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Damn it feels good to be a gangsta

Court is a lot like the classical version of hell.

Horrible and boring.

I stand accused, M’lord. Guilty as charged. Mercy, M’lord, mercy.

Here is my vile crime.

I drove 2 blocks without my seatbelt on.

Chain my ass up and send me to Russia.

The truly unfortunate part of all this is that an officer of the law happened to be pulling up to a stop sign just as I turned onto my street.

Bad enough to get the ticket, but add to it my total inability to pay the damn thing on time and you have a recipe for creating my own misery.

When the ticket goes beyond 30 days, the fine doubles.

When it goes beyond 120 days?

It would be more merciful if they just held me down and beat me to death.

As it is they added a civil penalty of 10x the original fine.

Land of the free, home of the brave.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, purple mountains majesty. Now pay your fucking fine and shut your mouth.

I found out years ago that if you show up, plead guilty and act polite they will reduce it back to the original fine amount.

So here I am.

Exiting the parking garage, I am treated to a wonderful site.

About 150 people in line, waiting to get in.

The line is moving briskly as we are shuttled thru the metal detector, manned by armed men.

There are about 50 people left between me and my own trip thru the metal detector when the excitement begins.

It seems a guy has been stopped at the metal detector because he forgot he had a piece of metal on him.

The metal in this case appears to be a Saturday Night Special.

A .25 calibre piece of shit that just earned him a trip to jail.

The legally armed men at the metal detector do not seem to be accepting his excuse of “Man, I forgot I had that shit on me!” and are jacking a brother up off to the side, while another legally armed man puts the gun in a baggy.

The level of stupid here is pretty impressive.

Hard to beat.

Me and the 50 people in front of me all saw this little production of “Our town- Thug life edition”.

Think of it as a cautionary tale for our times.

Don’t be that stupid, people.

So, when the guy two people in front of me got stopped at the detector for a pocket knife with a 5 inch blade, I am sure we were all a little shocked.

No more felonies are committed and I manage to get inside on time to make it to my assigned court room.

And there on the door of the courtroom, is my entire reason for being a consistent asshole to the universe.

“All cases for Division 1 will be rescheduled. Court is closed due to illness.”

Sigh.

Karma, you giggling bitch.

Well played.

 
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Posted by on February 27, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Before you kill someone.

You gotta wonder what goes thru some peoples minds.

I mean, being stupid is ok, but being dangerously stupid can get you killed.

Morning rush hour, traffic is bumper to bumper.

I am not on the freeway, but its still bad.

Luckily, I am not rushing to get to work, just breakfast.

Heading to my favorite breakfast place.

Time to coffee up.

But the car ahead of me is out to kill someone.

Judging from the hair, I am going to say the driver is a woman.

And she is weaving, not a basket or something creative, unless you think of fatality accidents as creative.

She is driving by braille, going from the bumps on one side to the other.

And she has slammed on her brakes 3 times in a 1 mile stretch.

We will assume she is drunk, I mean, she could be a serial killer for all I know.

Anyway, the drunk chick almost just impacted into the back of a UPS truck.

We all know how those UPS trucks dart in and out of traffic, no doubt it was the truck’s slow and even speed that surprised her.

Instead of hitting the UPS truck, she whipped her car to the left, pulling into a turn lane, but going the wrong way.

The only problem with that is that she almost went head on into a car that was just pulling into that turn lane.

This woman is a Goddam menace. A threat to the public. Armed (With a car) and dangerous.

As traffic began moving again, I finally got in the next lane.

As luck would have it, my new lane we faster, and I pulled up next to vehicular public enemy #1 at the next red light.

It is, indeed, a woman.

Either late teens or early 20’s, which makes her even dumber than most.

That isn’t sexist, by the way.

Late teens to early 20’s is easily the dumbest part of life, where most of the WORST decisions in life are made.

She isn’t drunk.

She is putting on her make up.

Are you shitting me?

That will be an interesting scene at the hospital.

A surgeon with bloody clothes comes out to address a grieving family.

“Cause of death, lip gloss.”

This is hall of fame type of stupid here.

However, if you smack your hand on the door of your car and yell “HEY, DUMBASS!” She jumps like a singed kitten and stares at you like you’ve done something wrong.

At least it got her to drive better, for awhile at least.

But then she had to work on her mascara.

While I don’t wish her well, I hope the criminally stupid doesn’t become an ACTUAL criminal.

(But I do wish that some sort of karmic “Instant justice” happens to her. Like she gets fired today, or her cat dies, or she gets an STD. Just kidding, I’m sure she’s already got an STD. From her dead cat. OH YES I DID!)

 
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Posted by on February 20, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Rock bottom.

When a 21 year old stunning blonde in a bar does the “hair flip with a giggle” move on a guy, it can be breath taking.

But when a formerly stunning blonde who is not aging well does it in a Starbucks to a guy half her age she met in line?

Not so much.

Don’t get me wrong, sometimes there is nothing hotter than a woman well out of her 20’s that has enough experience in the world to be comfortable in her skin.

And it blows the younger competition out of the water.

But it is a tough act to pull off.

Such is not the case here.

Its more like a bad actress in a shitty play with no rehearsal who’s dying of a wasting disease caught by making out with some  un-vaccinated homeless illegal with lip sores at some sort of 70’s style key party in a random flip flop club in a questionable side of town on the wrong side of the tracks an hour past closing time on a school night.

(Lines like that are why I write this blog.)

The guy, mid 20’s and dumb like a stick by the looks of him, is not even noticing.

He has this sort of Lumpy Rutherford innocence to him that is as charming as it is alarming.

In fact, the more I watch this guy the more I feel I may owe sticks an apology, because they could not POSSIBLY be as stupid.

Who knows, maybe they’re made for each other?

Sounds like a bad tv show, she is the aging cougar with unidentified crotch itch and he is at the other end of the tard spectrum.

And together they fight crime and bump uglies.

A mid-season replacement show this fall on FOX.

“Old ho and the tard.”

The better thought process is, why the hell should I care where he gets his STD’s? If not from her, then from elsewhere, and I really don’t want to know where she got hers. (Although it probably involved a trip to TJ and an admission ticket to the “Donkey show”.)

(May have gone to far at this point. Give me a minute here.)

 

A test reader has just pointed out to me that, in my attempt to be amusing, I may just be an ass and total douche.

Entirely possible.

I make a big show of denigrating your reading of this blog, that I don’t care, its not for you, blah, blah, blah, the usual crap I throw out there.

Truth is, I need you to read this stuff and either laugh and shoot coffee out of your nose or hate it like a pedophile has moved into your neighborhood and has become BFF’s with your kids.

(Test reader has just called me a dick and is refusing to be involved from here on. Never a good sign.)

So lets dial it back a notch, slow things down.

Like a slow jazz singer trying get his groupies worked up to have a shot at a sloppy handjob after the show.

I give up, despite my admittedly half-assed attempts to get out of the mental sewer I find myself in, I can’t seem to get over the curb.

Like a literary quicksand, the more I struggle, the deeper I sink.

So I give up.

That is the beauty of writing a weekly blog.

There’s always next week.

 
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Posted by on February 13, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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The asshole within.

I gotta get out of this business.

Being the literary coffee house witness is beginning to take its toll.

I no longer have the ability to filter what comes out of my mouth or onto the page.

The only filter is one I developed, the one that tries to phrase everything in the most shocking or shitty way.

Its like the blogging version of PTSD.

The blog has touched my mind, but not in a good way.

More like a creepy uncle with clammy palms kind of touching.

And yeah, there is baggage that comes with that. (From the blogging, I don’t have a clammy-palmed uncle.)

But, I am not a danger to anyone else, unless you read the blog, then we are all victims together.

Great, lets form some sort of touchy-feeling support group to sob about “What the blog did to me!”

That might be a symptom of the problem in this country.

Previous generations, like your grandfather’s on back, the one’s that built this country? They worked, got shit done, and kept their issues to themselves.

They rarely missed work.

I could be wrong, but it seems like we are teaching society that, God forbid ANY problem pop up, STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND THINK ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS!

Don’t move forward until you have coddled your inner child until they are every bit as spoiled as we are.

Recipe for disaster, but maybe I am being harsh.

“Time to cut bait.”

I hate having my thought process interrupted but that phrase caught my attention.

It’s one of those cultural adages that means “Time to get to work”.

The guy sitting next to me is wearing a pretty expensive suit and used that phrase.

Funny, he doesn’t look like a fisherman.

He is on an iPhone 6.

He looks like aging middle management in an expensive, but boring, suit.

It appears he is in insurance of some sort.

And, like his suit, the man is boring.

I have spent less than 15 minutes in his presence and I can vouch for the fact that the man is less exciting than toilet paper.

And thats pretty boring.

But, its a slow day, especially when your blog is about observing other people.

And he is the only cookie in the jar.

So what can we tell about him just from looking?

He has no taste in suits, but he is smart enough to go somewhere to buy his suits that the salesman has decent taste.

He’s a bad salesman, you can tell that just from looking at his hair.

Comb-over. Bad sign.

Also, fiddles with his pen as he talks, also a bad sign.

In poker, they call this a tell.

It means he’s nervous, bluffing and feeding someone a line of shit.

And there are lots of lines of shit in the insurance game.

For those who sell insurance, if you are offended, stop lying to yourself.

Time to get rid of him, he is souring my morning.

I look at him, smiling slightly and hold up my hand till he notices.

“Hang just a second.” He covers the receiver with his hand. “Can I help you?”

I look friendly and a little wide eyed at this point. (Or at least as much as possible. This is not in my wheelhouse really.)

“Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior? Can we talk for a minute?”

Beat.

“I gotta go.” He says this into the receiver, packs up, mumbles some sort of excuse why we are not chatting and flees the scene in under 45 seconds.

And peace returns.

 
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Posted by on February 6, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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When it all goes wrong

Yoga pants are the Almighty’s gift to men everywhere.

Done right, yoga pants can cure erectile dysfunction in a New York minute.

A prime example of this is in front of me in line at Starbucks at this moment.

I have never been an ass man, but I would love to introduce myself to this one.

“Hello, my name is Bitter and I would love to wear your ass like a hat.”  (Nod to City Slickers there.)

Done wrong, it is a sad and discouraging thing to see.

That is standing in front of me as well.

Like 5 pounds of jelly in a stretchy 3 pound bag.

They are together, yoga friends, no doubt.

They are chatting amiably.

Like some sort of masturbatory before/after picture that you HOPE has been photoshopped.

What truly sucks is that there is no way to separate one from the other in my head now.

Kills the fantasy.

In my fantasies, there is never a wingman to distract the nasty friend, I prefer a closed set.

So now my head is just sewered for the rest of the day, trying to figure it out.

(I deleted about 300 words of disturbing sexual fantasy description here. It started to get a little creepy. Suffice to say that the nasty friend ruins the fantasy and I can’t get past it.)

And now we know where erectile dysfunction comes from, bad yoga pants choices.

Glad we cleared that up.

On to new business.

Its the end of January and I am about to lose a friend.

My Starbucks mug I received at Xmas that gets free coffee refills for the month of January will soon be dead in the water, no more refills.

Sad, like the death of a beloved character from my youth.

I remember the beginning of the month, we were so damned young.

They were good days, the “salad days” if you will.

The free refills seemed like they would go on forever.

We were so in love.

We would always be together.

And now, with the end of the month looming, things are getting tense.

The coffee today is not as hot and has a little bit of bitterness to it.

I will drink the coffee, go thru the motions like some sort of caffeinated automaton.

But my heart is not in it.

We are like familiar strangers.

I will miss you, holiday mug.

We will still be friends.

Nodding at each other when we meet in the kitchen, when I open up the coffee mug cupboard to get a cup, I will see you, dusty on your shelf.

But lets not let it get weird, ok?

I mean, we have had some good times, we can still have some coffee sometimes.

It doesn’t have to get weird.

Sure, lets do that, lets make a date and go have some java, like old times.

Sigh.

Its weird, isn’t it?

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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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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