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Monthly Archives: September 2011

Discount meter maids and Drug addled gamers.

What a bunch of power hungry spit-weasels.

I am talking about meter maids.

The area I work in is all cramped, fight for a parking place, down town Manhattan Beach. Parking, such as it is, is hard to come by, unless you are willing to drive several levels below ground. Here you will find a place to park, and if need be, wait out a nuclear war.

For those that park on the street, there is someone out to get you.

Someone who doesn’t want to hear it, is just “doing my job” and will talk over you while walking away from you.

I was hiking out of the underground car bunker the other morning, heading to work when the electric 3-wheeler rolled past me, chocking tires with chalk as he went. Their little cart has all the colors and markings of a cop car, and the meter maid has a little uniform and everything.

Except that they are not cops, but they really feel they are on the front lines of fighting crime.

The 3-wheeler stopped and a morbidly obese meter dude was out and at the curb, writing up a ticket.

The car owner came out of the shop she was in and ran over.

“The meter hasn’t expired!”

The meter maid pulled the thermal print ticket out and tucked it into the windshield wiper.

“Gotta curb your wheels on a hill maam.” This was said in an “I am so sick of your shit” tone and he walked away from her.

“But we aren’t on a hill!”

She was right on that one. We were on a lull between hills. Her car was on flat ground. If she left it in neutral, I would have had a hard time pushing it any distance, much less the slope forcing the car out of gear.

Meter maid didn’t pause as he stuffed his gut back into his 3-wheeler and rolled off, no doubt on his way to save the world from double parked terrorists.

It was a wicked little example of the wrong guy in the wrong job. I am not even a meter maid and I could see he was full of shit.

And the car owner? She can probably take pics, go to court, waste a day all in order to save the ticket.

Everyone talks about the cops being aggro beasts with a badge.

Truth is, I hope so. The true criminal element is savage and brutal. I like the idea that the cops are bad ass soldiers with an ax to grind. For the most part, the biggest complainers are suspect at best.

I once had a guy at a large party gathering handing out cards with a script of how to keep the police from illegally searching me.

“Why do I need this?” I held up the card.

“Because the cops will jack you up for no reason, man.” His tone implied that this was common knowledge.

“I don’t know that I have ever been jacked up, have you?” I love a good leading question.

“Yeah man, 4 times.”

“4 times?” I feigned shock. I was not even remotely shocked that this unwashed shit head was routinely “Jacked up” by the police.

“Any of those turn into an arrest?”

“All of them!” He pounced on this as if it proved a point somehow.

It did, but not the one he thought.

“Whatever for?” Wait for it.

“Possession, but it wasn’t mine!” Ah, the classic “Wasn’t mine” defense.

I have known a huge amount of shady people in my life. Never once have I ever been asked to hold on to some drugs for someone.

So this guy, who obviously travels around with illegal bits of business on his person, has caught the eye of the police. (Nice catch guys) And, because his decision to break the law in whatever inept manner he does it that has led repeatedly to his arrest, he feels compelled to help others protect their rights from getting “Jacked up” by the police.

I have an idea on how to accomplish that same thing, without having to memorize a speech.

Stop breaking the law, asshole.

And as for the lady who got the ticket for parking on flat ground and didn’t curb her wheels?

Go to court and stand next to the guy who forgot his speech.

But it wasn’t even his, man. Honest.

 
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Posted by on September 30, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Pageant girls

I read People magazine on the toilet in the mornings.

Get over it, at least as a visual, its a funny one.

There is a picture of a little girl on the cover. She is wearing a revealing gown, too much makeup and has that stare that child prostitutes in 3rd world countries have. That zombie like stare of someone that knows that there is unpleasant work to do, no matter how distasteful, she has a job to do.

She is not in the slave trade.

She is a pageant child.

A rose by any other name, smells…aw forget it.

There is nothing poetic to be said here, The little girl’s mom should be in jail.

Toddlers and Tiaras.

To watch the show turns my stomach, but its like a train wreck in slo mo and you can’t look away.

Anytime the mothers are on camera, they launch into this totally unasked for defense of what they do.

The mothers fall into two categories from what I could see. They are either the chubby girl that never thought much of themselves and are living the pretty and popular dream thru their kids, or, in mother category number two is the failed pageant mom.

She was pretty…..once.

She won a few pageants….a long time ago.

She didn’t have the looks, talent, ability, take your pick, to go the distance and get any sort of crown as an adult. Their child will do it in their place no matter how much dignity you have to shed.

Its fairly pathetic.

I am once again in that fateful position of thinking that Karma is not pulling its weight.

Just once, in the mom interview portion, if just one of them could be struck by lightening, I would be good with it.

If the Pope, in his infinite wisdom, would dispatch some Vatican trained assassins to take a few out, I would be ok with that, too.

Something other than another season of this.

It lacks dignity. Any. Like a big sucking vacuum-like dignity void swirling around the ballroom of a midwestern Holiday Inn.

I hesitated at the thought of writing this one. I have been getting some serious whining and bitching over being too serious and not being funny.

Where do you go with this one?

An even better question is, once these poor little girls grow up in this pressured “looks are everything” environment, at what point do they turn against themselves and start destroying their lives? Late teens or early twenties?

That is a grim little picture of the future that makes the show a hit for everyone who does not have a kid on that show.

And the mothers on the show are just excited that they are getting so much attention. Which they are mistaking for fame.

Its morbid curiosity mixed with an even combo of anger and pity.

And it makes you worry about the future of these kids.

My next question is, at what point do these girls hate their mothers?

As much as the rest of us do?

 
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Posted by on September 29, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Kick a ginger?

Some Gingers deserve the kicking.

That is a rude thing to say, right up until you see the kid I’m watching on tv.

Evidently, kick a ginger day came and went, no one said anything to me, and this kid got kicked by his classmates.

I started out watching the show being outraged about this poor kid, attacked by ruthless bullies.

And then this little shit started talking.

30 seconds later, I wanted to kick him.

I finally came to the conclusion that this kid’s classmates were looking for any excuse under the sun to launch a foot at his ass.

This is the kid who’s mother will call the school to explain why he cannot play at recess because he gets too excited. Like a vampire, being in the sunlight is not good for him.

Evidently, kick a ginger was made popular by an episode of South Park. (A rude little cartoon that I deny watching. Funny as hell.)

Is it right that someone should be singled out and messed with, even beaten up? Simply because they are different?

Maybe.

Bullies happen. Life can be cruel. Deny that and you deny that life exists. We all want to protect our kids from the things that can harm them.

But at what cost?

If someone smacked around the little ginger on the tv in the first grade, he might not have that “You can’t touch me” attitude that oozes from him with a lingering stench, like some sort of psychic shit on your foot.

This is the type of thing that will follow him thru life.

All thru high school and college, and then into the job market.

An arrogant, smarmy asshole that is an insufferable dick to be around.

All because he was never allowed to learn to handle life on his own.

I was never a big kid. I was never the ass kicker. I wanted to be, but I was not.

I got picked on. I learned that I needed to work the system to my advantage. I surrounded myself with ass kickers.

Good friends, some of them relatives. The wrong people to cross.

Ginger boy will become Ginger man with no real friends or a clue as to why.

I blame his parents.

Dr. Spock reading, never tell your child no, raising their kid in a vacuum devoid of common sense, yuppie vermin that raised their kid based on theories.

My great grandmother would beat the shit out of these people. Fine woman. Knew a lot of things.

She raised fine men.

I am not trying to rally support for letting bullies beat the shit out of those smaller than themselves. If you are getting that, pull your head out of your ass.

I am saying, let your kids grow up. Let them fall down, skin their knees, cry their eyes out. Get involved, be a parent, be fun but don’t be afraid to smack them on the ass if they get out of line.

All of that shit.

The people in our lives that we revere the most, grandma, grandpa, great grandma and such, they were all raised this way.

And Dr. Phil can kiss my ass.

Who raised that clown, anyway?

 
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Posted by on September 28, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

7 items or less

I have a weakness for County fairs and evil fried foods that sometimes over rules my common sense.

Which is how I found myself at the supermarket early on a Saturday morning.

I have a general rule when it comes to supermarkets and its the same rule if I was in prison. I am not here to make “friends” or find out intimate details of anyone elses life.

This is how I prefer it, but life often ignores my preferences.

So does Facebook, and I can’t seem to step away from either one.

So I wanted to buy tickets for the LA County Fair because they are selling them for a slight discount at Ralph’s and I am a cheap bastard.

Enough said.

You have to go thru the check out to get them. Then there is the awkward moment of trying to get the checker to understand that I don’t have any groceries. These guys can check groceries and go on strike, outside of that, its an issue.

Tickets for the Fair, no, no groceries. I don’t want cash back. I want tickets to the Fair.

In the end, he called for the Manager. That is the default move when they are not sure what else to do.

Crap.

Its 7 am on a Saturday morning. That means that the manager is what is known as the 3rd manager. At least that is what they called them back when. (If I am wrong, please do not email me, I really do not care and I will ridicule you publicly.)

The manager shows up and she is a shining example of why I do not ask for help in supermarkets.

I was directed to another checkstand. While the third manager punched into the checkstand.

However, a loud conversation was going on between the third manager and the checker.

“Shiela, we need another checker.” He was right. Even for a Saturday morning a line of 10 people is a bit much.

“So?” This was a belligerently beautiful comment.

“Isn’t Tabitha supposed to be here by now?”

“Its Saturday morning, dog. That girl is still drunk from last night.” This was said like she was the newest non-management employee in the building. That kind of “I do not care about shit” type of attitude.

And then they both laughed.

Loudly.

My turn to laugh came next.

A large man in line piped up.

“Tabitha is my niece!”

Niece? Now THATS funny.

This has stopped the 3rd manager in her tracks. She fucked up. She ran her mouth and she is in the hole now. She can go either way. She can back down or, and I can hope, she can go further down the shit road.

The interesting thing is that she kept ringing me up. My tickets were paid for and in hand and I had no reason to hang out.

But I didn’t want to leave.

I dragged my feet the whole way out, and I was rewarded for my patience.

Just before I passed under the automatic door threshold, I heard the third manager’s voice.

Clear as a bell.

“Your niece drinks to damn much!”

“WHAT?”

I’m fairly certain that somewhere in the corporate manual that discourages management from bad mouthing employees to their relatives.

But I could be wrong.

You can’t buy moments like that.

I laughed the whole way to the fair.

 
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Posted by on September 27, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Skipping into the sunset…

There is a Tranny hooker out there that might kick my butt over this one, or she might love it. Depends on your point of view.

I am sipping my cup of daily drug at the Starbucks near LAX when a man flounces in.

I kid you not, flounces.

First of all, flouncing in Doc Martin boots is a tough thing to pull off. Add to that a leather jacket that has several hundred little buttons on it and pants that are embarrassingly too god damn tight and you almost have it all.

But then theres the hair.

A bright-pink, fluffy mohawk.

Taking the entire thing in is almost overwhelming to the mind.

He gets in the four person line and begins doing something that looks suspiciously like vogueing.

Are you kidding me?

I go get in line, I might need a cookie, but basically, I just gotta see this.

The question of whether this guy is gay is not even a question.

“Don’t ask don’t tell” has has been replaced with “Shout it from the rooftops, ladies!”

I begin to worry that he will set off the sprinklers.

Its not PC, I get that. But this guy is so over the top, the only thing missing is a full length mink and a peacock on a leash.

I could be wrong , but I think he has begun an abbreviated electric slide.

This is a show all to itself.

I am thrilled, and yet begin to panic as to how to how the hell I can do this justice in print.

And now it is his turn to order.

He orders fairly quickly and moves over.

There are few things in life that are more uncomfortably interesting than watching a really odd individual who is convinced that he is the shit.

And then he begins to hit on the barrista.

The barrista is a lanky young guy with glasses and questionable skin. This is not a kid that is living the player lifestyle.

Mohawk has posted up near the pickup window, and is taking the name literally. He is leaning almost his whole torso into the barrista’s station.

“You have very sensual hands, do you paint?”

THAT is his pickup line.

I begin choking in line, I seriously don’t want to spoke this guy, or god forbid focus his attentions on me.

I can hit homophobic at times, but I am comforted by having been told once by a gay coworker that I am definitely not what a gay nation is looking for. (Which, by the way, is only insulting if you are gay.)

Mohawk is launching into his description of his acting career.

This is getting so badly uncomfortable its damned near perfect.

The barrista has gone totally silent, turned bright red and is seriously falling behind in his coffee beverage creation.

And it is not phasing Mohawk one little bit.

“There is a party at a friends house tonight, if your looking for something to do later…” He leaves that one dangling.

I begin to envision a horrifying tale of roofies and forced sodomy that, from the barrista’s point of view, is pretty chilling even as a concept.

Somehow, someway, the barrista finishes Mohawk’s latte and hands it across with shaky hands and a subvocal mutter that sounds like “No” but I can’t be sure.

Mohawk shifts gears and takes his latte and heads to the door throwing a “TTFN” over his shoulder.

The motherfucker skips out of Starbucks.

He was incredible.

And I will never forget him.

 
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Posted by on September 26, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

I just met a girl named Maria…..

I am sitting in the Starbucks at the mall, doing what I do.

Which is listen in. Rude as it gets.

You have to bear with me on this one, my Spanish is rusty as hell.

Luckily, the young couple next to me at the Galleria Starbucks is switching back and forth between English and Spanish.

I love West Side Story, so here is the story of Tony and Maria.

Tony is Latino and looks to be about 12. He has all the characteristics of a guy in his mid to late teens. Maria is a Latina who is carrying a few pounds and appears to be about 13 years old.

They have 2 kids together.

I wondered at first if I miss-heard that, but it was repeated, so it must be true.

Children having children. (From the look and mannerisms of Tony, dumb kids having kids

Also, it appears that Tony is several months behind on what sounds a lot like child support.

Maria has made several comments about her abwella, or something like that. (After checking with my chola barber, it was abuela, grandmother in spanish.)

She is mellowing, but started out really pissed at him. Tony, however, understands how to shut her down.

Not 5 minutes into the conversation, she is laughing and slapping playfully at his hand.

Shit.

Not that I am against young love as a general thing, but this whole little scenario puts the vice on my butt something fierce.

What percentage of this generation is sitting in front of me?

How many more kids will Maria have with Tony before they get their lives together?

Or at least graduate high school.

Just kidding, I realize that they probably won’t graduate high school.

That is not necessarily a racial thing. I think everyone in their mid to late teens are complete morons, with few exceptions.

People in that age range should not be allowed to make any serious decisions for themselves.

But thats just me.

Although, maybe some of the tougher decisions in life should be made before you can acquire enough experience to chicken out.

The scary stuff.

Marriage, the military, Amway.

Of the three, I am in favor of marriage and the military.

But Amway is a fucking cult.

Lets get back to Tony and Maria before I get all the way up on my soap box.

The sad fact is, they are a small percentage of the other Tony and Maria’s out there, cranking out children like an assembly line.

I saw an article that stated that a lot of kids have kids because it allows them to do something important in their life.
As an esteem builder.

Kind of a self improvement thru reproduction.

I will laugh at that line for a few minutes and then I realize that there is a pretty good shot that I will be paying taxes to keep Maria and the kids in food and huggies for a good long time.

And I won’t even be invited to the family BBQs.

 

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Posted by on September 23, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Hella is not a word, people!

The first thing she said was:

“Babe? I need something hella good for breakfast.”

It was such an odd little phrase that I looked up from what I was reading as I walked along.

It was a young Asian girl, early twenties or so. She was hanging on the arm of the gangly boy walking next to her. It was that type of clingy type of arm holding like she was afraid he would float away like a balloon.

As we walked the last half block to Starbucks, she proceeded to call him Babe 31 more times, I counted. She used the word hella a lot less, but it was more annoying.

First of all, hella is not even a word.

It was like listening to Marine Corp recruits begin and their sentences with a specific word.

Sir, yes Sir!

When they turned in at Starbucks, I was both elated and bummed. Elated because I am always on the lookout for odd personalities and bummed that this vacuous dip shit was ahead of me in line.

My need for caffeine in the morning can be an ugly thing sometimes. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want my coffee.

There were 3 people ahead of us in line.

Lizzie, the girl, as referred to by her boyfriend, was like a hyper child in a toy store.

“Oh babe, the coffee cake looks hella good!”
“Babe, did you want the donut? We could split it and a coffee cake.”

My teeth began to itch.

If she were 5 with these communication skills, this would be cute. But, god damn it, this is a woman in her early twenties, and it was more like looking at a caricature of the most annoying woman the artist could think of.

Live and in person.

Shit.

I counted 26 more “Babes” in line.

Pace yourself, dear.

I took a seat right next to them and set up my laptop. I would rather get a root canal, but I am willing to take one for the blog.

The perfect opportunity to be a dick came when Lizzy told “Babe” that she had to pee “hella” bad.

I waited for her to hit the bathroom then caught “Babe”’s eye.

“Morning Babe.” I said this with as straight a face as possible, then sipped my coffee to hide the smiled.

He flinched and had the good grace to act both annoyed and embarrassed.

“My name is Mike.”

Spitting coffee is never a great way to start a conversation, but I could not contain it.

Whatever else I was going to try to say was lost in the laughter that came over me.

I lost it.

I fought for control for about five minutes.

Babe just sat there looking a little pissed, but going further down the road of being really embarrassed.

Lizzy came out of the bathroom and found Babe standing, waiting for her.

Before she could ask anything, he turned and walked out clutching both coffees and the baggie with the pastries.

There are times I need that as much as the coffee.

I think we all do, but have been told over and over that its rude.

Fuck it, I feel really good today.

 
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Posted by on September 22, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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