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I hate you too, pumpkin.

This may come as a shock, but there are some people that hate this blog, and by extension, me.

And I am ok with that.

I didn’t start this weekly screed to make friends, I just wanted to have someplace to literary vomit on a regular basis, the fact that you read it is not something I will be held responsible for.

But, and this is the whole whiny point here, why read it if you don’t like it?

I got 5 hate emails last week for my post.

And not one of those 5 people who emailed were new to me.

EVERY one of them had emailed me before to bitch at me for something.

I had the C-word thrown at me again.

Not that one, Cis-male.

For those that don’t know, a cis-male is someone who insists on being the gender they were “Assigned” at birth. But there is a really pissy connotation like you are just choosing it to be an ass.

So, for my crimes of both being born with testicles and a penis and going the further step of calling myself male, I am getting hate email calling me a “Belligerent cis-male.”

As far as hate email goes, this is the weakest crap I have ever seen.

Part of insulting someone means that you at least use a vernacular that they will consider insulting.

I am a male. That is a physical fact and really does not leave room for debate.

I cannot claim to be a woman because I am, in fact, not.

Even if I go the route of the “Woman trapped in a man’s body” I would still be a man.

Gender is not something that you can argue.

Correction, you can argue about anything you feel like, but if you argue gender, you are wrong.

The physical is the default, that is the way it is.

Now, if you want to surgically alter the physical, that is different.

I am all about personal freedom, just don’t get stupid about it.

And when it comes to insulting me, you have to understand something.

Insulting is my game, welcome to Thunderdome, bitch.

Honestly, here is what insulting me does.

It identifies you as an eligible receiver in the game and screams “I’m open!”

Most of these people that email me are somewhat controlled yet insulting in their first email.

And then they get my reply.

And their second reply is where they lose their shit.

Because my reply doesn’t even try to be polite.

If my reply and polite were in a prison cell together, polite would not be allowed to pee standing up. (Wait for it… Wait for it… BAM! You got it.)

And can you blame them?

The dash off a poorly written, grammatically spotty email to chastise some blogger and the response is obscene, attacking, and, in some instances, against the law in several states.

The utter horror you get back when you call someone’s dog a cunt and intimate that it is a pedophile is stunning to read. The woman I pulled that little stunt on wrote back a 300 word reply that boiled down to “I don’t know how to respond but I hate you.”

I live for those ones.

Its an ugly side of me that I made peace with long ago.

And its gotten worse.

Its like the lunatics have taken over the asylum, but they are doing a better job of running it.

 
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Posted by on August 22, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Because I is a rich mo-fo

The stupidity of people is astonishing at times.

It stuns me that some people can figure out how to draw breath.

I realize that I am kind of a dick and more than willing to think the worst of people, but this time, it is justified.

I would like you to meet Larry, Moe and Curly.

They are gentlemen of leisure in Marina Del Rey, California.

While the phrase “Gentlemen of leisure” usually describes pimps, in this case it describes the homeless.

Gentlemen of leisure is the first thing that came to mind when I saw them so it stays.

They are parked at a table for 3 outside of the Starbucks just across the way from the marina.

Holding court.

Homeless have 3 things to talk about. Just the 3 and nothing more. You can argue this one, but I listen to them a lot and I have yet to hear anyone break from this subject matter.

It is not often that I sit outside of a Starbucks.
I am always on a laptop and even on a cloudy day, it still fades the screen.

But for this three, I will make an exception.

And it all has to do with this phrase:

“Once my banker calls, my money issues are over.”

Here is why this phrase is an awesome one as far as conversation samples go.

Because the guy saying it is dressed in rags with really bad teeth.

And if that doesn’t scream meth at you, you might be half a tard to begin with.

I got my coffee and then hustled back outside to catch the show.

I know, its cruel, its bad karma, its judgemental, whatever.

Its still funny.

Larry, the down on his luck rich guy, has had a disagreement with his business partners.

It seems that he owns several companies, tech stuff, you know.

Anyway, his partners have tried to screw him out of his half.

Like the money is just piled up behind the office door, and while he was out, his evil partners just pushed it to the other side of the room and won’t give it back.

I would say its a childs view of how business works, but it doesn’t add in that distrusting meth factor.

Moe and Curly, have accepted all of his lies without blinking, that is a different side of the meth factor.

Right up until the final meth shoe drops.

“Bullshit.” Curly practically whispered it.

The effect on the table was dramatic.

Moe immediately drummed the table, happy and even yelled “OHHHH!”

Larry jumps up and is ready to fight.

“You calling me a liar?” His hands are curled into fists, except for the ring finger on the left hand, some sort of damage has it gnarled off to the side.

Curly has entered some sort of angry trance state and is staring straight ahead with a furious look on his face.

“I am saying bullshit!”

“Bet me, bet me.” Larry is now dancing from foot to foot, hand held out to shake on it. (Incidentally, this is EXACTLY how Fortune 500 CEO’s settle shit.)

“M-Fer! You don’t even have a cell phone!” That, it seems, is Curly’s whole issue with Larry’s tale.

Really?

Out of all of that, his lack of a cell phone is what red flags it?

And then the police arrive.

“Getting a little loud here, gentlemen.”

In my head, a gentle plea goes out.

(Officer, I totally respect what you do, but could you please go fuck off for 10 minutes?)

Not to be.

The presence of the local LEO has cut the debate short.

Homeless are crazy, but they have a basic understanding of what a bad idea it is to fuck around with the cops in the area.

In short order, Larry, Moe and Curly split up. Literally, they divi the compass into 3rds and each goes his separate way.

And as they left, one thought crept into my head.

At the next board of director’s meeting, Larry should lobby for some teeth.

Obamacare, motherfucker!

 

 
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Posted by on August 15, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The naive 1% who care, but not really.

Stop trying to guilt me into doing something that will do ABSOLUTELY nothing to help someone else.

“99% of you will not share this…” This beautiful little slice of massive guilt is always contained somewhere within the message on Facebook, shared by some soft-headed prole who’s lemming-like instincts FORCED them to stab the “Share” button.

And the message is always some over the top, hideous tale that would make both Sarah McLachlan  and the dogs cry their eyes out.

The bulk of the message is some syrupy wretched tale of woe that is the stuff of nightmares.

But, half or three quarters of the way thru the poorly worded message is a guilt trip that would put a jewish mother to shame.

And, the demand is always the same.

“Please share this and get the word out. I know that 99% of you don’t have the heart, while the 1% who will actually care.”

Translation? “YOU ROTTEN GUILT FUCK!”

Now, and this really is the interesting part, clicking like or share does absolutely nothing for the particular wretch involved.

Even just spreading awareness it still does nothing in terms of forming a response.

It reminds me of the social media campaign to fight human trafficking.

It took picture of celebrities holding a sign that says “Real men don’t buy girls.” And put them on Facebook with the guilt-share demand.

Are we talking about hookers or slaves?

30 seconds of Google research later, it turns out that its both.

Children forced into prostitution and/or forced into porn or old school slavery, presumably out of the country.

An ugly business, but one that has only one certainty.

And that is, clicking “Share” will not help anyone. At all. Seriously. No fucking around here. Really. Like head-out-of-your-ass really.

And the use of Sean Penn as a deterrent is a little iffy at best.

I seem to remember an early interview with him in which he admitted to visiting prostitutes.

His sign should have read, “Real men don’t buy girls, ANYMORE.”

I am probably going to get sued for that one.

I am fine with that, he can have half of a penniless blog as a settlement.

I have been taking Muay Thai and Judo to prepare for his attacking me on the street.

I figure if he is willing to swing at photographers that get too close, he would be more than willing to beat me like a rented mule for outright slander.

Rumor has it that Madonna got into kickboxing shortly after the divorce.

But, that is the problem with the empty headed idiocy of social media.

People can get the emotional quick fix of thinking they are involved and doing something, all the while not doing a damn thing that will actually help.

Like the sex trafficking issue.

The people, mainly men, who engage in that industry, from John’s buying quick time in a gas station bathroom, to the serious slave traders, could care less than a shit about what you think of them.
The people who sell other people understand money and guns and that is pretty much it.

A pimp is never a timid person, easily swayed by public opinion and the slave traders are down right brutal.

The bottom line is, if you want to get involved, get off your ass.

If not, quit making an ass out of yourself by pretending you are.

Some of us are sick of this shit.

 
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Posted by on August 8, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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You can’t sue me for being lazy.

I am not sure I can get much lazy-er and still be considered living.

I have a nephew that entered the military a few weeks back.

Much to my shame, I just sent the first letter today.

I was in the Army years ago and basic training sucked.

I come from such a close family that the culture shocked was huge.

While the nephew in question comes from every bit the close family situation, he seems a hell of a lot tougher than I was at that age.

But basic training eats away at your old comfort spots, replacing them with new ones in the long run, but for the short term, you are kind of screwed.

But I loved getting mail.

Here is where I hit new highs of laziness.

I didn’t physically write a letter, at least, not in the conventional sense.

I found a website, cut and pasted content, paid just under $2 and they are mailing out my letter for me.

I used this site only because I could not find one to write the letter for me as well.

But the shame factor is hard to get by. (The being raised both Irish and Catholic only ratchets up the guilt factor.)

The results are, a letter was definitely sent. Maybe by a surrogate, but it still went.

By my standards, I am golden, the ultimate uncle.

I have been reminded that I am not the boy’s uncle.

Technically, he is my first cousin’s son, but I come from a large immigrant family, there are literally dozens of cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and everything else in between.

Dealing with a crowd that large is tough unless you streamline the process.

Here is how it works. Anyone within about 5 years of my age up or down is a cousin, anyone younger than that is a niece or nephew, and anyone older is an aunt or uncle.

Within the family, everyone gets it. Outside the family? You get nothing but stares and confusion.

But, and I understand this one better than most, there is a fine line between being totally clueless and completely getting it.

Perspective is everything.

Perspective is caused by experience.

If you ever want marriage advice, avoid counsellors like the plague.

Seek out a couple that has been married for more than 40 years.

These are two people who raised kids, grew up, grew apart, grew back together, and managed to keep all the plates spinning for decades.

This is who you want advice from.

Counsellors, as a general rule, are single or have been married less than a decade, usually without kids.

And if you take your car to a mechanic who doesn’t drive, you will pay for an overhaul you don’t need.

Marriage, as well as most things in life, require that you work your ass off or they will stagnate and die off.

Trust me on this one, I have lived thru that one.

Enough said.

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Life begins at 40.

“Nobody knows when life begins, really.”

That little nugget of attempted intellectual spew just came at me from the brain-dead dipshits at the next table.

College students, nothing dumber on the planet.

They have been toddling thru the latest Supreme Court decision, much to my chagrin and annoyance.

Its annoying because there is an answer.

This is what is wrong with college. Students are not taught aggression. They get their soft little heads crammed with information, but they are never taught the process to push thru to their own opinion on anything.

That is why so many of them take the opinion that is voiced to them by some bearded socialist during this vulnerable period and take it like something they got straight from the burning bush.

Its a lot like a puppy that shits on the rug. Its so fucking cute….. the first few times. And then it goes on for most of their adult life.

And that is the shitty part. (Pun completely intended.)

But the life beginning thing has an answer.

And that answer is yes.

Life begins when it begins. Thats it. It has nothing to do with a court or viability or anything.

Ask a farmer if a carrot is still a carrot if you yank it out of the ground a week ahead of time.

Is it edible? Maybe not. Was it growing? Yes, because that it what life does.

Abortion being murder is a moot point. As a society, we have long viewed the taking of life as an ok thing. Animals, people, whatever, under the right circumstances, we are more than willing to do it. Remove the back story and look at the base action. Its all the same, unsatisfying answer, still the same.

And then the sarcastic side of my mind takes over.

If you are going to talk about life, you should start with masturbation. That is really where life begins, at least from the perspective of young boys, some young girls, but not as many as you think there would be.

Despite a childhood of getting caught each and every time they sneak a cookie, every boy is convinced mom has no clue, no matter how sloppy his masturbatory habits get.

Its a gender specific delusion that seems to permeate the entire male species.

If you think about it, a lot of life has ended tragically into tissues and socks everywhere since the beginning of time.

Ok, so that was a little deeper than I was going for.

Time to get off of the pedestal, I am 5 foot 3 on a good day and that high I risk a nosebleed.

You will notice that, for the most part, I did not mention female masturbation.

That is because I am a Feminist at heart, only a misogynist would go on and on about women and their naughty habits. (Also, I try to keep the posts under 1000 words at the most.)

I think, in the end, the whole “Life beginning” discussion is one of opinion and perspective, like a moveable feast that is wholly dependant on whoever it is flapping their pie hole at the time.

The thing that fucks it all up is the legal aspects of it all.

And the really scary part at the end of it is, that the final ruling will be made by the Supreme Court.

I have not seen a Supreme Court judge that was not so old and decrepit that they looked like they hadn’t had sex in several decades. (With the exception of Clarence Thomas and his slightly odd thing for soda, pubic hair and Long Dong Silver videos. You know that man is closing some serious Supreme Court groupies.)

 
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Posted by on July 25, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Do not mess with the Man.

Behind the counter at a Starbucks I like to call the “Icebox” is the cutest barrista in the world.

Adorable. Under 5 feet tall, little pixie of a girl with her hair in a ponytail and cute, not hot, face.

But that will not keep her from being shit on by The Man.

The Man, at least for the purpose of this blog is a white haired old dude in a white polo shirt and pressed cargo shorts.

Polo shirts are what business men wear during their off hours. Its like a suit for them, classifies and identifies them to their peers.

Its weird, but I read an article in Forbes that laid it all out.

The Man, is retired, but runs a tight ship.

From the moment he walked in, you could tell he was not pleased with all of us.

The brow furrowed, no doubt many a junior executive withered before the scorn of that scowl.

The right toe tapped impatiently.

The sigh was audible.

The case on the iPhone 5s is a bit of a status symbol. Its one of those cases that could survive a space shuttle crash, but they will pay for a new phone if there is a nuclear accident and it destroys his phone.

The entire attitude/ensemble/presentation is one that tells you, in no uncertain terms:

I AM THE MAN, AND DON’T FORGET IT, SHITHEAD!

His order was a high level workshop in concise ordering. Eye contact, voice of a proper timber and volume medium, with a crisp delivery.

Paid, and stepped immediately to the right to await proper assembly of his java beverage.

(Technically, his ordering of a caramel macchiato flies in the face of his post cold war masculine stance. But whatever.)

Enter the aforementioned, cut as a button, barrista.

She finished his macchiato in pretty much record time.

But she forgot his whipped cream.

The combination of whining/macho posturing that followed, was embarrassing to witness.

And then he got personal.

“Do you even know what your job is? Have you been TRAINED?”

Training is very important to The Man.

The actual amount of time it takes to apply whipped cream to The Man’s hot sunday can be measured in seconds, and not to many of them.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to milk it out like a pissy little drama queen.

When he finally does stomp his chunky aging ass out the door, two guys that were sitting at a nearby table burst out laughing. One of the guys did a pretty weak mime impression of him. It was topical, but weak.

The barrista never paused, just continued making her wildly overpriced java creations for slightly over minimum wage and questionably attainable tuition reimbursement.

Because the line of paper cups with instructions written on them never seems to end.

Kind of a commercialism perpetual motion engine.

The only unanswered question from this whole scenario is whether or not the barrista indeed spat into The Man’s effeminate drink. (And before we go down that whole road of denial, yes they do. I know I would and I don’t think I am alone. I would probably do it a little more often and for lesser offenses that just being rude.)

Let that be the moral of the story.

Be nice, you never know when your attitude might cause a little extra shot of DNA into your beverage.

(If you didn’t catch that, here it is, plain and simple. “Don’t be an ass, people can and WILL spit in your food.” If you don’t think that exists, you are either naive or dumb, which is the same thing for practical purposes.)

 
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Posted by on July 18, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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I’m hip, man.

It’s the 60’s.

The beat generation, cynical and critically dumb.

Smoking their cigarettes backwards, snapping their fingers in lieu of clapping, reading REALLY bad homespun angst-filled poetry, out loud mind you, to like minded dipshits that think its brilliant.

There is a poetry group meeting on the over-sized stone patio at the LAX Starbucks.

Its a pretty grim bunch.

This would have been a motley crew in their 20’s, now imagine that same unwashed image you have in your head as being in their 50’s. (AND NOT AGING WELL.)

The poetry is some of the most self-indulgent mental swill I have ever heard.

It gives new meaning to the term “Narcissistic”.

Kind of a mental grassy knoll to take aim at your intellect.

But they are not acting alone.

You have to wonder how these 10 people found each other in a world this large.

It’s like AIDS and E-Coli go to a bar and meet up with Spanish Flu and decide to start a band.

“The eternal me is but a leaf, stuck in a cosmic sewer.” (Direct quote)

I wish the line above was an exaggeration made by yours truly.

However, that self indulgent verbal puke was real, and uttered by a mid 50’s guy with a mullet, bowling shirt, khaki shorts, black knee socks and sandals.

Black socks with shorts? Who says theres no crime at the beach?

Think of Billy Ray Cyrus mixed with a homeless guy. Some of that Miley-style crazy.

I have been told that I am too judgemental, too harsh without provocation.

Fuck it, this dude is all kinds of crazy stank, rolled in self indulgent polyester.

And it has not bathed recently. (True, the wind shifted and I got a whiff.)

So now my nose is being gang raped along with my ears and my intellect.

Overly dramatic, maybe. But the line between an overly dramatic douchebag and an accuracy driven asshole is a thin one at times, and the same thing the rest of the time.

And yes, I get it, I should not make fun of the shitty poets. Their look, their style of dress, and certainly not their SHITTY FUCKING POETRY!

Two things. So be it. And bite me.

And before we start that whole “Why did you go there?” thing, lets just understand that I AM THERE, and I rarely go elsewhere.

I am glad I got that off my chest.

On to better things.

Long story, but I have the day off of work.

Not working is a good thing for most people.

Except me.

One of my more neurotic issues is the fact that while I don’t love work, I feel awkward when I am not there.

I like to think of think of it as my immigrant ancestry showing.

And not immigrant sneaking across the border, I mean coming thru Ellis Island immigrant. (At least my great grandfather did.)

There is no real joke here, just the one on us when everyone realizes that the several million welcomed illegals that are streaming across the border are going to have to have someone pay their tab.

There, got my little rant in. I feel better, like my mental/emotional colen just started a cleanse and a sizable quantity of “Shit” just passed.

Thinking about it, that would make this blog a toilet.

I am ok with that. The imagery is a little nasty, but the analogy is solid.

One of the unwashed beatnik’s just said the word “Profit” 10 times in a row, smacking his chest the whole time.

Thise is beginning to take on a whole new level of fucking horrible that I have never seen before.

This might be a spoiler alert from a horror film. The killer kidnaps someone, chains them to the wall in some filthy tiled bathroom, and trots out the beatniks to perform.

And the hostage chews thru his own neck it get away.

I could definitely see that.

It would be worth it.

 
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Posted by on July 11, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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