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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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The End is Near, maybe.

I am the harbinger of doom, you’ve been warned.

To judge by the results, I have been breaking mirrors as I hit black cats to make them cross my path so that they can knock over the salt as we walk under a ladder.

The bad luck/shit karma storm seems to be endless.

Not for me mind you, but for everyone around me.

I exist in the eye of the shit storm.

And I feel bad mainly because Karma has been my bitch for a few weeks now.

But that is not what I am hear to talk about.

You all seem to hate the positive shit, you’ve proven that over and over.

The positive or uplifting post are among the least read.

The one’s that detail people held down by Fate and fisted by Karma?

Shit, you can’t get enough.

It boggles the mind and makes me feel bad.

Not to complain, but you do treat me like a whore.

No eye contact, just do your business and leave the page.

Leave the money on the dresser as you go.

So be it.

Why so cheerful today?

Ok, you asked for it, here is the roll call of crap.

This has all been related to me since I wrote last weeks blog:

  • I have had a half dozen people tell me about a close relative with a shitty prognosis involving cancer.
  • 3, count them 3, acquaintances have told me they are getting divorced.
  • 5 car accidents.
  • 1 cat rape involving an out of control horny bulldog. (Sorry, I laughed so hard at this one, I almost shit myself. The dog/cat owner has unfriended me on FB and will not return texts. Still funny.)
  • 2 people related having ED for the first time. (We are getting older, fellas. Its called Viagra, look into it.)
  • An old acquaintance’s child was sentenced to 20 years in prison. (Isn’t meth wonderful?)
  • I got a flat tire on my bike. (Really not much compared to the rest, but I SUCK at changing tubes. All about me.)
  • A married couple I know decided to spice up their bedroom activities and try some new things. They ended up in the ER later trying to get a string of beads out of her butt. (Pissing off people left and right today.)

It seems to be a time for keeping your head down.

Survival instinct kicks in and you learn to adapt and keep the shit stink from finding you.

So you don’t necessarily avoid people, but you are seeking out people either.

I know, that sounds mean, kind of because it is.

But I mean it in the nicest narcissistic way.

In the end, I look on the activities and things that have gone on in the last week as a cautionary tale of sorts.

But the moral of the story is this:

Be bold but be careful and if the bulldog of life looks your way?

Cover your ass.

 
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Posted by on May 15, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Sometimes you have to stop and ask yourself…

What the hell is wrong with people?

Today is a day filled with bad pick up lines.

The first one of the day caught me unaware, like a crisp slap across the face.

“A woman like you can stop a man in his tracks!”

This was said to a beautiful business blonde in a tailored suit.

This is a woman truly worth hitting on, and it was actually a decent pick up line.

So why didn’t it work?

I hate to be superficial, but the man who said it had no teeth.

The overwhelming stench of BO and urine did not help, I’m sure.

This woman was a rising star of the business world, you could tell from her demeanor.

If she hooked up with a homeless guy, in a classic “Differing class forbidden romance”, she would be ostracized.

The heart may want what it wants, but even the heart has to have some sort of sense, even if its not a sense of smell.

Plus, he would be hard to explain at parties.

Because nothing kills a young rising star in the business world like having to explain why your boyfriend is performing oral sex in the kitchen during a 4th quarter kick off party at the boss’s house.

Just saying.

But alas, our star crossed and pharmaceutically challenged lovers were destined never to be together.

She needed to get to work and he needed to go get high.

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

In a dead language that is inflicted on high school students like the clap, that phrase means The Glory of Man is Fleeting.

A loose interpretation could be to live for today.

Few people embrace old ideas like this.

They could throw caution to the wind and spend the next hour in the vacant lot nearby, seeing if the business woman’s shoes match the sky. (Wait for it, wait for it, BAM! You got it.)

But the fates are not kind to toothless men and fools.

To bad fate can’t get the homeless guy in a headlock and give him a quick shower, a flea dip and a serious delousing.

And pass the hat to get him a set of choppers.

Now, I told you that story to tell you this story.

I gave a homeless woman a 5 spot.

Not my usual thing, I know, I was shocked too.

But I spent my entire early morning chuckling about my evil observations about the big business/homeless Romeo and Juliet.

And it put me into one of those odd states of mind that I try to avoid when I am being vile.

It put me in a good mood.

And thats when she came rolling up.

The oldest 30 year old you have ever seen.

Life has regularly dragged this little honey out and beat her ass.

Well over several hundred thousand miles on this model, and those are all city miles.

There are missing teeth, but she was not so far gone that she had forgotten that.

“Got a dollar? Dollar for some food?” Almost like a chant, like she can’t even hear it herself.

My answer came out of my mouth from pure reflex.

“Don’t have any, sorry.” Cold, monotone, no eye contact. Cold son of a bitch.

She moved on.

And I felt bad.

It was a Grinch kind of moment and Whoville just started singing.

Shit.

I reached into my wallet and pulled out the first bill my fingers found.

Here is how out of character this is for me.

I am cheap, not a cool thing to admit, but there it is.

I had one of just about every bill you can have in America with the exception of the $100 bill.

“Forgot I brought my wallet, take care.”

I noticed as she took the bill that it was a 5.

I was happy it was not a 20 or a 50.

Mainly because it was the kind of moment that I would have let her have it, either way.

She stopped in place when she recognized the denomination.

“Thank you.”

Watching a meth head step out of their life and tear up at simply getting $5 is a emotionally surreal thing.

This is not a life changing event, but it did touch me.

In the good way.

St. Bittermac wishes you all a good day.

 
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Posted by on May 8, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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The Good, the Bad, and then it just gets Ugly.

Two items to get to before we descend into my usual diatribe.

 

The first is, after an unexpectedly long period of no job, by the time you read this, I will be on my second day at my new job.

Happy does not even begin to describe the feeling. We will start at relieved and grateful and go from there.

The exciting part is, while I was fast approaching the point of pursuing ANYTHING that came along, this is a position I would have left my long time job of last year for. Progressive start ups with an amazing product are exciting by nature, but there is so much right here, that I am humbled by how good a fit this looks like.

 

Second item. Baltimore appears to be burning to the ground. Add to that the Supreme Court listening to arguments on gay marriage and you have the type of situation that Facebook is wholly unsuited for.

Facebook has gang-raped debate into three categories.

  1. Loud, angry/condescending agreement of a political viewpoint, belief, or personal pet peeve.
  2. Name calling the moment someone disagrees.
  3. Blunt, rude, and often poorly stated slogans. These people are totally incapable of debate and get ugly when challenged.

If you cannot argue your point while remaining polite, then you do not understand your point well enough to argue it publicly. And before we descend into the idea that, “If you don’t agree with this, you are too stupid to talk to”, understand how big a cop out that line is. ANYTHING can be debated politely.

I often use words like a mugger uses a knife. My intent is to hurt, for a carefully shaped reason. Its not a good thing, but it is not necessarily bad. But I am never shocked when someone is hurt.

And thats the difference. Making a statement and then being shocked when someone is hurt by it, then claiming that it was not your intention is an immature, childish thing to say.

Done here.

 

There are sections of Los Angeles, California that are an odd juxtaposition of neighborhoods.

Like 2 or 3 different places that exist in the same place.

Here is what I mean.

Venice, California.

If you are a tourist, the Venice boardwalk area is a unique slice of Southern California that is a lot of fun.

If you are a homeless meth-head, the Venice Boardwalk is an open air home with dangers and pitfalls that is still your best location for not freezing to death in Winter.

If you are a Southern California native, Venice is a high priced real estate shithole of a place to live. (That was a quote from a 20 year Venice native.They also claimed they would NEVER leave.)

I am a native.

Going to Venice is a lot like visiting Tijuana, Mexico.

Its dirty, the poor are everywhere, and while you have a great time while you are there, you are SO happy you don’t live there.

But, much like going to Hollywood for the day, what strikes you is the high level of homeless that is there.

This is A-game shit, I kid you not.

There are 3 levels of homeless.

The first is the guy that got stoned at 15 and has stayed stoned ever since without developing a taste for meth. He has never had a job that did not involve either a name tag, a hair net or the risk of being arrested.

He is harmless.

His sign asking for money is probably a funny one. “Ninjas killed my family, need money for Kung Fu lessons.”

The next is your unconscious homeless.

You will never see this one awake.

It could be a heat wave and he will sleep thru it.

This is the one I pity the most.

I once left a sandwich next to this homeless guy to find when he wakes up.

That is not as noble as it sounds, I was buying a sandwich for myself and they had a 2 for 1 deal.

The last homeless is the one to fear.

He is a barely clothed daywalker with violent tendencies.

Meth is his God, and his worship practices are terrifying.

His hobbies include daily homeless fight club for varying reasons, violent take downs with groups of police, and defecating in public.

This is the one type of homeless that there is no fix for, no rehabilitation that will work or even help.

Like a rabid dog, he exists in pain and craziness until the day he drops.

You can smell crazy on him. (Smells a LOT like BO and shit/urine.)

These are the big dogs of homeless.

You can tell this by the fact that other homeless avoid them.

Think of it as the the bastard child of societal dynamic and Bernoulli’s Equation. (Look it up, most will still not see the connection.)

And when one of your variables is meth, all bets are off.

Keep your hands up and in plain sight, move slowly, speak softly, avoid eye contact and run when you get the chance.

Otherwise, you risk some pretty heinous potential damage.

You can take self defense all you like. (The best overall is Krav Maga. Despite some zipper heads resent claim that “Tai Chi is one of the most deadly martial arts”, it can be devastating but 99.99999% of ALL practitioners have no clue how to use it.)

No self defense on the planet work perfect for chemically crazy. (Google search “Bath salts face eating” after you eat, not before.)

Now you may ask, why are you at one of the most beautiful vacation areas available and focussing on the bad stuff.

Same reason that after you go to the puppet show for the first time and notice the strings, you can’t unsee them. The magic dies and you realize its a shame.

Now that is a depressing thought.

 

(Authors note, I wrote the depressing crap above prior to getting the new job. I was also on a 3 day no coffee or caffeine thing, big mistake, I am back to being caffeinated and twitchy. )

 
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Posted by on May 1, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Hating a stranger.

Its not often, but sometimes, when I least expect it, I instinctively hate people.

Case in point, I am in Starbucks, its not my favorite one, but its still a Starbucks.

For those of you that pay attention, its the “Icebox”, so named because the temperature is always at 60 degrees, Winter or Summer.

I used to think this was a bad idea, then I realized that on those days that I am there for an hour or more, I buy more coffee to keep me warm.

Maybe the manager is a genius.

And in she walks.

Something about her screams “Bitch”, loud and clear.

Of course she is on her cell phone, what else would she be doing?

And maybe it is just because I didn’t like her from the beginning, but I swear that the people around her moved just a touch more away from her than you would normally.

Maybe its an unconscious thing, just some sort of evil presence, like a low level fart in an elevator that you don’t know who did it, but you know it wasn’t you.

Anyway, she gets thru the line, gets a spinach quiche. (Red flag – Spinach quiche is the food of choice of pedophiles, serial killers and overly monied coffee hoes.)

Her drink, when it came, had a lot of foam, another red flag but I’m gonna let that go.

As luck would NOT have it, she sat at the seat next to me.

Conversation still going on.

Here are the highlight quotes.

  • “Marshal is having problems at school, he failed a test and the teacher is being a bitch about it. I told him he could stay home this week and calm down.” (My comment is to fucking long to put here, so its below.)
  • “Jack is still arguing about the alimony, I mean, I gave that asshole my life, and thats going to cost him.” (Lesson learned boys, some people, not all, just some people, when they are flat on their backs the meter is running. Talk amongst yourselves.)
  • The car is still not running right. Every time I put it in gear, I have to let off on the gas COMPLETELY. (You mean revving it and dumping it into gear is NOT good for the tranny?)

It was the Polish astronomer Copernicus who first offered the model of the universe that had the Sun at its core and not the Earth.

And it was the shithead sucking down a frappuccino sitting next to me that first offered the model of the universe that had Marshal at its core.

That means the center of the universe was somewhere local, still in his pj’s during mid morning and crying like a pussy.

For a long moment I was outraged.

We are currently raising a generation of kids that are being taught that, God forbid they ever encounter a problem, the only proper response is to freeze in place and over analyze it until someone comes along and either solves it for them, or it goes away on its own.

That was a shitty long moment.

The highlight was when I made her leave.

Its called the creep move.

It is a beautiful study in low level emotional intimidation.

I began to furiously scratch my armpit, the one closer to her.

I grunted slightly.

Once I could see her staring, I stopped scratching and smelled my fingers.

Wait for it……..

I scooted a half an inch towards her.

Then I turned my head, locked eyes, and smiled.

If you have ever seen someone fleeing a burning building, that is a lot like how she left.

Hung up her phone, stood and stomped her little feet out of Starbucks.

Even left her coffee creation behind.

I would feel bad, but, after all…

I didn’t like her to begin with.

 
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Posted by on April 24, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Getting to the cruel part.

There are two different types of bad behavior in this world.

There is the rare one, at least admitting it is rare, it actually happens quite a bit. Its the type of bad behavior that you do and then secretly relish the shitty thing you have done.

I am well acquainted with that one.

Hell, because of the filter eliminating effects of this damn blog, I often brag about it.

But today, we are here to talk about that other type of bad behavior.

Its that type of bad behavior that you do it and don’t secretly relish in it.

In fact, you don’t get it. Even when someone points it out to you, you don’t get it.

Like a shitty form of karmic water off of a cosmic ducks back, just to make it sound all new agey.

Here is an example: (Come on, you saw this coming, right?)

I was recently visiting on an excursion to a weird alternative museum.

The Museum of Jurassic Technology.

Its kind of like a freak show on Xanax.

Its the stuff that legitimate museums and freak shows took one look at and said, “It’s not for us, thanks.”

One display is two mummified mice on toast. (Draw your own conclusions.)

Another is a collection of clear glass globes that have floating figurines in them, all in different stages of drowning, complete with mood lighting and odd bubbly sounds effects.

The last example is a steel ferris wheel suspended from the ceiling. Its made of steel and every moving surface on it has a bell attached. Ever few minutes it begins spinning and the room has no sound proofing.

So any conversations you have go on a time out until the ferris wheel is done.

But the museum is not why we are here.

It what happened when we left the museum.

And then we met Earl.

Not sure if that is his name, but that is what I am calling him and who the fuck are you to argue? Sit down, shut up, and let me finish, jeez!

Earl is homeless.

And he is a homeless ninja.

We had not taken 10 steps from the shady museum’s front door when Earl struck.

His walker is on wheels, and they roll silent as a whisper.

“Hey there! How you boys doin’?”

He is not blocking our path, there is plenty of room to go around, but you have to.

We mumble some platitudes and begin our evasive maneuvers.

Earl is having none of that shit.

Side-spinning a walker does not take up more space at all, but it is a psychological block.

We stop.

“I don’t want money.”

As an opener, this is sloppy, but good. It doesn’t work, I mean, I KNOW he wants money, but what is his pitch? I was in sales long enough to know that everything is a transaction. Money, sense of accomplishment, pride…etc. Money is just the most obvious.

“Could you buy me a meal at the In’n’Out?”

There is a burger place just up the street.

“Sorry, I don’t carry cash.”

You might think this is the cruel part, BUT YOU WOULD BE WRONG.

So off we walked.

“Why didn’t you give him food?” My oh so innocent companion asked.

The reasons are long and drawn out, but based on advice from a professional in the “Dealing with the homeless in the most compassionate way” industry. The incomplete simple answer is, anything I give him enables and perpetuates his addiction and makes me an active party in killing him.

But that is still not the cruel part.

“Because,” I said as we headed in to the same burger place to get lunch.

“I don’t want to see him try to smoke a burger.”

And THATS THE CRUEL PART. (And its a hell of a long walk for a punch line, but it is what it is. Write your own blog.)

 
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Posted by on April 17, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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The coming of the Fat Man

This is the world as we know it.

People are not bad at heart, they just do bad things sometimes.

But, they don’t seek to do bad things.

And people that drink coffee like it piping hot.

And then there is the alternate universe going on at the next table at Starbucks.

The Fat Man, not the one from the Maltese Falcon played by the immortal Sydney Greenstreet, but the 450lbs guy sitting in the Starbucks in Manhattan Beach this morning, is eyeing his 3 cranberry orange scones like a pedophile eyeing a playground.

He has been on the phone for the last 20 minutes with someone who, for lack of a better term, is his evil minion.

Here are the atrocities that I have so far heard:

  • At 12:01am on the first of May, any of the tenants (See also, poor unlucky bastards) that have not paid rent are to be evicted. He actually stabbed his chubby little finger in the air for enphasis.
  • Shut down his daughters credit account. Apparently, she is 18 and got a job. The atrocity part of this is that he specified that the evil minion was NOT to let her know. Typically you don’t see parents actively seeking to shit on their own children.
  • The Fat Man crumbled up two of the scones and put the pieces into his coffee, INTO HIS COFFEE, and let them sit and soak. The end result will be the coffee being soaked completely into the crumbs and the cup will be filled with cranberry orange coffee oatmeal, sans oatmeal. While that might sound somewhat tasty, it was the slow, lurid sucking of his fingers to clean them off that lent the air of unclean dirtiness to the whole thing.
  • He informed his evil minion that he had a while to wait before he could drink his coffee because he likes it at ROOM TEMPERATURE.

His look, his speech, his mannerisms, the very air around him is repellent.

If Hitler had a brother that he considered to be a little too extreme, the Fat Man would be it.

I have begun to wonder if others can see him, or if he is just a figment of my imagination, a demon of sorts, sent to torture me as a warning to live a better life. (Much like a twisted version of It’s a wonderful life.)

The man appears to be exceptionally well off, but I hate to use that term.

The words “Well off” seems contradictory.

Plus, he just farted.

I realize everyone farts, but most people try to hide it or at least apologize when they can’t.

He didn’t even lean over on one cheek and let go, it was just a mid-sentence mini-explosion that may well have been a part of his speech, like a comma.

He never paused.

In the back of my head, the part with the vile little voice? There seems to be A LOT of whispering that the Fat Man had just shit himself and that by my not commenting or leaving, I was showing my approval.

Why the voice does that to me is confusing.

I mean, the voice likes being in Starbucks, there is so many things to see and talk shit about.

So, I pack up and leave in protest.

But, I did not manage to get out before I got a whiff of the Fat Man’s rectal cologne.
There is a realization you get when you cut yourself really bad.

Its that split second before the nerve ending explode and pain begins, its the mental realization of how bad it is going to be.

Now, add that the the feeling of being kicked in the balls. (Bear with me, ladies.)

Combine the two and you are in the right neighborhood of me right then.

When you are trying to pack up a laptop and accessories there is only so much speeding up you can do.

Also, the Fat Man began eating his coffee/scone/oatmeal.

I have written and erased several descriptions and 75% of them used some sort of creepy sexual imagery.

Suffice to say it was not pleasant and just left me feeling dirty. Like I needed both a shower and an exorcism just to feel clean enough to begin therapy.

I used to like those scones too.

 
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Posted by on April 10, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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