Monthly Archives: January 2012

That would be a really ugly sister.

Surgery can only do so much.

Take an average 60 year old woman.

Give her some fake breasts.

Not while she’s young enough for you to enjoy looking at them, but old enough that she thinks you do.

Now give her enough botox so that any expression other than Liza Minelli’s ex type of dazed is impossible.

That “Permanently surprised” look

And inject her lips with the double the “Oh shit!” amount of whatever so she looks like a duck.

And finally, implant Donald Trump’s ego.

Then plant her outside of Starbucks in a yoga unitard, emphasis on the tard part, just to be mean.

This is a quote.

“I was out with my grand-daughter last weekend and someone asked if we were sisters.”

Are you shitting me?

I am parking my bike outside of Starbucks.

Just about to take up my post for Occupy Manhattan Beach, and yes, I am mocking that whole stupid fucking thing.

There is a gaggle of older women, all in their yoga tards.

If you are related to a tard and find this offensive, my bad.

They get their lattes, do some elitist loitering out front and then saunter their well monied asses down for some high priced, incense choked stretching.

Yeah, little bit of angst going on here.

There is a kind of a wide brick porch that catches the morning sun in front of Starbucks..

The guy that sits there every morning is always dressed casual, sips his salted caramel latte and read his paper.

You might think well dressed homeless, but when was the last time you saw a homeless guy with a titanium Rolex?

The man has money and keeps it low key.

I hate him.

Might be the Rolex.

Have you seen the Titanium? I mean, up close?

Anyway, here is the setting.

I am farthest from the door,

They ELDERLY women are on the side walk, off too the right of the door, right in front of Rolex dude.

It is at the last comment by the delusional old broad, the “asked if we were sisters.” comment, that Rollex dude spits out his coffee.

No shit, a naturally occurring spit take.

Mid sip, he spews it back onto the lid of the cup and all over the brick porch next to him.

“Oh my FUCKING God!”

I am riveted, but I love a scene.

The ladies are standing, shocked, as the guy folds his paper under his arm and takes his coffee and walks off.

He was ten feet away, facing away from us, and it sounded like he was talking out loud to himself.

Really loud to himself.

“How FUCKING OLD is your grand daughter?”

Its rude, but God dammit, thats funny!

It is an awkward, long minute before the old women recover.

“Was he talking about me?”

The confusion in her delusional voice is obvious.

The other hens don’t miss a beat.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Delusion, if nothing else, is tenacious.


Posted by on January 31, 2012 in Uncategorized


Gilligan’s Starbucks

I am a fan of Starbucks, we all know this.

And there are usually a few common denominators when it comes to the Starbucks staff.

  • The manager are usually all men. While female managers do exist, 90-95% of the time, its a man.
  • The girls are usually hot. And I said girls, because I meant girls. I have never seen a woman over the age of 40 working in a Starbucks.
  • Its a well run place. Even the Starbucks in the middle of nowhere has competent staff. Not sure how they pull that one off.

I am in Oxnard this weekend, camping at a state park on the coast.

The need for coffee has driven me into the city for a fix.

With the aid of the Iphone, I have found one in old town Oxnard, less than a mile from huge strawberry fields.

First off, the place is huge.

I don’t know that I have ever seen a Starbucks this large.

Second, I might be the only one in the building speaking English.

As I mentioned, there are huge strawberry fields nearby, and the pickers like coffee too, it seems.

Don’t we all.

But, more so than the clientele or the locale of this particular Starbucks, its the crew running it that stands out.

This might be the most incompetent pack of bastards I have ever seen.

Starting with the cashier.

He most definitely did not take his ritalin this morning.

Like a human humming bird, he flits back and forth, doing five things at once, all while talking over each and every customer he deals with.

When he gets to me, I am asked three times what I would like.

I try to answer three times.

The first time, he interrupts to ask if I would like a fresh pastry.

I would, but yours are not.

The second time, I had just started to say what I wanted and he takes off, into the sitting area and makes change with someone that was not in line.

The third time, he had just come back from making change, blurted out, “What can I get you?” Then took off for the back room to get something.

In the end, the barrista took my order.

And, as for the barrista, he was doing one to two things, then reading out of a barrista book for a second.

Trial by fire, it would seem, learning on the job.

Nothing wrong with that, but I will still yell if they screw up my drink.

And finally, the prep guy in the back is an extra from an old Disney movie.

He was putting squirts of something into a cup, put in some ice and then dropped the whole thing on the floor.

He got up, made the decision to clean up after prepping the drink he just dropped, and began to make it again.

He got it on the blender and turned it on.

And then slipped and fell on the floor.

Also, the blender shield was not down, and the lid of the blender was not securely on.

The second he hit the floor, the blender exploded.

I left.

They can keep my drink, I don’t need it that bad.


Posted by on January 30, 2012 in Uncategorized


It’s called a Dirty Sanchez.

First of all, never open an email from a good friend that has the following subject line:

“Dude! You HAVE to see this!”

That alone is a bad sign.

And another bad sign is a link to a website you do not recognize, but there are dirty words in the web address.

It could be a virus, someone or something hacked his address book and everyone he knows is getting this.

Or worse, he definitely did send it to you.

A red flag in my book is that when you call him to verify the email came from him, he dissolves into a fit of giggles and hangs up.


This man is an attorney at law and I have listened to him describe incredibly stressful situations without a quiver in his voice.

Knowing him as well as I do, a feeling of dread runs thru me at the thought of what is awaiting me at the end of this link.

After all, this is how “Two girls, one cup” started and half a billion viewed it before it was shut down and packaged for sale.

And if you have never heard of that little piece of filth, count yourself lucky.

I saw it well over a year ago and I am still having issues with it.

I hear sales are still brisk.

I am getting too old for this shit.

Have you ever done the wrong thing, even though you were fully aware you shouldn’t, and don’t really want to?

Life being for the living, I clicked it.

And immediately wished I hadn’t.

I feel so dirty.

This has to be illegal, if not in California, at least in some of the Southern states.

I can’t even tell you, my mother might read it.

She would not understand and she would never forgive me.

And that is saying something.

I have written about some absolute filth in the past.

And this is too bad?

Yes, it is.

I will tell you the name of it, please don’t think less of me.

It’s called a Dirty Sanchez.

Please do NOT Google it.

I find it chilling that it is in Wikipedia.

Encyclopedia Britannica would never allow this kind of trash, even in the name of history.

Trust me, there are things in this world that you are better off not seeing.

Plus, there is the moral issue.

And this is where the Irish Catholic inside me is waiting anxiously with his soap box, trying to get my attention.

Someone should put their foot down.

I don’t think that person is me, but someone should.

I have a more or less hedonistic world view that keeps me from playing hall monitor.

I wouldn’t want anyone to see this, go on to live good clean lives and then die, and at the pearly gates, Saint Peter pulls out the big book and goes, “I believe you are familiar with a blog called Bittermac and something called a “Dirty Sanchez”?

See you all in Hell.

I warned you.


Posted by on January 27, 2012 in Uncategorized


Is size important?

In order to explain this, I need to be a sexist pig for a minute.

We’ve met, right?

I realize that, for medical reasons, breast reduction surgery is necessary.

But it is just so sad.

Like a clown died, or a little bit of sunlight has left the world.


The guys will laugh at this, and unless I miss my guess, a few of the ladies out there are seething and making that face my ex-wife used to make.

And I’m good with that.

And I realize that any woman you ask will tell you that it is no ones business but the woman herself what she does with her breasts.

While I don’t necessarily disagree with that, I still think I should get a say in all of this.

Its like when a performer is preparing for their show.

Yes, its their art, do with it what they like.

But don’t forget about your audience.

And breasts are like giving money for a gift.

As long as there is enough, everyone is happy.

And before you start, penis’s are not the same.

And I am not going down that sad, “Its not the size of the boat, its the motion of the ocean” route.

However, I am going down the “Women are not the same kind of scumbag as guys are.”

And thats an entirely different road.


And yes, there are some women out there that go after the guys with the porn penis.

They are called “Size Queens”.

I knew a girl in high school who dated a guy a couple of times and then slept with him.

Turns out he was a horse.

She said he bruised her insides and she swore never to go out with him again.

However, unless I kick you in the shins, I am not bruising anyone.

But, other than being a lifelong devotee of the breast, what do I really know about how women feel about them and their size?

I decided to do some field research, and managed to corner several lady friends at a recent outing.

The question I asked was, “How do you feel about breast size?”

Interesting results.

3 told me, in various phrasings, to go screw myself.

So flashing me is out of the question, I suppose?

2 laughed, and one reversed her position on the subject and flashed me.

And then answered that she had never thought about breast size.

As she had always been a d-cup, she had never had an issue other than a boy that teased her about her breast size in 6th grade.

She was a D-cup at age 12?

Kids today, I swear.

The other two ladies I quizzed had boob jobs and said they did it because they were flat as boards during high school and they hated it.

I am paraphrasing there, but thats more or less what they said.

There are those that talk poorly about boob jobs.

Not like the real thing is it?

No, won’t sag like original equipment will.

Besides, its women who have never had boob jobs that say that.

And the women with the boob jobs say the opposite.

So who’s right?

They both are.

Its all good.


Posted by on January 26, 2012 in Uncategorized


Like tramps are a bad thing.

Is it me or does everyone have a tramp stamp these days?

For those not in the know, a tramp stamp is a tattoo that, well, tramps have done in the small of their back.

But don’t act like tramp is a bad thing.

The tattoo looks great when you first get it.

For that matter, all tattoos look good when you first get them.

With the exception of a tattoo that a really good friend of mine got in his early twenties.

It was one he got right off of the poster on the wall of the tattoo shop.

Don’t ever do that.

It was the saddest white trash tattoo I have ever seen.

A skull with a joint clutched in its teeth.

And if your are reading this, buddy, I’m sorry.

But it is what it is.

A friend of mine showed me her tramp stamp, and even referred to it as a tramp stamp.

Good for you, now you are a tramp.

Which seems silly if you think about it.

I have another friend, recently divorced, who said she is “Careful who she is intimate with.”

That is a polite way of saying she tries not to sleep around.

Because she doesn’t want to be called a slut.


Slut is a word that catty high school girls call girls that are not stuck up and terrified of guys during what should be their sexually awakening years.

But, once you make it out of your twenties, that behavior means you are empowered and know what you want.

Either way, you are more fun and less drama now.

Back to tattoos.

They are a dicey thing.

If you get one, you had better have a decent story, otherwise the tattoo comes across as silly, unless it is a true work of art.

In that case, it cost a fortune and you have a story to go with the price tag anyway.

Unlike my tattoos.

I have two that I regret.

One was done by a guy who supposedly had just left a really high end tattoo parlor.

Between jobs and ready to cut a deal.

I am always up for that.

It wasn’t until he was half done that he fessed up that he had never done anything as complex as my tattoo, and that he had just been an assistant, not an artist at that high end shop.

Shit is still shit, even at a discount.

My second tattoo was after a long evening of drinking.

They say that no reputable shop would tattoo you if you are drunk, and that is complete bullshit.

As long as you can pull the cash from your pocket and pay the man, its on like Donkey Kong.

The tattoo is the logo of a beach clothing company.

I have ten friends with the same tattoo.

I don’t regret the tattoo as much as I do the lack of complexity of the tattoo itself.

But then, I think all tattoos are that way.

Given enough thought, you really wish you had done something different.

Come to think of it, a lot of life is like that.




Posted by on January 25, 2012 in Uncategorized


Something about a Hitler mustache

Every now and then, you see something that is just mind boggling to the point that you just stop on the street and stare.

I am coming out of the bank and there is an Obama Hitler staring at me.

By Obama Hitler, I mean a poster of Obama with a black Hitler mustache.

I am no fan of the president, but its a little disturbing.

Discomfort, courtesy of Lyndon Larouche.

The guy who set up the little table with the disturbing poster on the front is with the LaRouche Political Action Committee.

He has hit me up before.

They want to impeach the president.

For what, I’m not sure.

I think he is a poor politician, a very poor one, but I don’t see impeachment.

But the delivery of these guys is somewhere between Hitler’s Brown Shirts and the Jehovah’s Witness’s.

The hemorrhoid approach.

Persistent and consistently annoying.

So I moved down the block and watched.

The LPAC guy has a unbuttoned Pendleton, over a wife beater and some jeans that could use a few rounds of wash, rinse, repeat.

Topped with a mullet.

Mullet just sets off any ignorant ensemble.

Like spats on black patent leather shoes.

It says, “Hey world! Get your IGNORANT here!”

He has a pitch that is like a drunk picking up girls in a bar.

However, his pitch matches his dress and the only people that stop to talk to him are, well, people like him.

So, as near as I can figure, he is not getting anyone new to join the cause.

Some people say the end justifies the means.

But what if the means is embarrassing.

Or a freaky little Crypt-keeper looking shit-weasel like LaRouch.

Let me back away from the political ideology of a minute and get back to the white trash in front of the bank.

I’m much better at making fun of people.

My mother always said its important to go with your strengths.

Not sure she meant this, but whatever.

Focus, dammit!

Is the bank really the best place to post up and look for followers?

When I am pulling my hard-earned, over-taxed dollars out of the bank, I have a significant pucker factor attached to the whole transaction.

I am kind of in that mind set of, “No eye contact, leave me the hell alone.”

And for good reason.

This guy claims to only want my signature, but what he wants, what they all want in the long run, is money.

Look at occupy Wall Street.

They don’t care anything about money, but they are pissed about people who have money.

And they want it.

In the long run, a congressman, a banker, and a mugger have a lot in common and they only thing that separates them in scale of the crime.

And sometimes the whole difference between getting caught and getting away with it is scale of the crime and the perspective of who catches you.

To paraphrase the Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

“Money, money everywhere, and not a drop to drink.”

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Posted by on January 24, 2012 in Uncategorized


Rain, rain, go away…

It is a cold, wet day in Southern California.

Thats about as rare as a unicorn in in So Cal, so take it where you can get it.

Since we don’t get a lot of inclement weather here, it is interesting what kind of rain gear this brings out.

There is a woman in line for coffee at Starbucks in yellow, rubberized rain gear.

The teen age girl behind her is in a bikini top and daisy dukes.

Welcome to So Cal.

Anywhere else in the country, this is an issue.

I am not in favor of living anywhere that being dressed wrong, could cause your death from the elements.

Bikini top and daisy dukes in Chicago in the dead of winter?

Thats your ass.

Which is why I live where I do.

Southern California has a thing about sunshine.

Kind of like we make it here, and begrudge the rest of the nation their share of it.

I once heard a guy in Starbucks talking to a friend of his about record snow in Washington DC while it was mid 80’s here.

“They chose to move to the snow.”

Unless you are a skier, nobody chooses to move to the snow.

Especially in DC.

No one goes to DC for the weather.

Its like going to prison.

You just kind of end up there.

Like ending up at a Denny’s for a Grand Slam breakfast at 2:30am after a long night of drinking.

A shocking majority of people live in hideous parts of the country, mainly because they were born there and kind of HAVE to.

But almost the same numbers of people in Southern California because they WANT to.

See how that works?

The last time it rained here, the cashier in the supermarket asked me if it was still raining out.

When I said yes, she said, and I quote:

“Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day.”

And this would have been “creepy super market lady” weird enough, but she added to it.

“Little Arthur wants to play.”


Rachet that creepy meter up one notch higher.

Is that line out of an early 80’s Who song or what?

I can totally understand some little kid singing this in preschool, it makes sense, how cute.

But, out of everything she could have committed to memory and taken away from her schooling, this was it?

It would be easy to smack at her for working as a cashier in a supermarket in her lates 50’s or so.

But in this economy, you do not smack at steady employment, its not where the Vegas money would bet.

Besides, I have made some of what I can only think of as wildly stupid career moves in my life, so I don’t have that kind of room to talk.

I can assure you, this blog is not being written from the corner office the firm gave me when I made partner.

I am in Starbucks and have an affinity for the homeless, draw your own conclusions.

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Posted by on January 23, 2012 in Uncategorized