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Monthly Archives: December 2011

So close, and yet so far.

It is cold as hell and I am wearing shorts.

Shows how smart I am.

Although, this is Southern California cold, so it is mid 50’s.

Shorts with a hoody.

See? Winter wear.

As I have mentioned before, I park a quarter to a third of a mile from my office, with Starbucks in between.

To park closer would cost a crapload monthly.

My company likes me, but they don’t love me.

Besides, I can use the daily walk.

My main hobby is writing at Starbucks.

I am running late today.

I will only have time for a quick cup of coffee and a cursory glance at my email.

It is only when I am just hitting the corner, no more than ten feet from the door that I see them.

Evil couple.

My ass goes into clench mode at the thought of writing about them today.

I have written several thousand words about this beast of a woman and her husband.

At different times I have felt bad for him, for her, and for various others that she or he has crapped on.

I am still in love with my original description of her.

She thinks everyone is a moron and she is sick of their shit.

As I open the door, they brush past me.

Mrs. Evil, smiles at me as she goes by.

Mr. Evil throws me a quick, “Hey thanks” for holding the door.

I stand with the door handle clutched in my fist, watching them walk, arm in arm, up the street.

Dammit!

Do you know how many days I have waited for those two?

Some of the most vile, hysterical blogs I have ever done have been about them.

And I missed it.

Crap.

I need to get back on it.

Back when I first started blog, specifically about these two, I would show up early and lay in wait for these two.

This is what we call a “Come to Jesus” moment.

Time to rededicate.

All of this goes threw my head in the few seconds between watching them walk off and scooting inside because I am cold.

Maybe there is some other distractions inside.

The only hope for fun is the Werewolf is in line, 2 people ahead of me.

For those who don’t know, the Werewolf is my nickname for a slightly balding business guy who is convinced he is sweetly dangerous with the ladies.

Unfortunately, the Vampire is nowhere to be seen.

That is my nickname for the secretary that shot the Werewolf down so hard last time, I thought she might have castrated him.

God knows he has it coming.

He has this whole creepy come on that does not work and he has no clue.

But, being shot down never seems to phase him.

And you have to admire his tenacity.

But he’s no Evil Couple.

Accept no substitutes.

 
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Posted by on December 16, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Die old man die.

When I write, I am head down, stop talking, leave me alone and let me type and sip coffee.

Earl has other ideas.

Earl is a newcomer to my Starbucks.

He looks to be one of those retired guys that has lost the first flush of retirement.

Took a trip, found a few hobbies, enjoyed the slower pace.

Now he is in his late 80’s and a pain in my ass.

Don’t get me wrong, I like people.

Sort of.

But unless I make friends with you or we’re are related by blood or marriage, leave me alone.

The Grinch is my prison bitch today.

Earl is one of those old guys that wants to talk to you, but has nothing to say.

And before you go down that road of telling me to look in the mirror, bite me.

I never said a word to him and he just erupted a conversation all over me.

He said good morning, I said hi, then I didn’t speak for ten minutes.

It got so bad that I contemplated playing dead, like a bear had entered the Starbucks, in the hopes that he would wonder off.

Here is what I learned.

  • Earl is a widower with 3 kids.
  • The kids are all married, have kids of their own and live local.
  • His wife’s name was Samantha.
  • He was an electrician.
  • He drives a Buick that makes noise, but the dealership says there is nothing wrong.
  • He loves the Anaheim Angels.

I have friends that I have known for years that I do not know this much about, that I don’t want to know that much about.

I can hear the comments now.

He’s just a lonely old guy, Will, you heartless shit!

Bullshit.

He lives with the middle kid and is the babysitter for all the grandkids, which he claims to love.

So he is not sitting in an empty place, all alone, staring at old photos.

I began festering early on in the conversation.

Evil shit happens in my head when i fester, its not pretty.

Earl then decides, again unprovoked, to tell me all about what his beloved Anaheim Angels are up to.

And in a total shocker, saying “Shut up Earl” out of the blue doesn’t phase him.

He just laughed and told me about dugout protocol.

I am in hell.

Take me out to the ball game, and put a bullet thru my head.

Please.

This ratchets my dislike of both baseball in general and the Angels specifically up to a new level of distaste.

I felt guilty for years when I would go to Thanksgiving and had to sit at the kids table, because I would be wondering when an old relative at the big table would pass away and I could sit there?

I have no guilt at all, and I realize that makes me a bad person, in wondering fondly when will Earl take a dirt nap?

I would try to fake not speaking English, but that one is tough to pull off for the long term.

With my luck, whatever accent I use, he would speak the language it goes with and then I am fucked.

With luck, Alzheimers will kick in tomorrow and he won’t be able  to find the Starbucks.

We can only hope.

Merry Christmas.

 
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Posted by on December 15, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

How is Jerry Springer still alive and kicking?

Are you aware that Jerry Springer is still on the air?

I was not even aware that he was still alive.

Hasn’t he run out of trash in every race, creed and color yet?

If that show taught us anything, its that you should never consider your race above being completely embarrassing.

Trust me.

I went totally hetero racial during an unexpected episode recently.

A really dark black man had a secret to tell his wife of 10 years.

His wife had birthed three sons with him, by the way.

Oh, and while raising 3 kids, she worked her ass off and helped put him thru nursing school.

He has a little secret to tell her.

He’s leaving her for someone else.

But that is actually not the secret.

Here’s the secret.

He’s bisexual and leaving her for the white pastor of their local church.

Who is married and has kids too, by the way.

The only saving grace of the episode is the ass whipping she put on him and his boyfriend before they managed to pull her off.

Good.

I was hoping for permanent damage, but no such luck.

Even Jerry seemed horrified, so you know it was a kind of a sick high water mark.

Watching that show was like watching a train wreck in slow mo.

You can’t look away, but you are sickened by the scene unfolding in front of you.

At first, I thought it might be a gay bashing instinct, I can at least admit that.

But no, it wasn’t that.

Then I explored that it might be a racial thing.

Nope, not it either.

Then I finally hit on it.

Color and sexual orientation are not things that you can control.

Argue that one all you like, I still disagree.

Its the fact that marriage and kids are something that you decide to do.

In fact, its something that you swear an oath to love honor and cherish someone.

Both men admit that they are bisexual and enjoy women.

So it isn’t that the wives are not suitable anymore, their just not as much fun as cock.

And these boys evidently LOVE the cock.

Thats rude.

I agree, they sure are.

There has to be some sort of cosmic water-boarding that needs to happen here.

The wife place kicking the one guy in the nuts just doesn’t seem like enough.

And I think Jerry is somehow responsible for this.

Not that he made this happen.

But he runs the show that enabled me to see it.

Its like farting in an elevator, you can’t help it, but you are still guilty.

And this stinks worse.

Kind of a psychic stink.

Or maybe the stink is the same.

Ass is ass after all.

And nothing beats ass, stink wise.

So lets look at the big list of guilt here:

The boys, for getting out of hand with the dick in the ass thing.

Extra special sin points for the pastor for preaching for years that sex with men is evil, when in fact he thinks its delightful.

The pumpkin shaped lady who was screaming at them. Not that she was wrong, but if you weigh that much, you do NOT were spandex. Just saying.

Jerry himself, for making this evil little love triangle available for public consumption.

Shame shame on you all.

The only people in this entire thing that deserve any sorts of good thoughts and wishes are the boys families.

Their kids are looking at serious couch time in the future to deal with this shit.

I can only hope that some sort of outlaw biker club kidnaps the boys and puts them thru some sort of crude backwoods ass kicking/waterboarding.

Hopefully.

Call it a little Christmas gift for the masses.

And I still don’t think of waterboarding as torture.

Ho, ho, ho.

 
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Posted by on December 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Cause I’ll cut a bitch.

“I don’t give a shit, I’ll cut a bitch!”

Thats the cashier at Starbucks talking.

Wow.

Its night and I am at a different Starbucks.

Its the one on the verge of a really bad area in LA.

Different crew works here.

A little rougher around the edges than the Manhattan Beach crew.

The cashier, a delightful young lady with pencil thin eyebrows and tattoos on her hands,

is entertaining the barrista with a story about a party she was at last night.

Here is a little taste:

“And she’s like all, what?”

“And I’m like, hey, don’t talk to me like you know me.”

“And she’s like, haha.”

“She don’t know, cause I’ll cut a bitch.”

Awesome, I’m sure your parents are beaming with pride as we speak.

Their baby girl that they raised, educated, and took to church every Sunday. Did their best to imbue all of the elements of proper living.

Like knowing when and how to “Cut a bitch”.

The story moves on to her description of her boyfriend got too wasted on something that sounded like “Booley” and getting arrested.

Not sure what “booley” is.

I have Googled it with no luck.

All of this has me uneasy to the point that I have been staring at my coffee for a few minutes without drinking it.

Not sure why, could be important.

I decide to drink it to hide my laughter at another comment from the cashier.

The party last night, the one that she almost “Cut a bitch” at and her boyfriend got so wasted that he later got arrested?

It was her engagement party.

Of course it was.

And can you blame him?

If I found myself at a party and had just gotten engaged to this little slice of hand-tattooed heaven, I might be so inclined as to tie one on.

Maybe even try some “Booley”.

Straight up with a twist.

I weep for the future.

A tourist couple comes in.

I know they are tourists, because they are dressed out of place for the area.

Also, they are speaking German.

The woman is wearing a white down parka. She orders a simple Latte and a blueberry scone.

The man is in a black fabric jacket and a black turtleneck.

He pays with cash, another sure sign they are tourists, you never want to use your credit card in a foreign country.

The cashier takes their order in an almost subdued manner.

The now awkwardly quiet cashier seems almost subdued, which doesn’t seem right.

Don’t the tourists know she will cut a bitch?

Although you would not know it by the odd silence from behind the counter.

Odd because there is silence.

The couple chat quietly and get their drinks then leave.

The second the door closes and they are gone, the cashier leans over to the barrista and stage whispers loudly.

“What a bitch.”

Thats my girl.

Welcome to Starbucks.

 
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Posted by on December 13, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Three wierd stories.

Today is a day of trios.

There are three interesting personalities in Starbucks this morning.

The first is an English teenager talking on his phone.

I can’t tell if he has a speech impediment or just an odd way of speaking.

Its like a combination of what if Oliver Twist mated with Drew Barrymoore and had a retard love child.

Like each word is a little candy that is slowly unwrapped and held up for confused inspection.

He is talking on his cell phone to a girlfriend it seems.

Or maybe I am assuming a girl.

I am predisposed to hating the English, given my immigrant Irish roots, but I may a little too happy to assume the worst.

Oh well.

It seems that Oliver Barrymoore is in love, in that way that only a naive teen can be.

Crappy prose is crappy prose, but add this bizarre accent to it, and it becomes truly horrifying.

Currently, he is reminding her about their last dinner together before he left Liverpool.

Which, since she was there, she remembers as well.

Unless of course she hit her head and has amnesia.

And wouldn’t that be a damn shame.

This kid makes my teeth itch.

On to number two.

There is a little old Hawaiian man that drinks coffee and reads the newspaper out in front of the Starbucks.

He is always here, but he sits out front so I never really talk with him, but we see each other enough to say hi in the mornings.

The thing that catches my eye today is that he got his coffee, straight black, and took it out to the front to sip it.

Ten minutes later, he comes in and heads to the cream and sugar kiosk, doctoring his coffee.

Then he is out in front to peruse the business section.

And then, in ten minutes, he is back to cream and sugar it again.

WTF?

I am watching, he is drinking it pretty steady.

And just about at the ten minute mark again, he is back at the kiosk, again.

There can only be a little coffee left. It has to be mostly cream and sugar by now.

Why should I care?

Simple, I am have a caffeine addiction as we all know and I find it fascinating.

Deal with it.

Number 3 on the roster today is the the Ginger.

True, she isn’t new to the blog, you all know her from previous blogs.

9 days out of 10, she is huddled behind the Barrista counter, scowling at me.

Today seems to be day 10.

I get my coffee hot and black, the cashier usually pours it and the barrista doesn’t get involved.

I had just ordered my coffee and paid at the counter.

“I’ll get it.”

A voice I have never heard announces as she moves past the cashier, grabs a cup and begins pouring.

Its the Ginger, and the reason I have never heard that voice before is because she is smiling as she does something for me.

If you look this up on the big “Chance of stuff happening” chart, this is right above finding a unicorn in your bathroom, ridden by a leprechaun holding a winning lotto ticket in his hand.

Something like that.

I spend the next half hour trying to catch the barrista’s eye.

She is smiling and possibly even singing a little song to herself.

I realize that she is not happy to see me, she is just happy in general.

The question is why?

Some my look at this as stalking, obsessing about the mental state of the hot redheaded barrista.

Relax, she normally hated me like an STD and besides, we kind of have history.

(Mini recap, The ginger is a player in the drama of Ronaldo and his meth head/porn king/sex slaver son. There, now we’re all on the same page. Read the whole thing here.)

The only issue now is, with her behind the counter, I don’t have a chance to ask why she is in such a good mood. This girl normally scowls at me everyday.

I finally give up and pack up all my stuff to head to work, figuring that I will talk to the old Hawaiian guy and find out it he is, indeed getting high off of Equal and Half and Half.

When I get outside and turn the corner to the short brick wall the old guy likes to sit on.

Great, he’s gone. I got nothing to end this blog.

I turn around to head the other way to work.

“There you are. I was hoping to catch you.”

The Ginger.

Deer in the headlights time.

I notice she has no apron and has a small backpack on her shoulder.

“Leaving early?” I gesture at the backpack.

“Getting on a plane in two hours. Going to New York.”

What she says next floors me and makes me smile for the rest of the day.

“I’m going to Ronaldo’s wedding.”

It’s about fucking time, Karma.

The man is due.

 
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Posted by on December 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

I really want to take up smoking now.

Where the hell is Jack “Doctor Death” Kervorkian when you need him.

I found someone who really wants to die.

Honestly.

I am at a Starbucks outside of my usual area, just on the verge of a really nasty section of town.

It has a different vibe.

It looks like a rougher dirtier version of most Starbucks.

Just about every time I come here, a homeless guy will come in and begin to make the rounds to the tables, asking for change.

The Starbucks staff doesn’t seem to notice.

Maybe he works here.

While I am mulling that, she comes in.

Let me paint you a picture.

Her hair is a wild tangle of mousy brown curls.

The mumu is an explosion of what appears to be tie-die and Hawaiian shirt tropical.

And I could be wrong, but Ringling Brothers might be looking for a mumu/tent that big for the next show.

If I had to call it, I would say about 350 to 400 pounds, dripping wet.

As she makes her way to the cashier to order, she eyes the pastry case like predator eying the prey.

She orders a Chai Latte with the following:

7 pump (Are you kidding me? This is a diabetic coming in waiting.)

Waterless.

Non-fat.

Extra hot.

Whipped Cream.

Cinnamon.

Double espresso shot.

This would normally not bother me, except that I am all the way across the room and I can hear her order clearly.

A loud talker.

Make that a loud, exceptionally gravelly voiced loud talker.

This woman makes Brenda Vaccaro sound like Mel Torme.

I sincerely doubt that anyone would get this other than my grandmother, may she rest in peace.

But you should Google it and laugh your ass off.

Most people order and move down to the pick up counter and wait for their drink.

Not her.

She immediately beelines for the front door.

She posts up about ten feet from the front door and lights up.

Her drink is done about 30 seconds later.

Now I see why she wants it extra hot.

She stands out front and smokes two cigarettes.

I counted.

She is fascinating.

Some people, and she is one of them, make this hideous face when they smoke, like they are in pain the whole time.

It makes the act of smoking even grosser to see than it usually is.

Then she comes back in, the cold breeze that comes thru the door with her reeks of smoke.

She gets her drink and desperately gulps half of it down at the counter.

A bent page paperback appears out of her purse and she sits down across the room.

I make an effort not to stare, but this is manna from heaven.

Just a few minutes before, I was trying to think of a blog subject.

Hello gorgeous!

The book holds her attention only for a few moments.

And then she is outside for two more cigarettes, smoking ugly the whole time.

For the next hour I watch as she finishes her drink, gets a refill, reads a total of what looks like two chapters, and finishes the pack of smokes.

When she finally left, she had a little sheen of sweat on her brow.

No shit.

She has ingested a LOT of caffeine, a little crap fiction and A FUCKING BUTTLOAD of nicotine.

She has worked her ass off here.

If you told her that cigarettes will kill her, she would ask you “When?”

It looks like she would be excited at the prospect of dying horribly.

Good for her.

Its important to have goals.

 
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Posted by on December 9, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

The Wild Boys of Starbucks

Break out your Cliff Notes.

Lord of the Flies.

In a nutshell, proper English kids crash land on an island and left to their own devices, turn feral and try to kill/eat each other.

You may be asking yourself what the hell that has to do with Starbucks.

Good question.

Starbucks is over run with five little rug rats with no parents in sight.

And the little bastards are going to town.

Two little boys with dirty faces that appear to be twins are shouting and playing tag.

An older little boy is at the cream and sugar kiosk opening and eating sugar packets one at a time.

He is kind of swaying back and forth like a crack addict in the middle of a fix.

There is a little girl that cannot seem to quit ending up behind the counter, back in the store room, only to be escorted out by just about every member of the Starbucks staff.

The final child I am assuming is in the bathroom, based solely on the shouting.

There is a line of people waiting for the 1 and only bathroom in the building. There is a lot of door knocking going on.

And whoever is in the bathroom has to be a child, no one who ever went thru puberty can hit that kind of high and screechy.

Now that Michael Jackson is dead that is.

Where the hell are their parents?

A better question is, where is the Children’s Services to take these little bastards to the orphanage?

I hate to be Ebenezer Scrooge this close to Christmas but these kids are getting on my last nerve.

I have no respect for parents that raise rude kids.

In true hypocritical fashion, we will not be discussing rude adults.

Got it?

As for the whole rude kids thing.

I have two children that are more or less grown and I was never embarrassed to take them anywhere.

And I am sure that when the authorities find the parents they will be embarrassed as well.

The manager is trying to corner the kids into the plush chair section and failing miserably.

Everytime he gets one seated and admonishes them to sit still, he tries to corral another one.

The only problem is, once he moves and takes his eyes off of the seated one, they are off like a shot.

And the way too sugared one is likely to go after him if he tries to corner him.

Come at him like a tornado of teeth and fingernails.

Finally, a man and a woman come into the Starbucks and get in line. The little girl wanders out from behind the counter and latches on to the woman’s leg.

The woman ruffles the little girl’s hair.

Mom.

The woman looks at Sugar boy and say’s, “Get your brothers together, I want to get a coffee and leave. Go. Now.” She taps her fingers against the back of his head as he rushes by.

The manager is beside himself.

I can tell he wants to confront the woman, but the kids have completely subsided.

So he posts up at the door, obviously planning to catch them as they exit.

I hope he rips her an extra special new asshole.

I have no clue where Mom and Dad were just now, but it occurs to me that they basically had Starbucks babysit while they went about their business.

Me included.

Screw that, I raised my kids, I am officially off the hook for watching anyones kids I am not a blood relation to.

I can feel a decent ass clench coming on as Mom and Dad order their coffees, get them, cream and sugar them and head to the door.

The manager awaits.

As they get closer, the manager holds up one finger, indicating that he is wants to talk to them.

Dad takes the lead.

“Awesome service today, thank you.”

And shoves his way past.

and the family follows.

It is an incredible FU move on Dad’s part. They only reason it bugs me is I was hoping for a shitty public scene that I am obviously not going to get.

The Wild Boys have left the building.

Damn.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on December 8, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Comes the Jazz Man.

For the last few weeks, I have noticed something in the early morning.

Something makes my skin crawl as I walk from my car to the Starbucks.

The closer I get, the worse it is.

And then I hit the front door.

And the music hits me.

Jazz.

But before I can truly allow my mind to unwind into the true horror of Jazz.

And there he is.

This is unexpected.

He’s back.

Head bobbing, tea shades, hipster hat at a jaunty angle.

Soul patch riding right below his bottom lip.

It’s the return of the Jazz man.

Starbucks is in an awkward phase.

80% of the music is Christmas music.

The remaining shitty torturous 20% is jazz.

People hate Jazz, I do not think I am alone in this.

Even in the vacuum of space, where there is nothing?

There are people who hate jazz.

Jazz makes me feel the same way X-lax does.

Shit, pure shit.

But not to the Jazz man.

Given the delight that lights up his face when John Coltrane’s great hits, side one, track one came on, this is his life.

By the way, I had the Starbucks manager look for me, that is the only way I could know that John Coltrane was playing.

I would have guessed recorded cat murder, but as I said, I would be guessing.

Lets face it folks, no fighting it.

Jazz sucks.

And I have said this before.

If I had my way, all Jazz musicians would fight to the death on pay per view, until only one was left.

And then we ban his music and break his hands.

Tis the season to be vicious, fa la la la la.

On the other hand, most Xmas music sucks as well.

When I first heard “Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt, it was hip and cool.

You have to give it to her, the woman was vocal sex.

She was a stunning piece of ass back in the day.

However, upon hearing it for the several hundredth time, right after Jazz great Charles Mingus destroys music as we know it, I began to hate it.

Like fingers on a chalkboard.

That and paddle boarding.

I realize this is going off on a tangent, but that sucks as well.

Paddle boarding is the latest fad of the upwardly mobile.

Its this years hot yoga.

Don’t even ask.

Fine, I’ll tell you.

Hot yoga is doing yoga, thats bad enough, but its done in a 100 degree plus room.

Its a work out designed to give you a world class case of rotten swamp ass.

And nothing is worth that.

Well, there are a couple of things worth that, but that is none of your business.

Some things are private, totally hypocritical, I know.

Back to paddle boarding and Jazz.

Maybe the two are tied together.

And maybe I am just bitching too much.

And maybe the thing is that I envy the Jazz man.

You have to envy anyone who is into anything that much.

Even if it sucks.

Except paddle boarding.

Yuppie maggots, I hope they all drown.

Merry Xmas.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on December 7, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tard research

Every now and then, wisdom of the world just comes to me like a vision.

Which is more often viewed by those around me as just me being an asshole.

However, in his own house a prophet is without honor.

How fitting.

On to the wisdom.

Here goes.

Most peoples kids are stupid and annoying.

Just saying.

Annoying is a symptom of stupid, so lets focus on the stupid.

I realize that everyone thinks their kids are beautiful and little geniuses.

No. Sorry, but no.

Like George Carlin said, even those parents that say “But not my kids-”

Yes, your kids too.

And thats ok.

To quote someone, and I have no clue who:

The world needs ditch diggers too.

Do they still pay people to do that?

And, if their family has money, even a rock can get passing grades in any name university.

Its a given.

Anyway, I think the youth of today are being shoved into the Tard zone, and I don’t think its their fault.

It might be, I mean, genetics are a rotten bitch that can paint you into a corner in a New York minute.

But, what about at the environment of the stupid?

Let me paint you a picture.

The game is called “Doggy Doo Game”.

It consists of a plastic wiener dog on a leash. The handle of the leash has a pump in it.

Roll the dice.

Pump the leash and when there is enough pumps, poop comes out of its butt.

I shit you not.

I can see now why our schools are having issues with test scores.

We are raising a nation of morons.

If you buy your child this game, I have no sympathy for you when he is in his thirties, still living at home, playing the Doggy Doo Game and

listening to garbage pop/rap music, right until you drive them to their job bagging fries at McDonald’s because they can’t be cashier anymore due to that whole misunderstanding with the roll of quarters thing.

The games you play as a kid have to influence the way you view life.

For instance, I have done exhaustive research and have found that most strippers played with barbies when they were little.

Any research that involves a stack of ones and a strip club is solid science, by the way.

And while we’re on the subject, what is up with the glitter?

There is not a stripper working today that is not at least lightly covered in glitter.

I have no personal knowledge, but I hear things.

I would make a comment about clear heels, but there are two problems with that.

First, I think they are hot.

Second. I forget now. It might have been something about them being distracting, I don’t know.

What was I talking about?

Ah, uneducated kids and strippers.

And for the most part, uneducated kids either become strippers or give them their money.

Makes me wish I had finished my degree.

Maybe I need to look into going back to school.

Ironic or prophetic?

Take your pick.

 
6 Comments

Posted by on December 6, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

A brilliant example of how to ensure you are beaten severly.

I am a divorced man, so take the following advice with a grain of salt.

I am also an asshole, so maybe you should just disregard this advice altogether.

But, if you are going to escalate an argument with your wife into a screaming argument with your wife, don’t do it curbside at Portland International Airport.

Even better, don’t make outrageous threats to harm her and her dog at the top of your lungs, curbside at Portland International Airport.

And, don’t do this in front of Airport police.

And finally, and this really is where the advice part comes in, rather that just my giggling and typing, DO NOT THREATEN TO KILL THE AIRPORT POLICE WHEN THEY ASK YOU TO QUIET DOWN AND MOVE YOUR CAR.

For big men, they move like uniformed ferrets, inhumanly fast.

If that man were a cobra, he would have been dead.

You never saw a guy slammed into a hood so fast.

Let me describe the assailant for you.

He must have been all of 5’8 and about 135lbs dripping wet.

Screaming a death threat to his wife and her dog was just stupid, but pointing his finger at the airport police and telling them to A: Go fuck themselves. and B: Or I will shoot you both! was just sad.

Its kind of like daring them to beat the shit out of you at a private location.

And the inevitable cavity search performed by the officer with the freakishly big hands goes without saying.

The patrol car roared up out of nowhere, light flashing.

The subdued assailant was slammed into the backseat and off the car went, leaving one officer to take the now stunned wife’s statement.

It was awesome.

And at the airport!

You would cringe if he had pulled that in the parking lot at Target.

But the airport?

I think whatever he was pissed about is pretty much irrelevant now.

He has a whole lot different class of shit to deal with now.

This is like, sell the house to pay the lawyer so you don’t end up in jail for the rest of your life problems.

Good. The man was a fucking menace to society.

I think those officers deserve medals.

I know what a few of you are thinking.

“If I was there, I would have kicked their ass!”

Good luck with that one, asshole. Call me and let me know how that one goes.

Get used to the taste of pepperspray and that neat ass clinch a military grade tazer will give you.

As for me, I treat the police of any sort like angry guard dogs, purely out of respect.

And not just because they might attack without warning.

But because, should the shit go down for real, I WANT them to squelch “the villian” in a quick and brutal fashion.

Since I do not want to be mistaken for “the villian” I have a whole different approach.

I keep my hand out where they can see them and move slowly. Respectful, but not aggressive eye contact.

Can I go now, sir?

When I am about 25 yards away, my ass cheeks will unclench on their own.

And I can visit the rest room to deal with the inevitable swamp ass.

And life will be good.

Was that so hard?

 
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Posted by on December 5, 2011 in Uncategorized