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Monthly Archives: August 2011

Fun with the homeless.

I have a fondness for the homeless as you may well know.

However, I cannot stand someone who is a rude drug addict.

If you want money, ask me, don’t give me some long drawn out lie or convoluted story.

At that point, I have no morals that drive me to help you.

For example, there is a section of Portland, that the homeless will flock around you like moths to a bug zapper the minute you step off the train.

But I have a fix for that.

Drug-addled beggars live in crazy enough, they tend to shy away from crazy outside their own head.

For example.

I had just exited the train in Downtown Portland, near the convention center, when a young guy, probably in his early 20’s, approached me. He looked like shit. 20 going on 55. He was thin, dirty, hair a messy mat. He had several “Crack boils” on his face. A crack boil is when someone is tweaking for their drug so bad that they scratch holes in themselves because their skin is crawling.

The best defense is a good offense. Go crazy first.

I speak before he speaks.

“John? Good, your here!” I am smiling and happy to see him. You can see the gears turning in his head. Does he know me? Is my name John? Before he can come to any conclusions, I hit him again.

“Mom’s party is at three, don’t be late. Did you get a gift?” Once again, he is thoroughly confused. When is Mom’s party? A gift? Odds are his mom is not his daily confidant at this point, so having her birthday current in his thoughts is iffy at best.

“Tell you what, give me the money and I will get the gift for you.” I hold out my hand.

His brain has ground to a halt and he cannot focus. Way to much weird info and he is overwhelmed.

At this point, he walks away. Really it is the only option, otherwise, he has to begin sifting thru the questions shrieking in his head.

I would feel bad but I honestly don’t. We have been over it, you and I, and you need to accept that. I don’t see things changing any time soon.

It is odd that I never felt the desire to treat Garrett like this. For those who haven’t read the tragic tale of my friend Garrett, he was a homeless guy that I ate bagels with and discussed Coffee shop corporate environmental policy with. A gentle soul who was unable to shake drugs and, in the end. they killed him.

But I never felt like messing with him. He was polite and usually coherent.

I have a bit of a sales background and presentation is everything.

Maybe its just like real estate. Location, location, location. Run into a homeless guy down near the beach, surrounded by million dollar homes, it feels safe enough to take him serious and get to know him.

Run into a guy in a crappy part of town and they only thing I feel like doing is be an ass for my own amusement. (Its kind of a recurring theme). No idea who this guy is other than some poor druggy with holes he scratched in his own damn face.

Plus, I didn’t have any change.

 
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Posted by on August 31, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Love, Honor and Cherish

An interesting diorama unfolded in the food court in the Washington Square Mall in Tigard Oregon.

Everyone got that?

A man in his 80’s or so was arguing with his wife. That doesn’t seem so out of place. However, his wife, who appears to be older, has an oxygen tank and some Kung Pao chicken that she does not want to share and evidently it is driving to old guy insane.

Add to the mix a young man that would have to be a grandson since I am positive that A) the old guy is not capable of fathering a child. Viagra can get it up, but it can’t make the gun fire without real bullets. B) The old woman appears to be too old to conceive and live thru the delivery. I am fairly certain her ovaries started their retirement years ago.

The boy may even be a great grandson, but I could easily be wrong.

The really fun part is this.

The old man and woman are having their little argument in a whisper, totally in keeping with their generations hard-fast rule of “Don’t make a scene in public.” Of course, this was also the generation that had the rule “Don’t beat her in public”. A lot of shit went down behind closed doors back when.

The boy has on ear buds and is listening to an Ipod and looking around at various things. Girls, food, shiny lights. He is a teenager and easily distracted. (Not sure what my issue is, I am not a teenager and I have the attention span of a horny gnat around rotten fruit.)

But, every now and then, the boy chimes in on the conversation. But, because he apparently has his Ipod cranked up, he is all but shouting. He has done it 5 times in as many minutes. Everytime he erupts with a comment, it scares the old woman half to death.

Nothing makes a young man happier than some dysfunctional time with the grandparents.

On the nice side, my children are fantastically well behaved. I am kind of an arrogant dick about it. I found out a long time ago that I have no patience for other peoples kids. Mine are brilliant and beautiful, everyone elses are slugs. Got that?

Things seemed to be reaching a peak when the old guy reached out and just pulled her plate over to his side of the table. It was a phenomenally shitty move that you have to know someone for decades before you can attempt that kind of crap. The look on the old guys face seemed to echo shock at his own action. Kind of an, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

The old lady just stared straight ahead like nothing happened.

The old guy tried to say something.

The old lady did not move.

The next few moments were an odd transfer of power. The old guy lost the advantage and he knew it. The old woman was beating the living shit out of him by not even acknowledging his existence.
In the end, he just sheepishly slid the plate slowly back across the table.

Pussy.

In the long run, it was probably the smart move. He has to sleep sometime. And after you have been married for a few decades, that is where the real animosity can build up.

And that’s when someones gets his penis cut off in his sleep.

And we know this.

 
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Posted by on August 30, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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And I’m leaving, on a jet plane…..

I hate packing for trips. I get distracted and forget things. I can’t tell you how many times I have had to freeball it wearing sneakers without socks while travelling.

Leaving from Long Beach Airport instead of LAX seemed like a really good idea, despite the fact that I live less than a mile from LAX.

First of all, the Long Beach flight was $20 less. In retrospect, I really feel like a cheap douche for allowing that to make the decision for me. Besides, even though my girlfriend, my usual ride, was out of town helping to build a town in the desert, my mom offered to drop me off.

However, my folks decided after I booked the flight that a cruise to Alaska sounded better than dropping me off and booked it.

I would complain, but given the choice, I would have left them at the curb for the same thing.

While waiting in line at the airport, there are two girls in the security line ahead of me that are either strippers or want to be strippers. I think they would do well. They seem to have that quality of cheap slutiness that I love in a good stripper. This is a girl that instinctively realizes that an unasked for happy ending to a lap dance gets a much bigger tip.

Broken field runners are born, not made.

From listening in on their conversation, (no you didn’t – yes I did), they are planning to make a scene should they get the advanced pat down from TSA.

But not the scene you think.

The plan, as I understand it, is to begin loudly getting into the pat down as if the entire procedure is a wild sexual experience.

The strippers are beginning to grow on me.

They are planning on opting out of the full body xray.

However, even from where I am behind them in line, I can see that there is no full body xray machine. Long Beach doesn’t have them.

This is not phasing the strippers.

This is how it went down. The girls walked thru the metal detector without a beep and then told the TSA officer that they wanted to opt out, and would rather be patted down. Giggling the whole time.
The TSA agent was a husky woman that may be involved with MMA fighting. There is a “I am being nice, but don’t fuck with me.” look on her face.

“Can’t opt out of an xray we don’t have, grab your shoes and enjoy your flight, move along.”

It was one of those barks of command that makes you follow it immediately if you are not prepared.

The strippers shuffled off, thoroughly bummed. I felt a little let down that I would not get to what the fake public orgasm.

Fake or not, that type of thing is hot. For example, I do not think Meg Ryan is hot, but the scene in “When Harry met Sally” when she faked the orgasm gives me a semi just thinking about it.

I went thru security with no more hassles. The strippers were no where to be seen.

Bummer.

Two  Questions.

First question. What possesses a 500 pound man to travel on a budget airline with little skinny ass seats?

Second question. Where does a 500 pound man sit while flying?

Right next to me, evidently.

I spent an hour and a half buried alive on my way to visit my kids today.

I read an article a few months back about some huge guy that was out raged over having to pay for a second seat on a flight. The article raged about the inhumanity and embarrassment the airline caused this poor man.

I get it now.

To use an old line, the shadow of this man’s ass weighed 50 pounds.

Mean? Yes, Funny? Questionable. Is it a fact? I think so.

After a short conversation, it turns out that Jaba the Frequent Flier has a small plumbing business.

How the hell does a 500 pound plumber crawl around under the house?

The simple answer is one of physics and reality. He doesn’t.

I didn’t ask, he offered the info. Brand new apprentices will crawl around under the house and install your plumbing rather than the portly plumber. Plumbing put together but novices, after some quick instruction.

A really expensive form of DIY job. Except that when they leave, you are left with a plumbing job that has a timer on it as to when, not if, it goes wrong and pumps shit onto your lawn, and a whole lot of twinkie wrappers left at the side of the house.

At first, I was all excited about the flight. It seems that Jet Blue has installed all seats with tvs on the back of the headrest.

I can sit at home and flip thru over 250 channels for an hour before I realize there is nothing to watch. I don’t know what possessed me to think that Jet Blue would suddenly crack that code and be able to provide non-suckable programing.

As I dig out from the flesh burial that Jaba provided, I realized that tv would not be necessary.

The strippers were sitting in front of me.

A complimentary beverage was provided. The girls finally got the chance to opt out of something. A soda. They ordered white wine. It came in these little single serving bottles. The really interesting part was, that as soon as the stewardess moved out of eye view, the girls pulled little bottles out of their bags. How they got them was a mystery, either TSA didn’t notice or the little terminal store was selling wine that I did not see.

Wine is normally sipped. However, smuggled wine, drank by sloppy blondes mid-flight, is guzzled like cold medicine before school.

In short order, the blondes were drunk.

Thats when the discussion began.

Evidently, blonde number one is dating a gentleman with an enormous penis. Her description of it was both loud and used comparisons that you would never associate with genitalia.

Having a penis the length of a river bass may be an impressive thing, but I have no idea. I don’t like sea food.

And maybe the ladies out there can help me out on this one, but is having a penis shaped “Just like a cat’s head” really something you want? I am not a woman, but even I winced at that one.

The rest of the flight was a combination of watching various people around the strippers glare at them, no one manned up and told them to keep it down, and a continual motion of trying to get out from behind a wall of Jaba’s flesh that I suspect was his arm. It is like treading water, thick clammy water that smells vaguely of old spice and potato chips.

$20s in savings turned out to be pretty damned expensive.

Not all savings are in cash.

 
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Posted by on August 29, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Room for one more, Honey.

I am so not happy right now.

I am sitting in the Coffee bean.

Its a little like being in hell. Or Phoenix, Arizona. Its a little too warm and there is a feeling in the back of your head that something is subtley wrong, but you just can’t put you finger on it.

The average age in Coffee Bean if I left would be high 60’s, low 70’s. I am fairly certain Ensure is on tap behind the counter. I am tempted to yell “Bingo” just to hear the whole room mutter the word “Fuck” under their breath.

That would be your average hell. This one is something special, like a turbo hell.

This is how bad it is.

I am watching the Penguins play Texas Hold-Em.

Maybe I should back up a bit.

When I got to Starbucks this morning, the place was swamped with the line coming away from the cashier towards the front door, looping around the deco shelving and heading for the back of the store, passing the pick up counter and stopping right outside the bathroom door. No seats and too many people.

I needed my morning coffee. Its not a convenience, its an addiction and I get that.

So, I headed up the street to Coffee Bean.

On the way, I passed Fitz-Carraldo, the new homeless guy on the scene. I was friends of a sort with one of the homeless named Garrett. He died recently of an overdose.

RIP Garrett.

A few mornings later, like the new guy hired to replace the old crazy homeless guy, was a new crazy homeless guy.

And he had a crazy act that was pretty convincing.

Garrett used to sit on the corner not far from my office and argue with himself all day. The only  time he stopped was to thank people for putting money in the little cup he had out. He would stop mid-rant and give them a very peasant smile and a thank you. The day before he died, he was learning Spanish to thank Mexican people who give him change. Kind of a forward thinking crazy homeless guy.

Fitz-Corraldo must be a newbe to the homeless game, or he might just be that bat-shit crazy.

There is no cup out for change. That is just poor business acumen.

He is about 5 foot 10 and weighs about 300 plus. He is darkly Latin, maybe from sitting in the sun all day. He doesn’t argue with himself all day like Garrett did, which I found twistedly endearing.

He sings.

He has a deep baratone voice and he belts out bawdy Latin classics all day.

Mothers tend to clutch their children as they go by. Its just bad business.

I’ve tried to say hi a few times as I walk by. I have a weird love/hate relationship with the homeless. I love to interact with them purely to entertain myself and then I hate what a shit I am later.

Fitz-Corraldo does not respond to chit chat or hellos. He just keeps singing. So, we have never really met, I am not sure he is aware of the world around him.

And his name is not Fitz-Corraldo. I named him that because it sounded interesting at the time.

Anyway, on the Coffee Bean.

I am not a huge fan of their coffee. Mainly because they name them after the country the beans came from.

I once saw a news report that Nigerian rebels massacred a whole bunch of innocent villagers. Hence, Nigerian coffee has a bitter taste that I dislike immensely.

I can stand Costa Rican coffee because an old friend of mine moved there, so the coffee must be ok.

Don’t try and analyze that, its my method and it doesn’t hurt anybody, let it go.

So I creamed and sugared my Costa Rican and turned to survey the room.

Yeesh! God’s waiting room, here we are. Room for one more, honey. (Learn your Twilight Zone. Google it, Episode called 22)

I saw a seat that had enough room for me to set up my laptop.

There are 3 walkers and one oxygen tank that I have spied so far.

I just got my computer up and running and looked around while it was booting up.

Oh, my dear Lord.

I have heard accounts of people in horrific accidents talk about how time seemed to slow down during the grizzliest parts of the crash.

I understand that now.

I looked on in horror as I realized that the Penguins were sitting next to me. All the tables in Coffee Bean are about 6 inches apart and it kind of has that European noticable lack of personal space feel to it.

They were playing Texas Hold-Em. Badly. From a book. I barely took notice of the fact that all three were mispronouncing the word “Flop”. They called it Floop.

Maybe this is a Twilight Zone. Fitz-Corraldo hit me with a brick and killed me, and I am in hell, which happens to be Coffee Bean. I might be doomed to drinking Costa Rican forever. Which, in true hell fashion, they would run out of soon, and I would be left with Nigerian for all eternity.

I don’t remember coming thru the front door.

Before true panic could set in. I saw a table open up on the patio.

Like a man making a jailbreak, I packed up my shit and ran like a refugee.

I just hit the front door, not 10 feet from my patio table and safety, when an old couple snagged it.  She was using a walker, he had an oxygen tank, and their little dog was yapping at everything around them.

The trifecta of old.

I give up. I will write this god damn blog later.

 
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Posted by on August 26, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

The weaker sex.

Divorced women have a serious agenda.

When a man gets divorced, we go thru this juvenile “I’m free” thing in our heads. This leads to a lot of whoring around whenever possible, but usually a rejuvenation of the personality. Its like the filter of marriage dampens you down and shuts you up. In divorce, you suddenly find the handcuffs off that you didn’t realize were there, and you can now speak your mind.  This is sometimes a good thing.But what if you are kind of an obnoxious dick?

Take up blogging, works like a fucking charm.

Women, however, view divorce as a kaleidoscope of things.

Empowering, rejuvenating, reinvention, life changing. They start new businesses, join a book club, read these books. (Not even the trashy stuff, but stuff Oprah recommends) Often times, a support group erupts.

And that is when the trouble begins.

Oprah is not pro man. This is a given. She is part of that, “Men are the problem.” thing. Keep in mind that Oprah is single and has been for a long time. Never take your car to a mechanic that never learned to drive. She has a female friend, named Gayle, that goes everywhere with her, and a constantly missing man in her life named Stedman. If a friend in high school had the same scenario in their life, you would have called bullshit long ago.

I have a relative that has had a long time girlfriend, that no one has ever met, but hangs out 24 7 with his “buddy” and room mate. They even go on vacation together because they are such good “Friends”. (Putting quotes around anything makes it suspect.) No one is really fooled, but it has made for some wonderfully awkward Thanksgiving dinners over the years. The yearly answer to mom’s question of when is he getting married and having kids is met with stock quotes from the Liberace play book. “I’m working too much.” “I’m concentrating on my career.” Laughing in the middle of the silence that follows will get you chewed out by my mother in a heartbeat, trust me on that one.

Sorry, off on a tangent there.

Divorced women tend to get together to talk about something called “Feelings”

Stop laughing, I’m being serious here.

Divorced women should never be allowed to congregate together.

Whole lotta “All men are bastards!” Oprah shit going down. Its a mob mentality at that point as they support and empower the living shit out of each other. I’ve seen it and its a terrifying thing. Nobody ends up dead but suddenly, the alimony triples and she’s fighting over custody of your pet rock.

Because here’s the problem.

We are bastards.

Sounds simple, but think about it. It is like that old Aesop’s fable about the woman that finds the half dead snake, nurses him back to health, and when he bites her and she asks how could he do that? He says, you knew I was a snake when you took me in.

Exactly.

And no, I am not saying that all men will wander around with their penis out, 24 7, looking for takers. But we
do still slither around quite a bit. By the purist definition of a divorced woman men are bastards, even the good one. Ask a holy roller, born again Christian if someone that doesn’t go to their church is sinful. 10 for 10 they are a sinner.

Its the perspective the shapes the answer, even before you ask the question.

But we are still men. Most women want a man to “Be a man”. But only to a woman’s definition. Again, perspective. Sensitive, funny, caring, intellectual, loves my mother, good with children, has an eye for flowers and foreign films, loves cats, is not afraid to cry and loves quiche.

Those men are out there, but they’re gay.

Just to throw it out there, I like quiche, but very hetero. I have it on authority from a gay friend that I am
what is referred to as “Tragically hetero”, and that even faking it is not very believable. I asked him if thats an insult, and he said only if you are gay.

Women are complicated creatures, you hear that one a lot.. No their not, they’re nuts! Beware of any creature that can bleed for 3 days, AND NEVER DIE.

Women are from Venus.

Great, aliens.

It all comes into focus. Its pretty obvious that women didn’t come from this planet.
Because if women are from Venus, men are from earth.

Or, it could just be a bullshit metaphor.

Maybe we are just spending too much time over-thinking it.

Perhaps the basic truth of it all is this:

Are you ready for someone in your life?

Simple question, complex answer. One of those ass-clenching, night sweats type answers. The more I think about this one, the worse it gets.

Really ready. Not just “I hope I meet someone” while you are still in marriage counseling, or spending all of your disposable income on meth. Timing is a bitch, but it also pays to be realistic and prepared.

To be ready for someone in your life, you have to sort out enough of your baggage and shit and pare it down to have room for someone without it being sabotaged before it even starts. It means, if your feeling are backed up, like an emotional constipation, that you deal with it and get around it.

Got an addiction? Thats a lover all on its own, and a jealous one at that. You have to break up with her. Talk about hell having no fury. The ex from hell.

It all boils down to dealing with everything that can trip you up. All the collected shit that you have gained over the years and hangs around your neck like a weight, holding you back and pulling you under.

The alternative is to do nothing and watch whatever relationship you have go tits up like a dead cockroach.

And spending your relationship eternity in the dust behind the refrigerator?

It sucks.

 
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Posted by on August 25, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Sin’s of the son……..

I have a tendency to focus on the loud, the larger than life, conflict. Kind of like the Predator in the movie by the same name, but no one dies or gets shot by Arnold Schwarzenegger.

However, if you are a maid by trade, you do run the risk of being sexually harassed by him, and/or impregnated by him. On the plus side, the hush money rocks.

Ronaldo, an old man that is in Starbucks more than I am, likes to read every word in the LA times. All the killer moments you love to read about so much? He has witnessed them all.

I first noticed him months ago, but never got the chance to talk to him.

It seems that he has several children, including one son that, when he mentioned him several weeks ago, was a very successful businessman.

Ronaldo has several houses in Manhattan Beach. One house, in particular, is his pride and joy, He and his first wife bought the house near 50 years ago. 20 years ago, he tore it down and rebuilt it into a palace. The description is incredible.

Why do we care?

Excellent question, heres why.

Ronaldo is angry at his son. The son manages the house which Ronaldo was told had been rented to a wealthy young family.

Turns out thats bullshit.

Ronaldo was contacted by the police and informed that there had been several arrests on the property and he may lose the house.

Got your attention? It gets better.

Turns out that Ronaldo’s son was lying thru his teeth and had actually rented the place to himself, under an assumed name. (Turns out he wasn’t paying the rent either, to his own father.) And he was running several businesses out of it.

Porn films were being shot on site, the 3 car garage had been converted to a sound stage. Some of the films are being investigated concerning the age of the actors.

Also, a number of the actresses found on the premises were illegal, and may have been held against their will and forced to perform.

A meth lab was in operation.

Ronaldo’s son is a piece of work.

Ronaldo is an older man, apparently in good health, this however has given him chest pains that he has refused to do anything about. His daughter has finally prevailed and is taking him to the doctor today.

Normally, I am delighted with situations like this and type away with glee. But this is just so fucking sad.

But, as I have found thru the wretched soap opera that is my life, shit happens. Shit can often happen in a manner so foul that the “Shit-edness” shocks the hell out of you.

Like Ronaldo. His kid, who has a degree and did have a healthy business portfolio.

Now, from the looks of it, he is going to have a sore ass from prison rape. At least he will if there is any justice in the world.

Every time there is a horrid thing that happens in the media and whoever did it goes free, someone will pipe up with “Oh, don’t worry, karma is a bitch, they’ll get theirs.

Bullshit.

If karma was at all consistent we would not need laws to begin with.

Karma is a bitch. A whiny little bitch that has not been pulling its weight. I say we throw karma into jail with Ronaldo’s son and let them both be sodomized.

Because what goes around comes around, even for Karma.

 
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Posted by on August 24, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Of all the Gin joints in all the world…

There is a Starbucks in Hawthorne that always has their AC running when I go there.

I call it the Freezer.

Thank god they serve hot coffee there, because at 59 degrees, hypothermia can set in with iced coffee before you can finish your blueberry scone.

I got in line behind two people and when I finally stood in front of the cashier, my nipples were like little rocks, no lie.

I got my cup of addiction and had a seat.

Its not a Starbucks I go to that often, mainly because I gave my parka to Goodwill when I moved back to LA from Portland Oregon.

Just as I was setting up my laptop, I saw her come in.

Wow.

Every now and then you see someone with the beautiful gene and the intelligence to present it.

Stunning woman. Average height, maybe mid-thirties. Business suit cut well enough to accentuate an incredible build without being slutty. (Harder than you think.) Just beyond shoulder-length blond hair styled very feathery without going near “Jersey Hair.” Mirrored sun glasses hid what had to be blue eyes, and a flawless, perfect mouth.

I had this feeling that I knew her, My mind kept telling me that was impossible, she had the type of looks you remember seeing.

With her was a younger man in a business suit. He had that look of being just a step above car salesman.

Real estate agent.

I usually do my best not to stare, but I step over into rude often enough that I may just retire there and get it over with.

They got their coffee and sat down at a table just behind me.

Miss Gorgeous sat less than a foot behind me.

“A few good prospects today, the Asian lady kept telling her husband they would love living there. This should sell quickly.” The young guy had a salesman’s voice, suave and assured.

“She smelled like dead fish, I hated them.” The woman’s voice drifted back, cultured and European.

Oh shit…..I felt a chill make its way up my spine and raise every hair on the back of my neck.

I know that voice. I have written several thousand words about this woman.

My ass went into full clinch with recognition.

Mrs. Evil. Couple.

It was one of those moments where, to quote one of my favorite comics, “The left half and the right half of the brain come to a screeching halt. The left says to the right, Its dark in here, and we may die.”

This evil, rotten…..the only word that comes to mind is bitch, but it doesn’t carry enough venom. I would use the C word, but it isn’t broad enough in scope.

To suddenly have the image of an incredibly beautiful woman mixed in with memories of personally witnessing her absolute disdain for everyone and everything around her was almost too much to take.

Her voice pulled my tortured mind back to the present.

“Why did you keep talking about your sister? You kept going on and on, it was very uncomfortable. I doubt we will get any offers because of it.”

“What?” The young guy seemed confused, suddenly slammed. “We were talking about family and siblings. I didn’t think it seemed out of place.” There was doubt in his voice.

She pounced on it. “It was creepy, I thought she was an ex lover until you said she was your sister.”

That got him. “I really think that’s uncalled for.” He was indignant and rightfully so.

Not that it would help. He went for an end to the subject. “We’ll just agree to disagree.”

Take that disagree and cram it, buddy. You have no clue who you are messing with.

“You remind me of my cousin.” She changed the subject without warning.

“Huh, what cousin?” The young guy was off balance.

“He is young, a drug addict, he sucks old men for money. He would agree with you, you seem very similar.“

It was a football punt to the nut sack that the kid never saw coming. It was insulting on several levels at once.

He sputtered for a few moments, then just got up and left without saying a word.

I looked at the front counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her watching him go.

She made a noise that sounded like she was chuckling.

I wanted to turn around so badly, but I reminded myself that Mr. and Mrs. Evil Couple had no idea that they occupied such a prominent place in my life. Mainly as entertainment, but still.

When she spoke, I thought at first she was talking either out loud or to me. Then I realized she was on her phone.

“I don’t want to work with Henry again, he ruined the open house.” Sounded like the boss on the phone.

“I think he was high today, he hit on the wives, and a few of the husbands, I think.”

The buzz on the phone was someone outraged.

“Don’t worry, I have an offer to submit, one of my clients texted me on the way to Starbucks.”

The conversation must have changed, I couldn’t hear anything else on the phone, but I knew real estate people.

The broker she worked for may or may not believe her, but in real estate, or just sales in general, you go with the hot hand. If she was selling big, the young guy would be thrown under the bus without hesitation.

I love this woman.

There is something just old school menacing about her. Like the evil queen in the Disney version of Snow White, but with a better ass. The fact that she cleaned up into a stunner only served to make it all hotter and more shameful at the same time. It was one of those situations that was exhilarating, and at the same time, you just felt dirty.

She might be the antichrist.

Before anyone goes off on that comment, I didn’t say she was, I said she might be. All I know is that she is married to a doctor, lives in the tree section of Manhattan Beach, and gave birth to twins about ten years ago.

Absolutely nothing to connect her to most of Revelations.

Unless of course the twins are named Famine and Pestilence.

 
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Posted by on August 23, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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