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Monthly Archives: May 2012

Stuck in the confusion bubble.

I may be the whitest man in America, but I grew up in a half mexican part of town and I can hablo if I have to.

But I have never developed a love, or even a like for that matter, of Mariachi music.

I happened to be driving along, out running errands, just mentally spacing when I realized that Mariachi music was on the radio.

And since I hadn’t touched the radio since I got in the car, it has been on for awhile.

How did I not notice this for the last 15 minutes?

And the even weirder part of all this was, while I was fully aware of the fact that I would hate the Mariachi music in five minutes, right now, I was kind of enjoying it.

It was an odd bubble of time, where things I don’t like suddenly are ok.

Obamacare, Occuppy anything and chihuahuas.

And then it was over.

I changed the station.

And I was back to realizing that my premiums were going to go up hideously, out of work bums were going to cost a fortune to clean up after and little shaking rat dogs are creepy.

All was right with the world again.

And then I pulled up to the light.

When you hear a car pull up next to you, blaring loud country music, Taylor Swift I think, and you can hear the driver screeching along, a picture forms in your head.

Driving that car is a young, late teens maybe, white girl. Blonde. Little car, maybe a hybrid Prius her parents bought her for her birthday.

So, I casually turn to look.

And felt my jaw drop on its own.

Snoop dog is driving the Fast and the Furious street race car next to me.

And he was still singing Taylor Swift in a bit of a falsetto.

What the hell?

And then it hit me.

He is stuck in that bubble of time.

Poor bastard.

Better him than me.

As the light turned green, I sped off and my ADD kicked in.

It occurred to me that even though I am not a country fan I can name several stars.

Theres the uber blondes.

Taylor Swift, Kerry Underwood, and Miranda Lambert.

Same with opera.

Pavoratti, Placido Domingo, and Sarah Brightman.

And lets not forget Rap.

There was Snoop Dog that I just left at the light, Eminem (Single names are a little odd. Or maybe the people are a little odd. Or a lot. See also Cher.)

And whatever brand of shitty alternative man-hater music they play at Lillith Fair.

I can name someone from all of them, but not Mariachi.

And, I didn’t think it was possible, but Google does not list any famous Mariachi bands on first page.

Does that mean they don’t exist?

And sure, the whole “It’s all in Spanish” thing doesn’t help.

So maybe I don’t hablo as well as I thought.

Or maybe Mariachi music just sucks.

Is it possible to say that without sounding racist?

Maybe.

If I said it in Spanish.

 

 
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Posted by on May 31, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

This is how Zombie Holocausts begin. Just saying.

The zombie holocaust has begun.

More on that in a second.

There was a website that advises bloggers, and some of their stuff is pretty insightful.

And one of the best pieces of advice that they give is to write “Timeless” content.

In other words, someone could read that particular blog a year from now and there is it will still be fresh, its not tied to anything in the media.

But today, I can’t do that.

Something so, well, upsetting has come up, I can’t NOT mention it.

Your first instinct will be to dismiss it as bullshit and an attempt at comedy.

Not so.

Here it is.

The zombie holocaust is upon us.

Happened in Florida, pinky swear.

This story is so wacked and just plain out there, it boggles the mind.

Miami 911 got a call of 2 men fighting on a causeway off ramp.

When they got there, they found two naked men, of course they were naked, one unconscious and the other one was chewing on a piece of the other guy’s face, and they ended up shooting him.

I will give you a moment to absorb that one.

Google is scant on details, but the important ones are there.

Naked, flesh eating, shot to death.

Enough said.

The first thought that went thru my head was, what kind of drug would put you in that place, mentally?

After a quick consult with the drug and alcohol counselor in the family nailed it as PCP.

PCP evidently almost always has the naked violence component.

At least you hope.

What if its something else?

Like, oh I don’t know, Zombie Holocaust maybe?

I have read several fiction novels on the subject, most sucked, but one was really good, and they all kind of start this way.

The critical period is over the next few days.

If the dead guy bites anyone else, shit yourself quickly, then begin hording canned good and ammo.

Head shots, don’t forget.

However, in the event that this turns out to be just a case of PCP binging and an argument gone vile, take it as a cautionary tale.

Look, I am not here to tell you how to live, not my job.

But if your personal vice is a drug that has this kind of horror film potential, even if it hasn’t taken you down that road, do us a favor and take a pass.

Say nope to dope of whatever you have to do, but stay off the Sherms, or Hog, to give you a few street nicknames.

Gives me street cred.

Actually it doesn’t.

Even at that stupidest points of my life, I never hit a point that PCP sounded tastey.

Because if the naked cannibal urge only hits one in a million PCP users?

I get the feeling that I would win that lottery.

And that would be no fun.

I think that McGruff the Police logo Crime Dog should update his slogan.

“Say nope to dope and ugh to drugs and FUCK NO to PCP and cannibalism.”

 
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Posted by on May 30, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

You embarrassing clown.

Ok, now I’m pissed.

This goes beyond that whole “My teeth itch” type feeling.

Back story.

I celebrate Memorial day.

Not the way that Coors or Budwiser wants me to, but the actual reason for the holiday.

I have Fallen Heroes in my family.

Not just the ones that served and then died at home, but also some that died in a war.

And I am proud to come from people like them.

So when you hear that someone shits on the day, it pisses me off.

Mainly because they don’t get it.

There is a piece of shit on MSNBC named Chris Hayes that stated that he is “Uncomfortable” calling deceased veterans “Heroes”.

First off, fuck you.

And that is without considering anything about you or your politics, just to set the stage.

Its not like anyone watches MSNBC, but when one of their people shits himself publicly, other news shows, ones that people watch, pick it up and spread it.

Like the flu.

Chris said that he feels that if he calls them heroes, it might encourage war.

What a dilemma.

And yet, while I don’t agree with it, I can see how he got there.

He comes from the generation who dedicated their lives to themselves.

Chris is uncomfortable with calling anyone else a hero because Chris doesn’t believe in anything other than Chris.

And if you have never believed in something bigger than yourself, how can you believe in something complex like Valor?

You can’t.

Whats sad is, he will probably be fired.

The liberal media spends a shocking amount of time shitting on the things that this country stands for.

But they scurry around like shocked roaches when one of their brethren is called on what he says.

And then they disavow and do spin control.

This is a country founded on the principal that you are free to say what you want.

But it makes it hard to conceive of living in a country that you obviously have no respect for.

It would be like being married to someone you publicly thought of as a whore.

The long term is rough.

In retrospect, I do hope they fire him.

Actually, I hope he takes his pink slip and goes out to get drunk and get rolled, raped and tattooed on the ass by bikers.

It sounds like the epitomy of red-neckedness to say, but if you don’t like this country, get out.

Please.

As a favor to the rest of us who love and revere those who gave their all, regaurdless of their political leanings, in defense of an ideal.

Called America.

(And I truly meant it about the bikers, Chris. You spineless piece of shit.)

 

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Posted by on May 29, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

If it smells/looks/tastes like crap…it is.

I remember when I was little, my mother would make me these amazing sandwiches.

And before you get all teary eyed and begin harping about “Made with love by Mommy” I have a point here.

I don’t think the delicious quotient is due to the maker, but the ingredients.

Everything was fresh.

The bread was baked no more than a few days before, mainly because it was

shy on preservative compared to today.

Add to that the fact that I grew up in a house with two older brothers, so bread never sat for long.

The Jelly was always from one of my great grandmother’s batches.

Hats off to an incredible generation loving, caring, tough as goddam nails women from which I am descended.

Peanut butter was always fresh for that same lack of preservative thing.

I would like to intrude on these lovely memories with a harsh dose of modern day.

I am in line at one of the most franchised and over-sold sandwich shops on the planet.

There is something wrong with being able to see your own reflection in the wet sliced ham sitting in the open air bin on the other side of the glass.

And if you are going to ask me if I was the damned thing toasted, pass that info along to whoever takes over during the toasting optional period because you are only throwing meats today.

Glad I got that off of my chest.

But seriously, I shouldn’t have to answer the toasted question 5 times in one visit.

And if the only English the sandwich maker speaks is to say “Welcome to -” when I walk thru the door, give her something to do in the back.

And thats not racist, that common business sense.

If the overwhelming majority of your customers in a given geographic area speak only English, it would behove you to hire people that speak that language.

To any and all arguments on this, bite me.

I am in a mood now.

And they toasted my sandwich against my will.

When I mentioned it to the cashier, she called the manager over, because she doesn’t speak English.

The manager offered to have the sandwich remade, but that would be a waste.

So I left.

Having your sandwich toasted when you don’t want it to be is like getting an excessive pat down by TSA.

Except that toasted bread is not covered by the Patriot Act.

I don’t think the excessive pat downs are a legitimate concern.

It always seems to be the guys that you get a definite closet Queen vibe from that claim they were “raped” by TSA.

You wanna talk rape, talk to any woman that has been raped, just to compare notes.

And if she shows restraint and doesn’t cut your balls off, I will be surprised.

Its like that whole waterboarding is torture argument.

You can claim its torture right up until you talk to someone that has actually been tortured.

Then, you should just feel embarrassment, at least you should if you were raised right.

Talk to John McCain about some toture, or Bob Dole.

These guys have been permanently disabled thru torture.

Let me climb of my soap box and back into the sandwich shop.

The sandwich was toasted shit on whole wheat.

But the cookie was good.

 

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Posted by on May 28, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Salad is murder.

Vegetarians tend to be a whiny bunch.

And if you are a vegitarian, it is what it is.

You can’t help who you are, but it is annoying to the rest of us.

Well, let me take that back, you can help who you are and you choose to annoy the rest of us.

Mainly because you can rarely just let it go.

The whole meat thing, I mean.

Vegetarians come in different flavors of annoying.

There is the one who does not eat meat because “Meat is Murder.”

What a nifty slogan, think that up yourself?

Of course not.

My response to that is, so what.

Humans kill, its just our thing.

We kill millions of cows, chickens, pigs…etc everyday.

We have abortion.

People are killed in robberies, burglaries and wars everyday.

And when we can’t find anything to kill, we kill ourselves thru suicide.

So take your slogan and cram it up your ass, it makes no sense once examined.

And by the way?

A major university has released several papers detailing the electric pulse vegetable matter gives off when fruit is picked or harvested.

Thats right, it screams.

So to all the vegitarians out there, you are cowardly murderers, every one of you.

The second type of vegitarian tries to overwhelm you with sound bites.

Its healthier, they say.

Then why to most hard core vegitarians look sick.

They have a universal catch phrase for that argument.

“Its hard to get all the nutrients you need no matter what you eat.”

Yes, but if you ate meat, it would still be tough to get all of the nutrients you need, but it would taste better.

And even if you invest the time to slap down these arguments, they are more tenacious than Jehova Witnesses at 7am on a Sunday morning.

But they are much quicker to anger and will begin cursing easier.

Baiting them is like tesing slow children, it loses its thrill after the first 5 minutes, and from then on, its just mean.

This entire rant came about due to the vegitarian at the next table who decided to lecture me about my chicken fajitas at a restaurant.

“Do you know what was done to that poor chicken?” (The word poor was the red flag in that sentance.)

“Hell yes I know.” I tend to smile like a villian when I start this kind of behavior, it throws everyone off.

“From the smell of it, teriyaki marinade, and plenty of it.”

Wrong answer.

“That poor animal was kept in a cage so small it couldn’t move and had its beak cut off.”

To the vegitarians, this is the most horrible thing they can imagine.

While gruesome, it really doesn’t bother me.

I think chickens are great for eating, make horrible pets, and if they were not meant to be eaten, either the Almighty or evolution would have made them a little more deadly.

As it is, chickens are the victims of the animal kingdom.

However, this entire line of reasoning is lost on vegitarians, and would be lost on this one.

So I decide a little crazy will work.

I look her straight in the eyes and deliver the following line deadpan.

The “Fuck you” when she said it, took a full 5 minutes of silence before she got pissed enough to say it.

The line was as follows:

“I had a friend who got wasted in a Tiajana whorehouse and fucked a chicken in front of the whole bar. It was disgusting, but an awesome trip. He was the best man at my wedding. Have a swell day.”

A little wordy, but a great line.

 

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Posted by on May 25, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Poodle from hell.

I have a love/hate relationship with poodles.

On the one hand, they are loyal little pets and their owners love them.

And on the other hand they are rotten little gremlin-like kick-em dogs that need their ass kicked.

As you may have surmised, no I don’ like poodles, and am not the biggest fan.

Except that there are two different types of poodle.

The first kind is what is called the “Toy Poodle”.

And this toy is no fun to play with.

I have deep seated psycho fears from my childhood and being terrorized by a vicious one.

It’s name was Martini and it belonged to my grandmother’s brother.

I hated Martini.

I was bitten twice by this rotten little beast, and held prisoner in the upstairs bathroom several dozen times.

There is nothing more terrifying to a hyper 4 year old, than a poofy ball of fluff with razor sharp teeth and a bad attitude trying to scratch thru the door.

My Uncle Jack was no help.

Anytime I complained, or at least as much as a 4 year old is capable, he would always say the same thing.

“Martini doesn’t like being teased.”

God as my witness, I never teased the little shit.

I wish I had.

I wish I had tortured it with those little handles they sell with the needles on the ends for eating corn on the cob without a mess.

I might be kidding, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

And he was a mean drunk.

The dog, I mean.

Every afternoon, Martini would scamper around Uncle Jack’s legs as he mixed a batch of martinis.

And he would give the dog one.

The dog, by now a serious canine alcoholic, would whimper the whole time he was gulping down the martini.

You would think that all that drinking would kill the dog.

No such luck.

What happened instead was something that my 4 year old mind didn’t have the sophistication to appreciate at the time.

Especially since I was accused of the murder.

One afternoon, after slurping up another martini, Martini somehow got locked in that aforementioned upstairs bathroom.

And, in a frenzy of spinning around in circles and attacking the door, Martini got twisted up in the belt of a bathrobe on the back of the door.

And hung himself.

Very sad.

The accusation, when it came, was that I had locked him in there.

Looking at the facts, entirely plausable.

Except that I didn’t, and you are just going to have to believe me on that one.

Fast forward to today.

I am sitting in a Starbucks in Hermosa beach, sitting inside, 3 feet from a large window to the outside patio.

And there is the toy poodle from hell just on the other side, snarling and trying to eat thru the glass to get at me.

For a second, I wonder if everyone else can see this evil little beast, or just me?

God, I hate that breed.

Oh, and the second kind ot poodle is 5-6 times bigger, has a much better personality, and really is not a poodle at all.

 

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Posted by on May 24, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Why is the seat sticky? Just sayin.

If you are ever in dire need of a churro on a Friday night, you can find a really greasy one on the Santa Monica pier.

Its an especially dicey move to do this at the beginning of the evening.

Because then it has a chance to percolate, becoming a gastro-intestinal time bomb, and you never know when it will go off.

If you can be sitting on a toilet at that moment, all is well.

If not, clamp your asscheeks together and run like hell, because your rectum is not fucking around at this point, it means business and its loaded for bear.

I have tried for the last five minutes to figure out how to include the phrase “Shitting like a grizzly bear” and failed.

It still makes me giggle as is.

Back to the pier.

You have to ask yourself, why would you do that to yourself, the whole eating the churro thing.

Its one of the few foods out there that you instinctively know its bad for you, you don’t even have to ask.

But they are nauseatingly good.

Deep fried AND rolled in sugar? How can you go wrong?

And just to make it even more thrilling, kind of like rectal bungee jumping, you go to a place that has few bathrooms and the ones they do have look and smell like a ferrets cage.

Roll that one around in your head for a moment.

Anyway, even with the gurgling stomach the pier is always fun.

Mainly because they have rides.

Not even great rides, but the same cheap rides that any low end carnival will have.

Even the ferris wheel.

I love ferris wheels.

I know, I know, before you say it, I know.

Still.

This is deep seated, early childhood imprinting here, don’t fuck with it.

Anyway, the tickets are about 10 times what they were when I was a kid, but I do make a lot more than what my allowance used to be.

We get on and are soon a few stories up.

Awesome.

And then I see it.

Security camera.

Pointed at me.

I begin to feel a little creepy wondering what the hell has gone on all over these plastic seats that prompted them to put in a security camera.

The mind boggles, but the first thought is ewww.

Suddenly, for the first time ever, I want off of the ferris wheel.

Now, it is kind of like being in a nasty public bathroom, one of those ones that are so nasty you don’t even want to sit down on the toilet.

So you hover your naked ass over the bowl.

Same thing now, except for the naked ass part.

I get off the ride and make my way down the pier, dejected and sad.

You rotten bastards.

A little piece of my childhood is gone. Taken away by the freaks of the world in general and the pier specifically.

Oh well.

I have to go to the bathroom anyway.

 

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Posted by on May 23, 2012 in Uncategorized