectomy, and there was simply a misunderstanding.

Shit happens.

Does he miss his balls? Do they wonder what they did wrong?

Where they donated in some sort of “Testicular rescue” program?

Have they found a “Forever home”?

Will we see them on a Facebook post?

An infomercial plea for cash to save his balls with sorrowful Sarah McLaughlan music playing in the background.

That seems a little heavy handed for a set of nuts.

But I wouldn’t put it past Sarah.

Even with the airbrushing, Bruce has some pretty grim cheekbones.

But, go to any bar at last call and you will see guys pumping drinks into way fuglier women than Bruce will ever be. Or Caitlyn.

Whatever.

Honestly, I think the dividing line is the basic equipment.

You can’t just decide you are a woman and demand everyone change gears if you are still sporting a penis.

Take hormones all you like, but a dick is a dude and the ladies have lady bits.

At least Braitlyn chose the right time to do this.

The gender reassignment surgeries have hit their high point.

Google it and you will see some pretty gruesome pics of what they viewed as a “Success” 10-15 years ago in turning a man into a woman.

From an uneducated civilian point of view, it was a horror show of oddities that had more in common with an old school freak show than any sort of corrective surgery.

And someone (Actually several thousand) are living with that today.

Wonder what their sex life is like?

Wonder what Braitlyn’s sex life is like?

After all, he was married to the Unholy One, Kris Kardashian. (It has yet to be proven that she brokered Kim’s sex tape, but I have seen Hollywood premieres that did not roll out as smoothly and had less advanced notice in the press.)

Also never proven is how big a penis Kris has. But we all KNOW she has one.

Is that where Braitlyn decided being a man was no longer an option?

Chilling. Mean and funny to those with a twisted sense of humor, but chilling.

Which begs the question, when is Braitlyn’s sex tape coming out? That seems to be their MO.

Will we be able to actually see Kris’s face? Or will it be blurred out? Will Kim be in it? Probably, she is every bit the attention whore (Emphasis) that her unholy mommy is.

I never cared for oddity porn, just not my thing. If it’s yours, God bless, it’s your journey. Just wear a condom, for God’s sake.

What I can’t understand is that everyone is making such a big deal out of Braitlyn changing from man into woman, and no one has even mentioned Kris’s transformation from woman into “Babylon the Great, the Mother of Prostitutes and Abominations of the Earth.” (Revelations M-Fer!)

Just saying.

 
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Posted by on June 5, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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A rose by any other name, is still just a dirty blog.

“TWO HOUSEHOLDS, both alike in dignity,

In fair Starbucks, where we lay our scene,

From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,

Where civil blood makes barrista hands unclean.

From forth the fatal loins of these two foes,

A pair of star-cross’d barristas risk their jobs”

Something like that.

Tears in my eyes as I write this. Its so touching, so beautiful and yet, doomed to failure.

I see them in the distance, a couple, late 20’s, beach people, holding each other, middle of the block.

Its a lovely scene.

And then I get closer.

And I see their shirts.

“Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf” (Think Capulet)

“Starbucks” (See also Montague.)

Barristas from opposing houses.

Doomed to a love that is forbidden.

I pass them and they are silent, no doubt the pain of their situation has driven them to silence.

Or, he was talking dirty and didn’t want me to hear, either one.

Eventually, as the story goes, the manager of Starbucks will find out and threaten to fire the barrista, and then someone get killed in a duel and then some of your better catch phrases happen.

“A plague on BOTH your lattes!”

And then, in the end, She will quit her job, planning to apply at Starbucks to be with him.

But, he doesn’t know that, so he will quit his job, thinking to work at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.

So he is heading up the street to Coffee bean, and she is heading down the street to Starbucks.

And then they see each other, and they both realize what happened.

BUT THAT IS NOT THE DEATH SCENE!

That happens when they go across the street and get jobs at Peets Coffee.

A seedy little coffee house of ill repute, inhabited by questionable reprobates like soccer moms and real estate agents.

THIS IS THE SUICIDE SCENE!

Yup, working at Peets is pure resume suicide.

No one in the history of the world has EVER read a resume and said, “Oh, you worked at Peets coffee, great!”

Its a resume stain for the service industry much like a dose of the clap, but harder to get rid of.

And I still cannot prove that their coffee is not heavily tea-bagged in the back room. (There is this flavor in the coffee, you know?)

So what is the moral of this tragic tale?

There are several.

  1. Peets Coffee is made by seedy unsupervised perverts.
  2. Starbucks and Coffee Bean coffees do NOT have plague virus in them. (Shout out to their lawyers. Please don’t hur my family.)
  3. When you are dealing with insomnia, haven’t slept more than 4 hours in 3 days and decide to watch the 1996 version of Romeo & Juliet (Leonardo Di Caprio and Clare Danes), do not, repeat, DO NOT, write a blog in the wee hours of the morning.

Because who knows what kind of shit you are going to put on the page.

 
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Posted by on May 29, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Your child MIGHT be the Anti-Christ

I weep for the future.

 

I feel like I am beating a dead horse here.

Like I am harping on the same damn thing, again and again.

So let me say this again, and I will try to be clear.

Beat some sense into your fucking kids.

Soon.

Please.

Maybe its the local.

Panera Bakery has decent coffee, despite how it is made.

They brew it in back and then bring out urns of it periodically.

There is always a vile suspicion in the back of my head that someone is teabagging this lukewarm swill in the back room before trotting it out for the public.

No way to be sure, but there is always a flavor I can’t identify and my paranoia screams “SCROTUM!” each and every time.

But I am not here to talk about the coffee.

I am here to piss and moan about Armageddon.

And it has a name.

That name is Crandall.

Crandall is only 7 and is already a world class fuck-tard.

That is an amazing feat for a 7 year old.

Say what you like about me being a rotten human being, but this will be the one who’s finger pushes the button that destroys us all.

How do I know this? I don’t, but it would not shock me at all.

First off, his family is rich.

Not that kind of rich that is trying to make the world a better place.

Or even that hiding in the shadows, anonymous kind of rich.

Even worse, they are that, its all beneath us, you motherfuckers are shit kind of rich.

Mom has not quit whining since they hit the door.

She is not happy to be here.

News flash you vile slag, none of us are happy your here either.

The husband is living his life thru the bluetooth growing out of his ear like a techo-goiter.

Apparently there are those at his office that cannot take a shit without talking to mister big.

So he is working, and practicing his golf swing with his mercedes smart key.

We get it asshole, you golf. How the fuck else would you be spending your worthless time?

Are we all on the same page here?

Good.

Now, lets meet Crandall.

Crandall is wearing little lord Fauntleroy short pants, a look that went out of style when FDR was wheeling his ass out of office.

There is a 1 inch circle around his mouth that is always wet, like he either lipped a jar of Vaseline in the parking lot or he has been licking his lips for the last hour non-stop.

His eyes travel independently of each other, much like an iguana or a koi fish. Its unsettling to say the least.

He lacks common sense and even basic depth perception, as evidenced by his walking full speed into the baked goods case.

A full five minutes passed and he was still thrashing on the ground, fully absorbed in his fit.

And that was when he farted, loudly, for the first time.

His parents ignored it for the first 3 minutes, then got into an argument over who is to blame.

They ordered, collected their vile offspring and looked over no less than 3 different tables that the wife nixed before settling at one.

I have never prayed for a terrorist attack on any public place that I was at but I would be ok with someone with a vest made out of c4 detonating at the front door if it meant keeping Crandall from attaining breeding age.

I once heard a drill sergeant scream that the best part of someone ended up as a brown stain on a mattress.

I get that now.

I am not saying Crandall is the anti-christ, I am only saying he MIGHT be.

I posted up across the room just to watch this macabre little freakshow for myself.

When the wife would stop talking, and trust me, it was not often, her face would scrunch up in a disdainful mew like someone had farted and she was trying to figure out who.

Just as that thought hit my brain, Crandall farted, or quite possibly shit himself for the first or second time.

The bark of laughter that escaped me scared the shit out of everyone.

I did my best to stop laughing, but that only made it worse.

I didn’t hide it, I just stared rudely and laughed my ass off.

They got their food to go.

It was awesome.

I was sad that I had ruined the show, but I was also thrilled that they were no longer here.

Once they were gone, a peace descended over the building.

The planets aligned.

A lasting peace came to all people.

Somewhere, an angel got his wings.

And all was right with the world.

 
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Posted by on May 22, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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