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Escaping the cult

HOW I ESCAPED THE CULT OF APPLE

Hello, my name is Will, and I used to have an iPhone.

Hello Will.

As the twelfth step of my electronics rehabilitation, I will explain how I got out of the IOS cult.

I came to the iPhone from an abusive relationship.

Metro PCS. (Lovingly referred to as Metro POS. [POS=piece of shit])

The phone was called an Android, but I cannot be sure that was true because the phone rarely functioned enough to know.

I left POS and went to the Sodom and Gamora of phone carriers, Sprint.

They gave me an iPhone for free, part of a promotion of some sort.

In reality, it is considered polite for a drug dealer to give you your first hit free.

But then you are their property, and they abuse the relationship.

So you spend the next two years under contract, figuratively on your consumer knees, servicing your provider.

It is rare that anyone gets away from their slimy clutches, but it happens.

You hit rock bottom and finally say enough is enough.

You break your digital chains and run to the promised land. (Slavery/religious metaphor? Really?)

The promised land is T-Mobile, by the way.

I went back to Android like a man making a jailbreak.

It was liberating, it was exhilarating, I finally felt like a free man.

For the first time in years, I stopped checking my data usage everyday like its a checking account that might have been hacked.

And maybe got a little crazy, who wouldn’t?

I may or may not have bought an international phone that competes with the $1K phones, but only cost about a third because they don’t sell it in the US. (Not sure if that’s illegal, but I don’t fuck with the feds.)

Here is the simple truth.

iPhone is cool if you are old or electronically retarded. (Yeah, I went there.)

Android is for adults who know how to find and use the settings on their phones.

If this sounds arrogant, sounds like you are paying attention.

I am not one of those, I got out and you can too, I believe in you.

I am more the “Later Losers!” as I slam the door.

By the way, it is shocking how fast you get used to the fingerprint reader on a cell phone and you wonder how you ever survived without it.

Let’s go over what we have learned so far:

  • Metro PCS = Piece of shit.
  • Sprint = Carrier pimp
  • There is but one cell God and Android is his prophet. (Should I be nervous about this one?)

I will be nurturing for a moment.

If you have an iPhone, its not really your fault.

You fell for the hype and let yourself be dumbed down. It happens.

The important thing is that you are now aware and can make plans to leave your digital pimp-daddy.

There are shelters and places to go where Apple will not find you.

And you can start your cell life over.

Just make sure they transfer your contacts.

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Posted by on June 17, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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Where is the Baby, Roy?

Where’s the baby?

Good question.

But, it’s a question that Roy cannot answer.

For those who came in late, take your seats and I will catch you up.

Roy, not his real name, is more than a little crazy.

I would say it’s in the eyes, but Roy may not have any.

Eyes, that is.

8pm at night, and Roy is wearing the darkest sunglasses you can buy.

Those odd, pitch black wrap arounds that the eye doctor gives you when he dilates your eyes.

Also, Roy is pushing a baby carriage.

Actually, it is the metal frame of a baby carriage without any fabric or padding on it.

So it’s either not done being made or it’s in the process of being dismantled.

And Roy?

Roy appears to be in the same state of being dismantled.

He just mutters and rocks back and forth, even when he walks.

I cannot seem to get anything out of him other than a word that sounds like “Roy”.

I began trying to find out about Roy like any good zoologist, befriending him with food.

You never try to hand feed a strange animal. (Especially one who might have a violent chemical load going on.)

I am a scientist, but I am not stupid. (Jane Goodall never had to deal with silverback meth heads, there’s a difference.)

So, after feeding him a cookie, some string cheese, and a banana, I am no closer to figuring out Roy’s secret language than when he arrived at the front door of Starbucks and rammed his baby carriage into the front door. (The millenial that was standing at the door all but shit his skinny jeans in shock. A twenty-something having a heart attack is worth seeing, trust me.)

Roy has all the earmarks of a long time homeless.

The smell is a gimme, face is a grubby mess, but his hands are oddly clean.

The clothes are dirty, baggy and many layered.

He has USC hat. I am assuming that he is an alumni. (So many USC alum end up like Roy. Go Notre Dame!)

I am on the far left, Roy is at the next table, and there are 2 skittish teens on the other side of Roy, studying like good children.

The kids are eyeing the door and trying to figure out how fast they can pack up all their study books if all this goes to hell.

Long experience has my best time of packing up and getting the fuck out of Dodge down to 1.1 minutes.

Roy just belched, then farted so loud, I am shocked he didn’t shit himself.

The teens are officially spooked and packing up.

And, it seems that it is time to go.

Roy did shit himself. (Now I will never find out what happened to the baby.)

I set a new record by being out the door in 58 seconds flat.

Just as the door was closing, the miracle happened.

Roy raised his hand and mouthed the words “Thank you”.

I am a fucking saint.

 
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Posted by on June 7, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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2ND BOOK OF THE CAFFEINATED HUMOR SERIES IS OUT!!!!!

Get it! Read it! Review it! Love it! Spread the word!
Almost a decade in the making! Quit being jaded and click the damned link!

Funny to the Last Drop

(And If you don’t like it, keep that shit to yourself.)

 
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Posted by on May 27, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

The BOOK is out!!!

Your favorite blog posts, ready to download to your kindle!

Click the link! Share the Link! Buy the book! Review the book!

Looking for love and help here!

I have been writing this blog for 8 years now, you bastards owe me!

Click this link! ——>CLICK HERE TO CHECK IT OUT!!!

 
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Posted by on May 12, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

Girls gone wild, Guatemalan roast edition

I have joined a sorority.

At least, I think I have.

At any moment, a pillow fight in peekaboo nighties may break out.

Keep in mind, public masturbation is still a crime in the USA. (Europe? Who knows anymore.)

I know, I know, details.

I am in a Starbucks that is in a really nice part of town.

Translation? Money, lots of money in this area.

This is LA so the definition of money can hit ridiculous levels. (As compared to parts of the country where “Money” translates into an ac unit in front room AND the bedroom of your double wide.)

It was one of those days were I sat down to write and came up empty.

And then the front door opened and in they came.

12 young, well monied, college girls.

This might be the beginning of a porn film.

And then the “Basic bitch” shit began.

Coffee selfies were taken.

Ridiculously basic complaints were made and the shrill voice of my sorority sisters proceeded to ruin every vile thought in my head.

Very disappointing.

Why do basic bitches have to ruin everything?

Shouldn’t they be passing Facebook chain letters?
Poorly written cut and pasted messages that claim to have been hacked, so don’t accept a new friend request from them. (AND NO ONE GETS THAT REQUEST)

Or posting memes about how a real man or a real friend behaves.

You know, weak minded, basic bitch stuff.

But maybe I am being mean here.

So let’s look at the facts:

  • I am making fun of total strangers without knowing anything about them.
  • I am not related to any of them.
  • My coffee is cold.

Ok, I am absolved of all blame here.

How can I possibly be expected to be nice to total strangers with cold coffee?

I think you are asking too much of me.

The manager sees me approaching and pours me a venti Christmas blend.

I must look shakier than I thought.

When I am low on caffeine, I get twitchy and am capable of anything.

The girls begin shrill laughter about something Manda has on her phone.

Gonna be a long day.

This started out so exciting.

And now? Migraine is developing.

I am creamed and sugared and just settling back in at my laptop, when things change.

Two of the girls begin to quietly make out, and Manda is now getting teary eyed at something in her phone.

Sex and drama, the two things that could salvage this.

There is a part of me, the part that was an alter boy, the one that is thoughtful and kind, that realizes that its wrong to be both joyful at Manda’s pain and horny at the young ladies intimate moment. (Sporting a semi that no one knows about is NOT a crime.)

However, let’s not lose sight 2 very important things:

  • I was only an alter boy for 10 days before that whole scandal erupted. (And thank God for bad memories, no one but me remembers the details of that vile affair.)
  • A single tear making its way down Manda’s cheek, public tongue kissing by smoking hot collegiate girls and an amazing Guatemalan dark roast can make the disappointments of the moment evaporate like a humor blog with little to no readers.

Plus, the Guatemalan roast is THAT good. (God bless Guatemala)

Mmmmm coffee.

Happy New Year.

 
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Posted by on December 31, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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The Old Hoe Hall of Fame

“Who shows up at a blind date and can’t get it up?”

The line is epic, the tone is rude and the speaker is an old whore. (Disclaimer – The views expressed in this blog are based in fact and completely true, hand to God pinky swear on that one.)

Using the term “Old whore” is not because of her obvious promiscuity.

Its for being crass enough to say this in a Starbucks while sitting at a table with young children 2 tables away.

Here’s what we know so far:

  1. Betty is old enough to be my mother’s aunt.
  2. Betty is single and on the prowl.
  3. Betty is not aging well.

Online dating has done to dating what politics has done to civil discourse. (In other words, gang raped it and shit all over it.

Despite putting you in touch with thousands more people that you might have never met, it is now harder than ever to meet Mr/Mrs Right. (That includes Mr/Mrs Right Now. Patron saint of one night stands and non-lethal STDs.)

And the quality of people has gone thru the floor.

It used to be that if you wanted to meet someone of a certain class or economic strata, you simply went to a bar in a better section of town.

Catfishing seems to be the order of the day. (I would normally tell you to Google it, but its central to the story here.)

Catfishing is basically pretending to be who you aren’t.

The simplest form of Catfishing is posting photos that are not yours. (I once got catfished by a 76 year old woman who posted photos of her daughter. Even good coffee could not save that awkward little meet-n-greet)

People pretend to be wealthier, better looking, better place in life, better you name it.

But it may be a new and weird type of catfish that you present yourself as a player when your sexual function is gone.

The concept of the player who cannot play is new.

Or maybe very old.

Either way it does tone down the spotlight pointed at Betty the hoe.

Someone suggested that I am slut-shaming Betty the hoe.

It’s not shaming because Betty has no idea I did it.

It’s not like anyone she knows is going to read this.

So it’s like a private joke between me and the three people who actually read this shit.

Also, let’s have a slut talk, shall we?

Slut is a word that mean girls and assholes in highschool say to hurt girls that may or may not have slept around.

I know many a girl called slut in highschool who hadn’t done a damned thing.

And the girls calling names were usually the biggest sluts I knew at the time. (I was lucky enough to meet some truly epic sluts after high school.)

But a woman out of school who sleeps around?

She is empowered and knows what she wants.

More power to her. (I was also lucky enough to meet of few of these lovely ladies as well.)

Hoe-shaming would be more accurate.

Except for one thing.

Hoes don’t give a shit.

Not in a confident way, but in more of a ignorant of the fact that it’s an insult to begin with.

I sight as an example:

Betty sipped her coffee and let out a big sigh.

“Maybe I’m just some old hoe.”

Maybe?

Don’t sell yourself short, Betty.

You are a hall of fame Old Hoe.

Mmmmmm, coffee.

 
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Posted by on December 30, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Me, my bitch and the drunken clown.

I am in love.

That pure, spring is in the air kind of love, not the hair-pulling, “spit in my mouth” type of lust you see in porn.

I’m talking innocent here.

Gracie is my bitch.

True, she belongs to someone else, but dats ma biotch!

She is also a dog.

Something about dogs this week.

I am in Starbucks and there is another dog in the store.

Gracie looks like a miniature doberman pinscher, but smaller that whats in your head right now.

And she is into me.

She has been licking my elbow for the last half hour.

In certain 3rd world countries, that is as binding as wedding vows. (Although it saves me the bridal price of 3 goats.)

But, as with any true and pure love, there are issues.

Gracie likes to fart.

Maybe like is the wrong word.

Must, must fits better.

Gracie must fart.

It is an odd ironic twist that my nose, broken several times over the years, has a wide collection of smells that are denied me.

With the exception of rectal potpourri, and especially that variety of canine eau de toilette they are so well known for.

Eh, I’ve dated worse.

She isn’t cheating, has a drug problem, crazy ex, or 10 kids without fathers. (I am assuming here, but she seems like a good dog.)

But there is someone trying to break us up.

Gracie’s owner.

No clue what her name is, but I want to call her “Hot mess”.

Except that the word Hot feels odd in this sentence.

She’s a heavy girl, not that that’s unattractive, but this is that unhealthy kind of heavy.

The makeup was done by a drunken clown on a meth binder with Hodgkins.

In a very old woman, iffy crazy makeup would be somewhat excuseable.

But the drunken clown appears to be an ill-kept 22.

There is a low level murmur that has been going on for awhile now.

Except when she suddenly becomes aware of Gracie and me.

“Gracie, NO!” and yanks her over beside her, then goes back to being oblivious as Gracie comes back to me, begins licking my elbow, and farting one more time.

It is my sincere hope that Gracie does not shit on the cushion beside me.

Who knows how long the drunk clown has had her in here?

I am interrupted from my musings by the fact that my coffee has cooled just enough to drink without blistering my mouth.

There is an almost orgasmic delight in that first sip of a properly done pour over with Ethiopian Yirgacheffe beans. (And this is with clothing on, go figure.)

Mmmmmmm… coffee.

Gracie seems to share my excitement and snuggles up.

It is a good moment to exist in.

Even the drunken clown minds her own for that moment.

Which is good.

Sometimes, you just need that moment.

 
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Posted by on August 27, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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