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Your unsightly unmentionables

There is an ad on an internet site for Scrotox, botox for the testicles.

I have no idea what I was going write about prior to reading that.

Gone, all that is left is Scrotox.

Its disturbing, and nasty and has a tangible feeling of ewww to it.

The gist of the ad, once you click on it, is that there are men who feel bad or embarrassed by their wrinkly testicles.

Go back and read that last sentence again, I will wait here.

I am staring at my screen and shaking my head.

I’m not sure where to go from here.

Is this a thing?

I have never looked at my scroti in terms of their attractiveness.

What is worse, wrinkles or the sparse pubic hair?

If I get Scrotox, and I am not saying I will, will I need to get them waxed?

I mean, if they are going to be smooth, they should be hairless.

It makes for a better photo.

Pubic hair, no matter how much conditioner you use, will never behave.

Now, if you are going to take your scroti to the salon and to use the English term, “Smack your bitch up”, you should definitely have some head shots taken.

So off to the mall for some tacky head shots, maybe even with a big hair wig like your balls are a backup dancer in a White Snake video.

The alternative to waxing would be a comb-over, and that would be worse.

Anyone who saw your scroti with a comb over would see that as desperate, trying too hard.

It would be obvious that your balls are past their prime, no longer able to just roll out of bed, run your hand thru your hair and out the door.

You would have to buy “Product” for your hair, and that is a whole other thing.

I would recommend taking your nuts to a high end salon for a consultation.
Don’t fuck around here, get a professional consultation about testicular grooming products.

Just saying.

But, you ask, how do I know if my “Orbs” pass muster?

How can I tell if my “Makers” lack that “Come hither look” that the “Bits” of male models possess?

Its not like you can just wipe the out at happy hour and begin asking random strangers what they think.

That sounds like a recipe for getting gang tackled and held for observation.

Besides, what does your average Jane and Joe know about truly good looking “Bait”?

But who do you go to for that expert appraisal?

If you are 50 or older, I should think that Antique Road Show might be of help.

But you might have to be a little vague about things until you are sitting across from the expert and the cameras are rolling. (Also may end up in a gang tackle by the production staff.)

There is one suggestion that none of the ads seems to even allude to, and it seems to be so obvious.

Just keep in in your pants, no one wants to see that shit.

Seriously.

No BS.

Don’t.

No.

Just don’t.

We good?

 
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Posted by on September 23, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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The Slut version of Forrest Gump

There is a difference between ignorant and dumb.

Ignorant has a connotation of lacking experience while dumb doesn’t get it, will never get it, experienced or not.

And then there is “Dignorumb”, a mix of the two.

Enter the girls, named for simplicity, Dumb, Dumber and Stupid.

Words come to mind as I listen these young ladies discuss life, the universe and someone named Carlo’s dick.

Dumber, it seems, has discovered sex.

Dumb and Stupid are more slut-sperienced than Dumber, but there is a Jerry Springer-esq trashiness to then that adds an almost charming ambiance to the affair.

The ladies, if you can call them that, are somewhere in their 20’s, but not far out of their teens.

Its like watching three conspirators talk about assassinating a president, except that the victim is a penis and – no, a Lincoln’s head exploding metaphor is just too easy.

I guess what ruins this whole situation is that there should be a dirty old man aspect to the listening in here, and there just isn’t.

I am sporting a big ol soft of over this one, which is a little disconcerting.

I should be at half mast, at least.

Its not sexy, just kind of sad, in a “Decline of Western Civilization” kind of way.

God, am I getting old.

Or maybe just too old to be dumb anymore.

Back when I was young, dumb and full of cum, my dick and I had adventures that would make Frodo Baggins flinch.

We tossed the “The one to rule them all” into the fires many a night and lived to tell the tale.

But this lacks that same excitement.

Dumb, Dumber and Stupid, not knowing any better, are excited as hell, but with that kind of semi-fake “Game show” excitement.

A gameshow with STD’s for prizes.

And the “Lightening Round” is illegal in the state of Georgia.

Now, and here is why I am calling Bullshit to Dumber’s claim that the legendary Carlo and his mythical schwantz.

I happen to know a girl who lost her virginity to a horse-like guy.

And she was seriously sore for a few days after.

At no time during Dumb, Dumber or Stupid’s conversation did any discussion of pain, swelling or soreness come up.

Which means that it either Carlo is not a horse from the waist down or he is and has no control and fouled his under-roos before the deed could be accomplished.

And that is as uncomfortable and gross as it sounds.

But happens all the time.

And yet, give it time, 20 years down the road, these unruly sluts will be someone’s wise and sweet mother.

God help us all.

There is a kind of an ugly equation at work here.

Take Dumb, Dumber and Stupid, add sex, minus common sense, and you have a frightening answer.

Here is a hint, it will raise your taxes and increase the head count at the Occupy rally 18 years from now.

But, at least my coffee is still hot.

No matter what else happens, they can’t take that away from me.

At least not yet.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on September 16, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Oh, the places you will go… on caffeine.

The odd things that stick in your mind and come back to you at the weirdest of times.

I sat down to write and realized I didn’t have a solid topic picked out.

So I closed my eyes.

And the circus began.

Three things hit me almost at once at random.

And I realized that they were so different from each other, that I was done, I had my topic.

Or topics, plural. 3 of them, in fact.

  1. Just a fleeting memory. I was bicycle commuting (Which sounds better than “I was riding my bike” like I am 5 years old or something.) thru a somewhat more ghetto-ish section of town. (That sounds racist, but I am seriously trying for it not to be.)

I pass a car lot that has loud hip hop/rap playing. A salesman in a shirt and tie leads a couple to see a car at the front of the dealership, on the street. Husband and a wife with a lot of “Junk in that trunk” (This is an important fact.)

Just then, the song changed. A serious twerking song started. Without missing a beat, the wife bent over and started shaking that ass. Also without missing a beat, the salesman began miming smacking that ass.

And the husband’s smile never faltered for a second.

And my first thought was, what a salesman.

A sales mentor told me years ago, as long as your customer is right there with you, in congruence, you can say/do pretty much whatever you want.

Same goes for ass smacking.

  1. The second scene takes us to far away Venice beach. A beautiful local in Southern California, a massive vacation spot. There are sights to see, people vacationing, absolutely stunning weather….

And the homeless. Venice and Santa Monica, among all the beach communities, encourages the homeless. The police are handcuffed, to use an ironic comparison, and basically leave the homeless alone.

There is a beautiful outdoor cafe, right on the boardwalk, a third of the tables in the cafe are indoors, with the remaining two-thirds out on the covered patio. The view is the boardwalk, the sand and the ocean. Truly scenic.

Street performers are plying their trade about 10 yards away. I have been watching a truly gifted guitar player/singer make his way thru covering most of Simon and Garfunkel’s best hits.

For some reason, I happen to look behind me and see a homeless guy making his way up the alley next to the cafe. It is either a homeless guy or a shabbily dressed grizzly. The hair/fur has not been cut recently if ever, and I am thankful that I am upwind. For some reason, despite my love of live performance, something about the homeless guy catches my eye. He just cleared the building and stopped right next to the wrought iron railing of the cafe. There is a well-monied couple sitting just on the other side of the railing. These are important people, you can tell by their dress and comportment. I don’t mean actually important, I mean they feel they are important. The key giveaway is when the guy signals the waiter, he snaps his fingers. He is either from New York or Europe, because that is the only place that kind of shit is not considered rude.

And then, the show begins. The Important couple does not seem to see the homeless guy, or are at least ignoring him. But, the homeless guy decides it is time to take a shit.

So, with no hesitation for his surroundings, he drops trow, squats and begins to shit. I can hear at least one grunt, but my mind is perfectly capable of making that up in the effort to enhance the moment.

And then, the true magic begins. The homeless guy wobbles a bit, like he is losing his balance, and reaches out with his right hand, and grabs the rail of the cafe, along with the back of the Important guy’s lightweight jacket. It pulls him back slightly. He peers over his shoulder and sees what is going on behind him.

And loses his shit, figuratively, compared to the literal one going on behind him.

The Important guy yells and tries to stand, but can’t because he is kind of pinned to the rail by our unwashed, defecating minstrel. The Important woman begins screaming, and you really cannot blame her, she has the straight on view of what is landing on the pavement.

The entire scene is tailor made for a movie starring Jim Carrey.

Enjoy your meal.

Welcome to Southern California.

  1. The final scene is a quick one. The title of this scene is, When is a Victim Not a Victim?

A mother and daughter are in line at Starbucks. The daughter is looking at yogurt and fresh fruit parfaits. Mom is just scowling for an unknown reason. The daughter picks out her selection and turns back to mom just as the spot in front of the cashier.

“Eating those will make you fat.” Mom says in a monotone bitch voice.

“Tough taking advice from a fat woman.” Daughter says in that same monotone as she walks past her.

Suck it, you belittling hypocritical bitch.

 

So much for a random sampling of the caffeinated thoughts of a true addict.

But at least the coffee is hot.

Mmmmmm coffee…

 
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Posted by on September 9, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Katy, take a bow.

It turns out I am 13 years old.

I must be, that is the only thing that explains it.

I bowed to peer pressure.

I wrote a one-off blog last week.

One and done, my favorite kind.

A single turd, cast into the river of the internet and pulled away by the current, never to be seen again.

I got two complaints almost immediately.

One from someone I consider to a moron.

He could have been blowing bubbles and shitting himself and I would have taken him more serious.

But the second one was from someone that gets me, understands the humor.

Plus they texted me, that means they are trusted, I restrict who can text, most I just ignore, if I respond, that is a level above the rest. (I am like an onion, many layers and peeling them will make you cry.)

And they said one simple thing.

“That can’t be it, the story isn’t over.”

So I looked at it.

And dammit if they were not right.

So here we are, like retarded migratory birds, flying by instinct back to this literary Capistrano.

Why? Good question.

Because the story isn’t over.

I thought it was, but I am half a tard MOST of the time, so what do I know.

So, without further adieu, here it is.

The Saga of Katy – part 2

Places everyone!

Action!

And……

I got nothing.

I really should take better notes.

But the overwhelming majority of these are put stream of consciousness.

Like a fart in a high wind, makes an ugly statement, but just as fast, its gone.

So, when in doubt, start at the beginning.

And where is the beginning.

Simple.

Coffee.

A free cup of coffee, given to me by the manager, along with a cookie for being out on the patio when the Sheriffs and Children’s Services arrived to deal with the most out of control baby factory I have ever seen. (The manager must be new. Most managers will apologize profusely for bad happenings, but as a general rule, they will NEVER give you free product.)

Half naked, filthy, ill-mannered brood, the lot of them.

Everyone likes to say, babies and children are all beautiful.

To this, I ask:

Why is your head up your ass? Is it for the warmth? Then put on a coat, AND PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS.”

Katy is a shitty mother with ugly kids.

You’re goddam right I said it.

Some kids are fugly and Katy’s kids have a dose of fugly that matches their mother’s attitude.

Speaking of attitude, thru the glass, I see that Katy has given up berating the Children’s Services agent, and gone after the larger of the two sheriffs. (The Children’s Services is like an emotional duck, letting all that shit slide off of her back.)

She is up in his face, in a manner of speaking. (She would have to be a foot and a half taller to actually be in his face, they are both terrifying specimens of Homo-Sapian. The smaller one is 6’4 or so.)

Sheriffs are an amazing bunch.

They are quite often the most gentle of the law enforcement officers you will run into.

Right up until you touch them.

Which Katy just decided was appropriate.

Balling up her long nails into a fist, she pulled back her hand and swung it at the upper chest of a man wearing a bullet proof vest that is rated for heavy caliber.

What she hit, was the top of his palm as his fingers closed around her wrist.

It was so smoothly done that it was like they had practiced it.

Whatever Katy officially did to get them here is now a secondary charge.

Attempted assault of a sheriff is dumb in and of itself.

But then it hit me.

Katy was dealing with possibly the only authority figure she has ever dealt with.

Because you can tell from her demeanor and bearing that she definitely had no respect for the shitbag that raised this little honey.

I was just finishing my cookie when they were feeding Katy into the back of the Sheriff’s cruiser.

Another sheriff and a nondescript woman in a cheap suit that screamed “CHILDREN’S SERVICES M-FER” pulled up in a large SUV.

In short order, they fed Katy-brood into the back of the SUV.

The kids did not even appear to be upset, like they were used to it.

And thus ends the Saga of Katy, or maybe its just the beginning.

So thats the end of my viewing of the Saga of Katy.

The cookie is gone, Katy and the kids are gone, and the coffee is cold.

And coffee, unlike vengeance, is never enjoyable when its cold.

 
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Posted by on September 2, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Weeping for the future.

I realize that my attitude and general intellectual elitist attitude can put some people off and throw their panties in a twist.

Which is kind of why the email war happened this week.

First of all, I was an alter boy.

If that doesn’t tell you what kind of moral high ground I am coming at you from, I can’t help you.

So trust me when I tell you, I know me some morals.

So you can’t send me a hate email proclaiming my general evilness while doing so in much the same way I crossed the evil finish line.

Because I will be the first to call bullshit.

Thats like trying to end gun violence by shooting every gun owner.

Stabbing would most likely be allowed, but I am not on the rules committee.

Please understand that I am not here to engage in a debate on the subject of your choice.

And if you email me with complaints, my whole goal becomes this twisted revenge filled plot that even Machiavelli would have had trouble sorting out.

My email responses take on the equivalence of a literary sucker nut punch.

I am not necessarily proud of that, nor am I ashamed.

And my victory comes when you are to angered to continue and I get your final response of an obscene phrase, all in caps, with some sort of claim that this argument that you started is somehow beneath you now.

Pussy.

Don’t step up if you can’t throw down.

And then I can get on with my day.

Because I have shit to do.

But Katy, however, does not.

Katy? Who the hell is Katy. you may be asking?
Katy is just the girl who can’t can’t say no, to steal a line from Oklahoma.

She has six kids, she has 2 inch long nails, a pair of what should be illegal daisy dukes and the total inability to keep her legs together.

And she is parked on the stone patio sipping a latte with her evil brood.

And evil they are.

First of all, there is a BO stench coming off of them that is criminal in nature.

That alone puts her on my shit list.

It takes time to bath young ones, I raised two of my own, I know the drill.

But Katy is not putting in the time.

She is too busy being popular to mess with that shit.

And the Lord of the Flies re-enactment going on in front of me is tearworthy at the least.

The Saga of Katy’s kids:

Two of them are involved in digging the flowers out of the planter.

One of them has had his right finger up his nostril for so long, I think it may be attached.

What appears to be the oldest will not stop pushing one of the little ones down onto the ground.

One baby girl child has taken off her fouled diaper and is walking around with a naked bottom.

And what is Katy doing?

Texting and Snap-Chatting, because she does not have anything else to do.

Aside from raising a generation of serial killers or at least minor league felons, she may be the poster child for the fall of Western civilization.

I usually listen in, but rarely get involved with the animals in the zoo.

Today, I may make the exception.

Raise your kids any way you want as long as you are actually raising the kids and not just sitting on your ass making more kids and collecting more checks.

Is there any fucking morals left in the world or is it not PC to call this little honey a ho?

Its like an episode of Jerry Springer going on right in front of me.

You know who would get a kick out of Katy and her unique method of child rearing?

Children’s Services.

But I get the feeling that they already know Katy pretty well.

However, there are times that Karma gets off its lazy ass and does its damn job.

I began to see more than a few faces at the windows inside the Starbucks.

And then I saw them, murky thru the glass.

The Sheriff’s are here.

Along with a mystery guest.

She is a very tired looking woman in a plain semi-business suit.

She has children’s services written all over her like a tattoo on her forehead.

As the sheriff’s enter the patio, I recognize one of them as an acquaintance who I have done obstacle course races.

He gives his head a quick jerk to the inside and I recognize my que.

I move my little party to the inside.

My sheriff friend knows I blog, and doesn’t mind it, so if he thinks my being in here is better, I will roll with that.

As the door closes, I know why.

Katy erupts with language she should in all rights, never allow around her kids.

It is muted, but I can hear her call the Children’s Services woman by her name.

It appears that they are old friends.

“Sorry about that. Hopefully, this helps make up for the unpleasantness.”

The voice pulls me out of my musings.

The manager is holding a plate with a cookie and a steaming cup of coffee.

I smile and nod and take the plate.

I am amused that the manager thought this bother me.

I bite into the cookie and chase it with a sip of coffee.

Thru the window, I see Katy yelling in the children’s services lady’s face.

Dinner and a show.

And the coffee is hot.

PART 1 of 2

 
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Posted by on August 26, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Room for one more, honey.

I don’t remember feeling paranoid when I used to go to the airport.

The rules of the airport have changed since I was a kid.

It used to be drive there, maybe slow down the car on your way in, park and walk them to the gate, a quick kiss (Or wave, be repressed if all you like) and head back to the car.

Not how it is now.

A half mile away from the airport, stop and go traffic begins.

And this is LA “Fuck you” kind of traffic.

This is throat punch road rage country, people.

After 15 minutes spent travelling a distance that I could have walked in 5, I am stop and go rolling down the ramp onto the approach to departures.

It is at this moment that you realize that LA is the only major airport in the US that does not have easy commuter train access to the airport and it shows.

But at least the Los Angeles City Council has 24/7 limo service, I am glad that we could make that happen.

At the bottom of the approach ramp is a checkpoint manned by 3 commandos in bullet-proof vests, AR-15’s and beer bellies.

We are safe as long as the threat is not a 100 yard run away, because the boys do not look like they are up for it.

I keep my hands on the wheel and smile, trying to look as non-terroristy as possible.

I look very IRA but not very Jihady, so I am waved thru Checkpoint Charley.

Stop and Go looked wildly free-flowing compared to this molasses inspired flow.

5 minutes later we have rolled another 100 yards and I am at my terminal.

I feel bad for my ride, it must have taken another hour to get out of the airport.

The airport is a shambles and you wonder if the cleaning staff is on strike.

Like the corporate version of “Barter Town” from Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome everything seems official, but dirty and shoddily done.

The only ray of sunshine is the automatic ticket kiosks.

Slot the credit card you over-paid online with and your ticket is printed out without the joy of waiting in line with pissed off travellers to finally deal with the plastic talking head at the airline counter.

I say plastic because I meant plastic.

I have felt more warmth from the Jack in the Box Clown before they blew him up in the 80’s.

I stood on the fringe for a moment and watched one particular “Customer Assistance Team Member” at the counter.

She took resting bitch face to a new level and had a habit of not looking at people as she spoke and speaking as she noisily exhaled.

The only smile I saw what when a bag weighed more than 50lbs.

Her face lite up like Christmas come early.

“I’m sorry, your bag is over-weight.”

This was delivered like Pennywise from the Stephen King movie “IT”.

And was every bit as chilling.

Moving on.

The modern day cattle line has a new twist.

Every now and then, the TSA agent will pick a few people at random to go thru the “Easy” line.

This is the line where you can keep your shoes on and they don’t xray you.

I am one of the few that does not hate TSA.

Mainly because I have flown thru privatized airport security and its the same.

9/11 is the problem, not TSA.

The line goes quickly, mainly because I was capturing Pokemon the whole time and I hatched an egg. (Sure, I am the only one doing it.)

Once I got thru the xray, explained the oddities that you cannot recognize by shadows in my bag and got my shoes back on, I now have an hour to kill because it went too fast.

And then, I see it.

Starbucks.

My faith in the Almighty is reborn.

Java is my God and I am its prophet.

Mmmm Coffee.

 

(PS – You get extra points if you got the title.)

 
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Posted by on August 19, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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My whore-like existence

The brilliance of this blog is a lot like an orgasm from a celibate man. It’s more than you expect, a little overwhelming and will most likely get you right between the eyes.

Like an intellectual money shot that gets in your eyes and blurs your vision for a moment.

FYI, some of these images are meant to be disturbing.

A little like a mental Rolfing that leaves you refreshed, but in a little or a lot of pain.

So, that being said, here is the wisdom.

Your shit is not that fucking important.

Before you dismiss that, think about it, not read it and sip your soy milk, 2 shot, caramel latte with cinnemon and sprinkles that you paid $6.99 no less, and actually think about it.

Let me define “Shit” for you.

Shit is a generic term with rude imagery for a purpose.

It denotes your politics, food choices, pets, children, religious beliefs, and anything not covered previously in this sentence.

Now for the other shoe.

Not that fucking important means Not that fucking important to anyone else.

This whole train of thought was brought on by some over the top statements on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram by some serious attention whoring drama queens that all make the same sad desperate “Look at me” statements.

If you like (Insert person, cause or belief) then unfriend me now. (Insert a whiny point of view usually based on poorly reported biased news.)

It wears on you after awhile.

One particularly stunning woman I know made this comment to anyone thinking about voting for a political candidate that they don’t like.

I didn’t unfriend her, but I did unfollow her, she is a fan of the blog. (I truly hope she reads this and understands that its nothing personal, but she is a dipshit. She also like to post lingerie pics that are worth seeing. Don’t judge me.)

Unfollowing is a good way of making sure that when I post, they get my post, but I don’t have to be bothered with their fleshy-headed bullshit any more than I have to.

At first glance, you might think there is a mean edge to this post, today.

Far from it.

This is more of the blogging version of tough love.

Like a stern parent or a tough cop, occasionally, I have to go upside your head to get your attention and change your perspective.

And, like all children of stern parents, you try to rebel, bitch about how harsh it is and then, years later, you realize how goddam right I am.

Your welcome.

And yet, there is also a seedy side to this.

Like I have said before, to achieve the pure innocence that I have, you have to travel just as far down other side of the scale so it all balances out.

And yet, I never rebelled against my parents.

I don’t view that as a weakness of character, especially when its the opposite.

You would have to know the absolute forces of nature I call mom and dad just to understand that synchronicity made total sense.

Mom is a total therapist, been a professional psychic for over half a century, and dad is the original man, a mechanic with a rock solid lock on how a man behaves in the world.

My gratitude for the luck of my birth and my parents is boundless.

And here we are.

I do not view their influence as having to do with the cruder side of this blog, that unfortunately, is all me.

I have taken what they gave me, and turned myself into some sort of sex worker in print.

You come here, once a week, do your business, avoid eye contact, then leave awkwardly.

You could at least leave the money on the dresser on your way out.

Or a cup of coffee.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on August 12, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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