Change is in the air.

First, a haiku:


Dancing words on page,

Literary merriment,

Sooth my soul in print.


I was raking a zen pebble garden for an hour before composing that.

I contemplated my fourth shakra the whole time.

Why so negative?

I am dedicating the blog to a higher conciousness.

A more positive perspective of the people on spaceship earth as we journey together.

Like the Zen philosopher Basho’s concept of Dual Oneness describes, the center of balance is within and without.

I also dipped my yoga mat in bleach.

Because when I contemplate? I contemplate commando style, people!

And I don’t want to put my taint at risk for staph while I am ommmm-ing.

It occurs to me that I am not fooling anyone.

There is a part of me that is lamenting the fact that ALL of the above is total horse shit.

It would be nice if at least some of that was true.

Alas and alack.

And if there was a Lass, there would be no lack. (Oh COME ON! You people are so hard to please!)

Yesterday was Thanksgiving here in the US.

A day to give thanks.

Not really my style.

There is more of a selfish prick angle to my roll.

Its not nice or even easy to admit, but it at least approaches honesty.

But is it funny? Really?

Got a little bit of a brood going on today.

There are a lot of things I would change about myself, not just the blog, if I could.

The Bitter mind is a twisted miasma of baggage and knee jerk reflexes that makes it hard to be me sometimes, much less date and deal with someone else.

So maybe the point of this little screed is in sending out the proper thoughts of apology to those wronged. (Jeez, that list is LOOOONG.)

To those I have interacted with, going all the way back to high school, my sainted ex wife, and any woman who had the misfortune of deciding that this hot mess looked like a day at the beach.

Sorry. You all know who you are.

For those of you who have been offended by the blog, and are waiting for an apology, keep waiting.

You got on this bus of your own free will, and you don’t get the luxury of bitching about the destination.

I have long maintained that the blog is a mental chamber pot that I empty out of the window of the internet every Friday morning at 0500, to be dumped on the ignorant and the dumb.

There are a precious few of you that have the nimble feet and dodge it, taking what little of value you can find in it and leaving the rest in the gutter.

One man’s shit is another man’s, well, shit.

But it might be a little funny.

So at least thats something.

Namaste bitches.


(FOOTNOTE- Molloy gets the assist for the blog above. I rarely edit after posting, but it has been pointed out that I am an ungrateful shit. Turns out thats true.)

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Posted by on November 27, 2015 in Uncategorized


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Till death do we part.

“You aren’t listening to me, are you?” (Angry)

“What?” (Too loud)

“You never listen to me, do you?” (Angrier)

“What?” (Louder)

“I could drop dead and you wouldn’t lift a finger to help me, would you?” (Kind of a simmering cold anger that is even worse.)

“What?” (Like a freight train, brutal and unstoppable.)

There is a magical kind of drama, and drama is such an inadequate word, to a couple that have been married and lasted long enough to grow REALLY old together to the point of hatred.

It is awesome to behold.

They hate each other, they really do.

But divorce is not even in their vocabulary, not a chance.

Love, honor, cherish, till death do they part.

The only thing left is the Till Death part.

And they are both waiting, nay HOPING, that the other dies soon.

It is a vile and beautiful thing to witness.

She looks a lot like the Crypt keeper from that old horror show. (Google it, I’ll wait.)

Got the visual?

He has a look of permanent terror on his face.

He has been seated the whole time I have been observing him and the missus, but I am willing to bet he takes 2 inch steps when he walks.

We are a weaker generation that we think Fuck You is the ultimate verbal attack.

There is a true gladiator’s feel to the skill of a true Fuck You conversation.

I am in awe.

This pair of wrinkled old warriors are lions, to be feared and respected.

This kind of fight is not a sprint, its a marathon and you cross the finish line when you opponent keels over.

I am in a dark place right now, and its a brutal place, scary and forbidding that makes you look at the beauty of a long time marriage and then stew in these kind of seriously vile thoughts.

And salvation is just around the corner, in the form of coffee.

Hot and fresh and available for just pennies.

Live is good, sun is out, birds are chirping, and the adorable old couple could not be cuter.

I love caffeine as a drug, it can fill the tank in a ridiculously short amount of time.

Addiction, with cream and two splendas.

And then they try to chip away at my drug induced Dome of Solitude.

“Did you hear what I said?” (Its him being angry this time.)

“What?” (She is truly playing this card.)

“I just told you something!” (Angrier.)

“What?” (This is a masterstroke of the fuck you genre of hot mess replies.)

“Ah, you are to old to talk to!” (He even waved his hand at her in dismissal. I almost shit myself trying to keep from laughing.)

“What?” (Now I KNOW they are just fucking with me. You could see this scene playing itself out as if it was written on a page.)

But it has not touched my euphoria.

And I am leaving before I am sucked into the vortex of negativity.

Because if you ungrateful shits know anything about me, you know that I am all about being positive.

I try to keep the bad stuff from staining my Disney-like purity and innocence.

Outside, there is a breeze, on the chilly side, but the sun is out. Low 70’s with a wind chill.

I am dressed in Southern California winter wear.

Shorts, running shoes, and a hooded winter coat.

Mmmmm good coffee.


(Here is how twisted up my head is. I have been laughing for the last 5 minutes because of the line immediately above this one. All of that shit, then “Mmmmm, good coffee.”  Once again, it occurs to me that this blog is a lot of the time, just for me.)


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Posted by on November 20, 2015 in Uncategorized


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The smell of doom.

I am not sure how much more I can take.

Everyone has been acting all week like this is no big deal.

Like I have not been in danger of shitting myself at any moment.

Friday the 13th, like its nothing to worry about.

Here is a fact:

  1. 18 years ago, on FRIDAY THE 13TH, I broke a toe on the doorjam of my kitchen.
  2. 22 years ago, on FRIDAY THE 13TH, I not only walked into a spider web, but I inadvertently swallowed a spider. (Pucker factor alone made me throw up a little in my mouth just now.)
  3. In the last 30 years, the following job-ending activities have happened within a few days of FRIDAY THE 13TH: 2 layoffs, 1 boss died, 1 fire and the accidental killing of the boss’s wife’s cat by my own negligence. Lotta negative shit here, people.

Now that you have a little back story, you can see the clear connection to a random number on the calendar and how it will be directly responsible for my oddly suspicious death.

So feel free to tempt fate and wander around today while death tries to fit you onto its schedule later today.

I will be hiding under the bed with my coffee and numchucks.

What I don’t get is that people wander around like everything is fine.

Would I be under the bed if everything was alright? Of course not.

Which reminds me, I need to sweep under the bed.

But I think we have all forgotten the fact that the FEAR of bad things happening on Friday the 13th is founded on scientific principles, proven as fact again and again.

I read that on a website on the INTERNET, so you know it’s true.

The only thing that would make it more true is if someone posted it on Facebook, the you know its a fact.

And there are those that choose to be ignorant and belittle those of us with the experience and wisdom to see the foul karmic shit storm today poses. Let them stew in their silly denial of the truth, then cry like slow children when fate takes a shit on them.

Me? Safe under the bed, highly caffeinated and heavily armed.

Outside? Zombie holocaust. Or something. I wouldn’t know, really. Not gonna look. Its horrible, whatever it is.

But, if the fates are kind, it won’t be too bad.

I gotta go to work tomorrow.

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Posted by on November 13, 2015 in Uncategorized


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You won’t even notice I’m gone.


Blogging and potty humor don’t take a vacation, so let me explain.

Let me bring you into a nerdy little side of me.

Bare with me, because this gets stupid, but I promise there is a reason for this.

I will take you to the Wicked Witch’s castle, but then straight to the Emerald City, Scout’s honor, pinky swear.

I first started the Bittermac blog to build an audience for a really bad novel I had written.

My goal was to suck you in with the blog and then abuse that trust to sell books.

It still is, but its taking longer than I planned.

Anyway, the novel was written during a yearly internet challenge called the National Novel Writing month.

The challenge is to write 50K words, from the beginning of November to the end.

To date, I have won 3 times and have written 3 novels.

And I am trying it again, with a difference.

Previously, I wanted to do fantasy or sci fi. (Side note, I have written a vampire romance. Don’t fuck with me, I WILL make you read it.)

But this year? I am writing a humor book.

Seems to be something that I can do, at least, I like it.

The blog has about a half a million words written, even if they suck, that is a lot.

So, this blog has been pre-written and scheduled.

Like frozen food, its still food, but some of you will bitch that it is not fresh.

Bite me, deal with it.

Think of it as sex with someone you are not into.

Like payback sex or a pity fuck.

Just get thru it and it will be over soon.

The good thing is, you won’t need a shower when its over, but you still might feel dirty.

Moving on.

And its not like this is easy for me, either.

Blogging has its fine moments where you really feel like you have done something beautiful.

And then there are those moments where you feel like a jaded hooker, emotionally detached from the service you are providing that has a somewhat dirty feel to it.

Before you get all Social Justice Warrior on me for belittling the human sex trafficking problem, keep in mind that I am the victim here. (I even shut down the email on the blog site, and you whiny fuckers found my personal email. The bitching never ends with you people.)

Being politically correct has never been one of my strengths.

In fact, one of the worst things you can do is let me know that something bothers you.

At that point, my focus sharpens to just trying to upset you.

I mean, the only reason I ever use the word tard, retard or the phrase half-a-tard is because I got hate mail 2, count em, 2 times, and now I am just doing it to piss them off.

Are you seeing the pattern here?

So, for the rest of November, you will be getting the blog, on time, but a little stale.

Might I suggest some salt?

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Posted by on November 6, 2015 in Uncategorized


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600 is a lot of anything.

“Into the valley of death, wrote the 600”

Lord Tennyson would shit himself in his grave if he read that, he was never a fan of paraphrasing.

So why the arguably dumb paraphrase?

Because the number is 600.

Since starting this vulgar little blog over 4 and a half years ago, with this post, I have now written 600 posts.

That is a LOT of public mental masturbation in print.

I am not sure if I should be proud or ashamed.

Its an accomplishment, but so was 2 girls – 1 cup and that was nothing to be proud of either. (Side note. Despite all of my references to that film over the years, I have never actually seen it, till recently. I am damaged because of it, no bullshit. You go to hell for things like that, even if you are atheist.)

I mentioned this little milestone to someone who has never read the blog before, and they asked an interesting question.

What the hell have you written about for 600 times?

Good question, so I did some research, basically, I read the blog, something from every month, from the beginning till now.

God, I am a fucking genius.

Once my erection subsided, I began to see a few recurring things.

  1. People are horrible to each other and their environment. Caligula had a better command of common courtesy than most of modern man.
  2. The only thing people mistreat more than each other and their environment is themselves. There are people that treat themselves like a split personality that is half crack hoe/half angry pimp. And someone has a beating coming.
  3. My views of the world vary wildly from an almost a sociopathic emotional conscious to a Christ-like benevolence. (Take a moment for that one to sink in. I’ll wait. I know, its a disturbing sentence.)
  4. I have some sort of thing about the homeless. (It has been argued that I both care deeply about them, yet view them as pets. Both are true. However, I view most people as pets and toys to be messed with.)

In a nutshell, thats it. Its an emotionally damaged nutshell, but you take what you can get these days.

As far as blogs go, this is closer to the movie Max Headroom than anything else. Random thoughts and odd sound bites that exist for no reason other than to upset the dumb and stimulate the few intellects that seem to get it. And TRUST me, you fuckers are few and far between.

The one thing missing from the “Recurring things” list is caffeine,

Ah, caffeine, what can I say?

Its the founder of the feast, as it were.

Without it, I am grumpy, mean and don’t like to write.

With it, I am grumpy, mean, and like to write.

As far as addictions go, its a mellow one.

Like a pimp that doesn’t leave visible bruises, the concern is appreciated.

Coffee is the most polite form of caffeine addiction, to be seen at church socials and fine restaurants.

Red bull is like shooting up in a dirty alley.

Both accomplish the same thing, but at least coffee allows you to keep lying about it not being an addiction.

But at its worst, you are just risking insomnia and being irritable.

You are never in danger of having to perform oral sex on your dealer just to get your fix.

And that is a pretty big difference.

So, just to bring things to a close, I wanted to take a moment and thank everyone who has ever read the blog, whether you liked it or hated it.

Without you, this is just a sad rambling to the universe.

Like a literary tree falling in the woods with no one to hear it.

So, in a rare show of gratitude…

Thank you all.

Sincerely, bite me.

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Posted by on October 30, 2015 in Uncategorized


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The politics of being a polite asshole.

Interesting conversation the other day.

Having lunch with a few friends, 1 who is a huge blog fan and a friend of her’s that is not.

Just to choose a name at random, lets call the non-fan Shiteyes.

The subject turned to the blog and this was the comment Shiteyes had on it.

“I have never actually read your blog, but I hear its entertaining.” This was said with a scrunched up nose.

Translation? “I have an agenda based on hearsay I am going to try to force on you because I am convinced I am an intellectual.”

I’m not dumb, I can recognize my cue when I hear it.

“It’s not for everyone. I enjoy writing it.”

“I’ve heard you like to hurt people’s feelings.” Ah, here we go.

Social Justice Warrior. Don’t step on toes, never hurt feelings, passive, passive, passive.

My response freaked her out a bit.

“Like it?” Leaning forward, hands on the table, intense.

“I fucking love it.” Said without heat or anger.

I spent the next hour baiting and screwing with this adult child’s head.

Fuck her sensibilities. Gangbang her sensibilities with a vengeance.

Got her to the point of crying twice.

I look at it this way, if you can’t fight, don’t go looking for one. But if you do start it, at least be able to take a punch.

But, it got me thinking.

I don’t like to hurt everyone’s feelings, rampaging like a mad dog. I am a little specific about the feelings I choose to rampage on.

More like a boxer or a soldier, there are rules of engagement.

Here is what I have figured out:

  • I am allowed to defend myself. That is where the whole “You came into my yard” “Welcome to Thunderdome, bitch” I will be moderately polite until I hit the defensive point, then I become an asshole.
  • I never swing first unless I know for a fact that the other person is up for it.  For instance, I have a brother that honestly looks forward to being screwed with by me at family BBQs. Its a sick thing, but he thinks I must be angry at him if I don’t.
  • My restraint is lacking. It really is a joy when someone who thought they were going to verbally put me in my place gets to a point where, no, they can’t deal with it. And it is that point in time that I get vicious. Nothing to be proud of, but it is what it is.

Its important to understand yourself, even if your an asshole. It makes it easier to figure out how others will react to you.

Plus, and this one is pretty important, if you don’t know what is lurking deep inside your subconscious, you are going to be reacting to what someone tries to stick you with emotionally instead of intellectually, and that is where vulnerability lives.

Jeez, this is like Superman describing how to make kryptonite.

But, before you toddle off to take a swing at creating the mental weapon of mass destruction, understand that the overwhelming mass of humanity are REALLY not ready to crawl around inside their own heads.

It can get ugly.

And most people don’t handle ugly well.

Mainly because its, well, ugly.


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Posted by on October 23, 2015 in Uncategorized


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Pride goes before getting fucked over.

It is an odd thing to watch someone losing their fucking mind in public.

And before we go any further, I realize there is a percentage of those reading this that have their panties in full twist mode just because I may or may not have prematurely F-bombed in the first sentence.

And I tried not to, I really did.

I rewrote the opening line several times.

And it just doesn’t work without the “fuck” in there.

So here is where we are at, physically and sarcastically.

Panera Bread in Redondo Beach.

The outside patio.

I started off inside, glorying in the delicious air conditioning because its hot out. (Its the middle of October, for fucks sake!)

And then I saw him.

The salesman.

And when I say, “Losing his fucking mind in public.” maybe I am sugar coating it a little bit.

He’s a suit, expensive one, the shoes have a power shine on them and his tie defines “Success”.

Except that the suit is slightly off

The tie has been loosened.

The first two buttons on the shirt are undone.

This opens the shirt more than the loosened tie will let it and makes the whole look even more off.

His face is twisted up into a painful grimace. (Not even that somewhat creepy Grimace from the McDonalds commercials, circa 1970.)

He is pissed.

I will call him Suit, because it really is a nice cut. He has taste.

But I gotta see this up close.

I have my headphones on, its important that he think I can’t hear him, and I carry my open laptop outside and park at a nearby table, completely engrossed in what is happening on my screen.

There is nothing on my screen, but he doesn’t need to know this.

“Lanny! You are a fucking rapist!”

This is the first thing I hear him say and as far as opening lines go, it is hands down one of the best I have ever heard.

A quick internet search for the proper manners or etiquette for publicly shitting yourself yields nothing concrete, so I am going to have to wing it and just keep listening.

Here is what I learned over the next 5 minutes:

  • Lanny, a business partner, has just screwed Suit over to the tune of $10’s of thousands. (The salesmen that are reading this are nodding their heads, its the nature of sales.)
  • Suit is somehow convinced that Lanny will give up those untold thousands if Suit berates him long enough.
  • Suit keeps referencing “Dan and Lori” and that they will not sit still for this. (They may be the bosses of this little evil empire. Jury is still out.)

In the end, Suit wound down and it finally seemed to settle in that he was fucked.

What really struck me was how long it took him to accept the fact that he was fucked.

Lanny was never going to give the money/sale back. I never even met the man and I figured it out well before Suit did.

Dan and Lori, being the bosses, don’t give two shits. They care that the sale was made. Thats it. I have worked for more Dan and Lori’s than I like to remember.

But, like the business version of a goldfish, Suit will forget his pain 30 seconds later when he closes another deal.

Sales is like that. It has no mercy and recognizes no friends other than money, and the relationship could hardly be called friendly.

I wish Suit well, and hope he closes something wonderful soon.

While I don’t particularly care for him, I do admire his taste in clothes.

Lanny, rot in hell you retched bastard, I have also worked with a lot of Lanny’s before.

And they are all assholes.

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Posted by on October 16, 2015 in Uncategorized


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