Monthly Archives: February 2012

Hockey and the General.

There is a new homeless in town.

The general.

I walked down to Starbucks and passed a new face, sitting on the corner.

The outfit is an interesting mix of cast offs and durable stuff all designed to make the chilly beach nights warmer.

Topped with a Viet Nam vets hat.

I think I am in love.

I have a soft spot in my heart for veterans, homeless, puppies and drunk blondes at 2am. (You all know who you are.)

“Good morning, sir!” Introductions are always important with the homeless. otherwise, they spend too much time trying to figure out if they know you or if you are from a church.

He is friendly enough and in short order, we are in line at Starbucks.

Everyone loves coffee and a scone in the morning.

And then, back outside, the General doesn’t like being indoors.

Everyone has their quirks.

The general knows and tells enough stories about the military that I am fairly convinced he is a vet.

I walk him back to his corner and wish him a happy day and head off to work.

Feeling pretty good.

And yet, something the General said has come back to haunt me.

He claimed to have served in the Korean war with Eddie Shore.

There are two things wrong with this.

But first some background.

Eddie Shore is one of the greatest defense-men the NHL ever had.

Awesome player of what is known as Old-school Hockey.

Except that he was born in 1902.

And he’s Canadian.

I find it hard to believe that Eddie Shore served in the Korean War in his 50’s.

So if the General served in the Korean was, circa 1953, at the age of, say, 20, he would be in his 80’s now.

And while he shows that premature aged look most homeless do, the General is probably not a day over 50.

I am beginning to think he lied to me.

Say it ain’t so.

Hockey is a beast of a game.

I played a few seasons of roller hockey and sucked ass like nobodies business.

But its a lot more fun to watch.

It is the only official sport beside boxing and MMA that allows fighting.

And they are trying to eliminate that.


Humans are so violent by nature.

And yet we spend so much time denying that and trying to pretend we are not who we are.

The violent top of the food chain.

In the movie The Matrix, the computer controlled agent says that when he tried to define man, he came up with the definition of a virus.

Thats not far off.

Some people more than others.

And in a shitty moment, its a little fun to think of who is more virus like that others. (Again, you know who you are.)

But back to the subject.

Hockey might be one of the last sports that embodies all the the true human qualities.

Art is definitely there.

You may think that Art is not there, but I have seen better examples of art and poetry during a hockey game than in a museum on any given day.

And anyone who has seen a losing team come from behind understands the passion of the game.

And the physicality of the game is undeniable.

Plus the jerseys rock.

I will go out on a limb and say that Tiger Woods could not hold his own in a gloves off, stick down fight with any random member of the NHL.

And for sure not the IHL, those guys are almost criminals.

Insert your own “Tiger Woods got a pretty mouth” joke here.




Posted by on February 29, 2012 in Uncategorized


Bring on the nasty!

A car is not a lead lined vault.

We can see you.

So, if you are a cab driver completely grinding knuckle deep in your nose at a stop light, I can see you.

Welcome to my drive to work this morning.

Life have a way of just forcing incredibly gross images that stay with you for awhile.

But does the current image have to be a middle aged Armenian man tickling his brain with his index finger?


It was after I had just parked my car that I saw a woman pulling her underwear out of her butt thru her skirt.

And that is not hot.

I was just coming off of the escalator that I saw a guy on his cell phone blow a mid-sentance snot on his lip.

What the hell is going on today?

I am almost afraid to go any further, go knows what I will see.

But, odd days like this don’t come along everyday.

Life has decided to have an advance screening of the gross shit thats out there.

And I seem to have a front row seat.

The closest business to the underground parking bunker I park in is the Coffee Bean.

I have to.

I go thru the front door of the Coffee Bean and the smell of Ben Gay, soup, and coffee wafts out.

The main customer demographic is old at this time of the morning.

But I am on a mission this morning.

I am in line when the old guy in front of me farts.


And doesn’t seem to hear it.

But the cashier flinches like she heard a gunshot.

And then the aroma hits.

That is SOOOO nasty!

Whatever else is waiting to be seen at Coffee Bean will have to wait.

The hang time on Methuselah’s air biscuit is incredible.

Something has fermented in his ass, I am sure of it.

I leave Coffee Bean like a man making a jailbreak.

Full steam ahead and no looking back.

There are a few breakfast places that become sport bars in the evenings along the way to Starbuck’s.

As I pass one of the breakfast places, a little kid, 7 or so, throws up onto his plate of breakfast.

Mom all but does a prat fall across the table in her efforts to clean it up before it spills over onto the little boy’s clothes.

As I walk, I am wondering what has primed the grossness pump today.

No clue.

Much like a carnival ride that is a little too intense, I am already strapped in and there is nothing to do but knuckle down and ride it out.

As I am walking up to my usual Starbucks, a great dane with his leash wrapped around the newsstand is taking a huge dump.

Two little girls are howling from their stroller as mom pushes them by.

I head in.

As I stand in line I realize that in the last ten minutes, my as has gone into such a tight clench, that I am almost walking with a limp.

The line moves slowly and I am braced for anything.

And nothing happens.


Nasty shit in life never happens when you are ready for it.

And that is the way of things.



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Posted by on February 28, 2012 in Uncategorized


Wait your turn, shithead!

I am not at my best waiting in line.

I get impatient if I don’t have something to read.

However, the Iphone helps.

But, there is nothing ruder than someone who gets over the top, dramatically impatient in line.

Pull the stick out of your ass, and wait your turn.

Its a Starbucks at 8am in the morning, what were you expecting?

I try not to get annoyed, I try to get even, for my own childish purposes.

At the worst, annoying strangers in line could get me hit.

But I have been hit, by people who now how, it loses its shine in the long run.

“Oh my GOD!” Hisses from behind me with such over exaggeration that it is pathetic to hear.

A casual look over my shoulder confirms what I had already surmised.

There is an asshole behind me in line.

I am saying that and I AM an asshole.

Its easy to recognize the breed.

But, how much of an asshole is he?

Lets play with him and find out.

The first step is to act like I am so engrossed in texting, that I don’t realize that the line has moved forward.

As the line moves on without us, I can see his agitation level rising out of the corner of my eye.


He begins by clearing his throat.

I am hit with sudden inspiration.

I turn to face him without looking up.

“Bless you.” I say loud and clear.

The beauty of saying something that makes no sense or a little crazy is something I am really a believer in.

It works really well with the Homeless as well.

Turning back, I close half the distance to the line ahead as a gesture of friendship.

Which is totally lost on him.

The sighing is so desperate and sad that I have to bite my lip to stifle myself from giggling out loud.

Christmas come early.

By definition, I am being a complete ass, but this is too much fun.

The line moves a little more, and I become totally engrossed in the yogurt parfaits.

The second the cashier opens up, he has had enough.

“Do you mind if I go ahead of you?!”

Crazy talk has been good to me lately.

I look at him with a very sincere look on my face as I slide in from of the cashier.

“I am a US citizen, sir. My father fought in the war.”

I then proceed to order a very long drawn out coffee order. 9 steps in all.

Then cancel it.

I do this twice more before ordering just hot water for my Starbucks Via instant.

By now, the cashier is on to me and smiling.

The jig is up.

Time to take my ball and go home.

Or at least my table.

As he gets his coffee and leaves, glaring at me one more time, I salute him with my coffee mug.

“Have a great day, shithead!”

I swear, I kill me.




Posted by on February 27, 2012 in Uncategorized


Raise your damn kid, Lady!

I don’t like other peoples kids.

We all know this.

And then Katelynn came into my life.

I am in my favorite Starbucks, in my favorite seat, sipping my addiction.


The crowd is mellow, the yoga mom’s are a nice majority of hotness, and the business folk are interesting enough.

And Katelynn and mom arrived.

And all hell broke loose.

Nothing lights up the morning crowd like a 5 year old girl with coke bottle glasses and a small plastic helmet running thru the room screaming

and running into several people.

Got some lungs on her.

And mom is cresting 50 and is not aging well.

She has the look of a mouthy PTA frau that would have meetings about picking up the kids at school.

In other words, the shine is off motherhood.

Katelynn reached the back wall and took off for the front door.

Passing mom on her way.

Can you see it coming?

She doesn’t slow as she gets to the front door and plows into it.

I am shocked she didn’t go right thru the glass, but she doesn’t have enough mass.

She caroms off of the door and hits the ground.

The helmet is making a lot of sense.

Mom doesn’t miss a beat in her conversation with her friend.

Katelynn cries a bit quietly, which seems odd because she had been screaming a few seconds ago.

Mom has a trio of Manhattan money frau’s with her.

And the discussion is hot and heavy and certainly does not include Katelynn.

I watch a total stranger wipe Katelynn’s little crying eyes.

This is a God damned Greek tragedy.

Mom gets her coffee and the MMF’s move to the big table.

MMF is Manhattan Money Frau’s.

And yes, its meant to be insulting.

Back to Katelynn and her brain dead mother and the MMF’s.

Katelynn, I have no issue with, she is adorable.

She’s like a little comet, bouncing off of the walls.

Mom? I am at a loss for words.

The epitome of the MMF.

She waited too long to have kids, so she is too old to do it properly.

She is tired.

More than that, she has too much shit on her agenda that she is unwilling to give up in order to make her kid the spotlight of her life.

Because thats how it’s supposed to be.

Plus, Katelynn needs the attention.

With mom and the MMF’s in place at the table, Mom continues her conversation as one of the MMF’s gets Katelynn settled in place with her own seat.

She also gets her some water that she asked Mom for a while she was in line.

Also, it seems that Katelynn learned to count to ten recently.

I know this because she hoped out of her chair and began collecting coffee bean bags.

She laid them out on the table and counted them about a dozen times.

When she told mom, mom did not notice.

And the fun began.

“mommy, Mommy, MOmmy, MOMmy, MOMMy, MOMMY! MOMMY! MOMMY!”

The child was shrieking when Mom snapped at her.

“What, Katelynn?” Complete with rolling eyes.

I know I have pissed and moaned about karma not pulling its own weight.

Except for this moment.

Mom moved wrong and dumped her Venti Chai Latte, 6 pump, half caff, soy, no foam, extra hot, waterless cup right in her lap.

You caught the extra hot part right?

The only flaw in the whole perfection of the moment was when she shot out of her chair and I exploded with laughter.

So I’m an ass, sue me.

And she probably would.



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Posted by on February 24, 2012 in Uncategorized


Ain’t no rest for the wicked…

Ain’t no rest for the wicked…

Odd the phrases that stick in your head when you sit down to write.

I have come to treasure them.

They pop up when my mind has something to say, but is a little iffy about bringing it out.

And if there ain’t no rest for the wicked, its a wonder I get any sleep at all.

I ran into someone the other day who was a big fan of the blog and decided to confide in me.

“Your poor girlfriend must be a saint to put up with you.”

And she said this smiling.

Oh, that makes it all better, doesn’t it?

Well, if I wondered what people thought about me and this blog, I guess I know now.

Makes me wonder why I bother.

And then it hits me.

Because there are some of you that get it, and me.

And in return for that loyalty, I would follow you magnificent bastards into hell.

I mean, at the end of the day, this is a crude little humor blog, nothing more.

And occasionally, I scribble something that sticks in your head.

Its bizarre what some people pick up and hang onto these days.

We can be so inundated with crap from work, family, TV, and now, add not only the internet, but Facebook and Twitter into the mix and you have total crap overload, 24/7.

Here is a perfect example.

I made a rude comment on Facebook, just to see who was paying attention.

“Everyone wants to save the dogs from being killed in the shelters, but with thousands of humans on death row, nobody says a word. You hypocrites! “

If you know me you know that I favor the death penalty and love dogs, so the whole phrase is a spin around.

Several blog devotees commented that I am playing with everyone and they are allowing it.

Of course.

It turned into this debate on the instinctive morality of man, social economics, the Occupy movement (Talk about worthless shit!) and somehow, about why the freakiest porn comes from Japan.

So, 175 comments into it, I made the following statement.

“How do we know that these dogs that are supposed to die were not pedophiles in their previous life and this is their punishment. We could be letting them go free.”

Only two responses to it showed up on the page.

One friend told me that line messed with her head for a week.

At the time, I got half a dozen private messages.

4 of them were more or less, “You’ve crossed the line” type comments.

I love the people that send me those, they are such innocent creatures, like big eyed retarded puppys with voting rights.

1 of them claimed that I was anti semitic.

I am still baffled by that one.

And the final one was a private note from someone who wanted me to know that they were praying for me and that Jesus loves me.

Good to know.

Manipulating people for the sole purpose of personal amusement is rude to start with, but when it becomes your hobby, it takes on a whole new dimension.

I spent an evening on FB awhile back making the following comment to any mention of someones male child, no matter the age.

“The kid sounds like trouble.”

The responses were varied and covered a lot of ground.

One mother and I began to private message about parenting.

I consider myself a phenomenal parent and have much to say.

Turns out she already has the right attitude and was just stressing.

Kids will do that to you.

Another parent went on a rant about pharmaceutical companies and the evils of Ritalin.

Her kid sounds like a beast and drugs are probably the right move there.

Finally, one parent took the right perspective and gave me the answer I was looking for.

“Piss off, my kid is awesome.”

Sounds like a great parent to me.



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Posted by on February 23, 2012 in Uncategorized


The coming of the Bag Lady.

She glares at people, that was the first thing I noticed.

She was out of place, that was an obvious thing.

Downtown Manhattan Beach Starbuck’s is the realm of the rich and pretty.

I’m there too.

How to describe her?

For one of the few times, I am at a loss for words.

Not for long, but enough that I notice.

She is shaped like an old country pepper pot from my great grandmother’s kitchen, kind of pear shaped.

Like Sesame Street’s Snufflupiguss in a ladies house coat.

Strongly resembling a really heavy set Russian Granny, called a babushka.

Got the visual so far?

And she has a bag of change.

I know she has a bag of change because she has been jingling it since she came thru the door.

That she’s homeless is not in question.

The real question is, what kind of homeless?

They come in different flavors, you see.

My favorite homeless guy is Garrett the homeless guy.

Garrett is moderately crazy, but I sometimes question it because he can pull it together when he has to.

When he comes into Starbucks for his morning Salted Caramel Latte, he is quiet and polite.

The rest of the day he is loudly arguing with himself about corporate environmental policy.

Fitz Caraldo is a huge genuinely crazy guy that sits on another corner and sing loud classical Latin songs to himself.

He doesn’t acknowledge anyone around him.

He is old school crazy.

Homeless is kind of a male dominated profession, but the lady homeless I have run into truly have some game.

I ran into a homeless woman in Carpenteria California that stood on the corner, shouting that the cars driving by were giving her AIDS.

She was epic.

Fast forward to this morning.

Lets call our new lady homeless Bag Lady.

She has three of the cheap canvas grocery bags all the stores sell now.

As I am not really in the mood for company this morning, I am somewhat glad that a young couple have pushed their stroller up against the table next to me to save it, taking their toddler over to the pick up window with them to chat.

Bag Lady swoops in, depositing her bags on the table and begins loudly asking who’s stroller this is?

Dad comes over, letting her know that they were sitting there.

Bag Lady’s next move is epic.

She turns and thrusts her face up into his, tough to pull off as he is a foot taller.

Her voice is hostile, and a little too loud.

“Well are you sitting there now?!?!”

He breaks eye contact and steps away, muttering.

Bag Lady all but cackles and plops down next to me.

And begins to count.


And not too well.

It takes three tries, but she finally counts out all of her change.

“$3.44, $3.44. I only have $3.44. I need a penny!”

She looks at the old guy to her left.

“I need a penny.”

He points at the counter, “If you ask them, they will give you one.”

She ignores him, obviously Starbucks doesn’t just GIVE people money.

She looks at me.

“I need a penny!” Her voice is a little frantic.

I decide to do the urban equivalent of falling to the ground and playing dead like a bear has wandered into camp.

I throw a little crazy at her.

“I would love to, but I lost my foot in the war.”

She says nothing, her eyes narrowing.

You can see her processing this information.

Finally, she shakes her head and bolts out of her chair, heading for the cashier.

And the sort of manager intercepts her.

“My boss says you need to get your coffee and go.”

The sort of manager has never done anything himself, only relaying the boss’s wishes.

Except that he’s the boss.

It’s weird, but it works for him.

In the end, Starbucks fronted her the penny out of the tip jar.

I am against this, because even though its only a penny, it belongs to the crew.

The Bag Lady gets her coffee creation and leaves without a word.

Well, mumbling to herself, which is kind of the same thing.

And as an odd addition to the morning, the old guy that was sitting next to her catches my eye.

“Lost your foot in the war?” He begins to laugh.

You had to be there.




Posted by on February 22, 2012 in Uncategorized


Washington versus Lincoln.

Washington hated Lincoln.

Actually, they never met.

But I bet they wouldn’t get along.

Washington was kind of that, “Knows everyone, big man on campus type.”

Lincoln was one of those serious guys that seemed to hang on to stress.

But they both seemed to impress the hell out of everyone, didn’t they?

Washington was the face of the new nation.

Tough gig, but he seemed to pull it off.

He was a bit of an odd one.

By the time he took office, he had no teeth left in his head.

And one of his plans for assaulting the British around 1775-1776 involved a company of soldiers with skates on, skating across a frozen section of Boston Harbor.

They didn’t do it, but it showed he was a bit out there.

Lincoln on the other hand had a serious wart on his face.

I think that made him an over achiever.

Taught himself to read, but not how to dodge bullets.

Freed the slaves, which was a fairly noble act.

But his original plan was to send them back to Africa.

So he did the right hing for the wrong reason.

Either way, it was still the right thing.

Life is like that.

Every now and then, we end up doing something bordering on noble, but usually for selfish reasons.

And thats ok.

Nobody likes to say it, but the end usually justifies the means by default.

Worked for Lincoln, which is a pretty good example.

If I was president, I probably wouldn’t free anyone.

I’m not racist, I’m just not that motivated.

I would probably fall behind in my paperwork and accidentally enslave someone else.

That would be my luck.

I wouldn’t even get to enjoy the White House, you know, Clinton style with the interns, before I became hated.

Protest marches, news and tv articles, and you know there would be rude Youtube videos with my voice dubbed over.

And I don’t need that kind of hassle.

Its just as well, I am too short to be president.

That doesn’t look good on a podium.

Most presidents are tall, that seems unfair.

But Gary Coleman would have mad a crappy president.

I do think I could strike that Washing crossing the Potomac pose without falling out of the boat.

And that has to count for something.

In the end, I think there should be a fair amount of hoopla made over those two Presidents.

Even beyond being on the money we handle everyday.

And maybe being reminded of their actions is a good thing on a daily basis.

They were the guys stuck holding the sticky stick when the shit went down, and they didn’t flinch.

And that not only counts for something.

That counts for everything.



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Posted by on February 21, 2012 in Uncategorized


Beat your kids!

Nobody beats their kids anymore.

And the world is worse off.

But before you all send me the emails that are all in caps, let me explain.

Some kids need beating.

You’re God damn right I said it.

When I was a little kid, I was a rotten shit, and my mother used to beat my ass daily.

Lord knows I had it coming.

Now, before you make your inexperienced, saw it on Oprah, judgements, consider this.

I have never been in jail, I rarely drink, and other than main lining caffeine, I do no drugs, and I have never had to explain my arguments with the ex wife to a policeman pointing to a bruise on her neck.

So maybe mom was on to something.

But before anyone takes this as a cart blanche to start swinging, lets clarify.

Discipline belongs in child rearing only if you are smarter than the child.

Because stupid beating causes stupid kids.

And before you argue this point, consider this.

If you were beaten and it did nothing and left you with hideous baggage for life, that falls back to your parents.


There seems to be a fine art to beating your kids.

Its like hitting a golf ball.

There are times you break out the 1 wood and swing as hard as you can.

And then there are times you use the putter and just tap it in.

My mother was the Tiger Woods of her day.

Just the right amount of force.

But then, she played a lot.

My father, was a master of the game.

He spanked me twice, count em twice, in my entire life.

And damn if it didn’t stay with me for life.

I once had a teacher rip me out of my desk and toss me into the wall, slapping my face as I bounced off of it.

And he turned out to be the finest teacher I have ever had.

Phenomenal man. Taught me more about the English language than all of grade school, high school and college.

He walked thru the door, raised the expectation bar to the ceiling and whipped us like animals in order to achieve perfection.

Just don’t get caught sleeping in his class.

That method of teaching would not fly today.

It actually didn’t fly then either.

In a very heated exchange, my beloved mother threatened to cut his balls off if he laid a finger on me again.

Oddly enough, they were both moving towards the same goal.


One of my favorite subjects.

As a disclaimer, let me say that beating your kids is wrong, in a legal sense.

But, if you are confused, ask your grandmother.

She might only smack you on the back of the head.




Posted by on February 17, 2012 in Uncategorized


Run Forrest, run!

Some people are a little too monied and have too much time on their hands.

Its a beautiful Sunday in SoCal.

I am on a bike ride with the girlfriend, enjoying a late winter sunny day.

You get those in Southern California and the rest of the country hates us for it.

We bring the laptops for email and blogging.

Cause you never know when something will come up to blog about.

Such as now.

A major power brokering is going on in the patio of the Starbucks in Hermosa Beach.

I have no clue what the deal is, yet.

Three women showed up a few minutes ago and took over the patio.

We got some glares, but I don’t give up my seat to over monied house fraus.

Several laptops are set up, lattes are steaming.

And they wait.

In a few moments, two other women show up.

The deal is about to go down.

I have scooted my chair back as far as possible in an effort to find out whats up.

There is a spreadsheet with a schedule on one screen.

Google Earth is on another.

This is getting good.

I am wondering what the deal is.

Real Estate? A new business? Espionage?

It could be anything, really.

There is a low voiced discussion about timing, comfort levels and shared responsibilities.

And then, they drop the bomb.

This entire setup and planning, and negotiation, Google Earth for Christ’s sake, is not about business.

Its about picking up each others kids from school.


Are you kidding me?

Only in Hermosa Beach.

Well, maybe Manhattan Beach.

Or any of the overly monied neighborhoods of the world.

Whether you are wearing a burka or carrying a Gucci bag.

Stupid money is stupid money.


Or maybe this is what happens when you stop worrying about money and making ends meet?

You are just bored as hell and make a campaign out of anything you can to keep your sanity?

It can’t be because they are that stupid, can it?

Can you be dumb enough that something simple like, pick mine up on Tuesday/Thursday and I get yours the rest of the week?

It is if I can explain it in one sentence.

But how do stupid people attain that kind of wealth?

Let me rephrase that.

How did this stupid person’s smart significant other attain that kind of scratch?

Notice how I didn’t say “Stupid woman” or “Smart husband.”?

Its because I am unbiased.

Or chalk it up any way you like, these broads are still as dumb as a bag of rocks.

I hope I have not offended any bags of rocks.

And I don’t know these women enough to make that kind of call.

But, to quote Forrest Gump, “Stupid is as stupid does.”

And that goes for picking up your kids from school.

Or writing a blog for that matter.

And I KNOW I have hit some absolute genius stupidity in the past.




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Posted by on February 16, 2012 in Uncategorized


It’s all about the stuffed bear.

Suckers come in all shapes and sizes.

And there is no restriction on what you can be a sucker for.

Me? I am a sucker for Valentine’s Day.

Its stupid, I know.

I have had more than one unwashed hippie spew the “It’s all a corporate sham, man.”

You lost me at “Man”.

And if I hear it one more time, I will donate money to the Japanese Whaling fleet.

NOW, they are quiet.

But there is something nice about the idea that, as much of an un-affectionate bastard as you can be for the majority of the year, there is one day that you are required/guilt-ed into/pressured to be nice, with flowers, candies and an optional stuffed bear.

And if you are thinking about that online “Make you own special theme bear” do so with the understanding that you will be throwing down a couple of Franklins for that shit.

Makes me sound like a gangster rapper, don’t it?

Raised on those mean streets of Manhattan Beach, California.

Not my fault, dog.

My daddy left us.

Every morning, to go to work.

But he came home every night.

A man’s man, big John Wayne fan.

And as “Marlboro man” as he could be?

He has done some nice Valentine’s Days for my mom over the years.

Maybe that is why I like it.

You follow the examples your folks set for you during those formative years.

And yet, in recent years, I pooched the who Valentine’s Day thing.

I woke up on a Valentine’s Day that fell on a Sunday, looked across the pillow at the girlfriend, and fucked it all up.

“What day is Valentine’s Day this week?”

Today, shithead.

But she didn’t say that.


Which doesn’t tell me anything, really.

She waited until I was in the middle of my morning BM, defenseless on the toilet.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dumbass.”

And she handed me a card with a little bear.

The day could have gone bad from that, save for a few lucky breaks and breakfast on a sunny patio in Santa Monica.

But I pooched it that day.

Still have the bear though.

She still brings it up to this day.

And here is a tip for the guys, from someone who knows.

When she says, “It’s no big deal.”

Trust me, ITS A BIG DEAL.

Ignore this advice at your own peril.

But keep in mind that women can be vindictive.

I don’t want to go into the details of Lorena Bobbit, or he heinous crimes.

Just saying.

I bet john looks back and wonders if he could have flown under the radar on that fateful day with just the purchase of a dozen roses.

And a stuffed bear.


(FOOTNOTE: I hate Gangster Rap. Except Eminem. His stuff rhymes. Plus he looks like a cousin of mine. Holler.)



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Posted by on February 15, 2012 in Uncategorized