Monthly Archives: June 2012

Hush kiddies, the adults are talking.

I am watching the most intense study group.

The subject is math and there is a semi loud argument going on.

All in Chinese.

The math, what little words are involved, is in English.

Numbers are universal.

The study group numbers about ten kids in all.

16 years old, maybe 17, definitely high school age.

And no slackers.

Not one cell phone on the table.

Everyone is heavily invested in the discussion.

Even the girls, and for the Chinese, that is a big deal.

I always thought that math was pretty cut and dried.

Follow the steps, and you are there.

From a certain amount of peeking at their papers, this is calculous.

For sophmores?

I am looking at the future here.

This is goddam America.

These kids are not trying to get a Kush card or sitting around holding up a sign that says they only want a cold beer.

These kids are hard charging academic badasses that obviously will have masters and doctorates before they are thru.

Possibly this is a meeting of the future engineers of the world.

And it makes me wonder.

How did we go from being a country of people who wanted to excel and reach the 1% and instead we are a nation of unmotivated 99%-ers?

Whining and finger pointing has replaced busting your ass to get ahead.

I have never announced my political party on Facebook.

I have been accused of being everything from Republican, to Tea Party, to Libertarian, all the way to Anarchist. (Quit taking me out of context)

But I made a comment on a comment string recently and got called all sorts of names.

The argument was some Occupy bunch was trying to point out how unfair the system was.

A cashier at a local pharmacy chain had 5 kids. Single mom. Not a widow, just made the conscious decision to have kids with no partner.

I made the comment that it seemed irresponsible to bring so many kids into the picture, when you had no marketable job skills to adequately support them.

You would think I pissed in the punchbowl in front of grandma and her friends.

I was told that, obviously I was a Republican, because that is the only group that would say having children  was wrong. (Not what I said, but it made his point.)

I was told that I was obviously Tea Party, because they hate women. (Also not what I said, and it was from the same person. Make up your damn mind what I am.)

In the long run, I am a mix of a lot of things.

Among other things, I believe that, as much as possible, the Government should stay out of our lives, don’t act like my mother, and that we should all be responsible adults that take care of ourselves in a realistic way.

So, you don’t put yourself 60K in credit card debt when you make minimum wage and then piss and moan about the evil credit card companies.

Birth control is relatively cheap, (despite what the law school slut that wanted 3K a year for birth control), so don’t have kids you can’t afford.

If you want to be a contributing member of society, get a job, pay taxes and vote.

Otherwise, I simply view you as a punk.

I recently heard a lot of angry words from people who claim that the police have done them wrong, lied, cheated, and beaten them. I also heard from the people who support the police and their works.

Cops do a job that few would want to, and get paid little, in my opinion, to do so.

Are there bad cops?

According to some, yes.

I have had more than a few run ins with the police, and to be perfectly honest, which seems to be in short supply, any harshness I have run into I would to say I deserved.

On the other hand. I have found honesty and consistency in short supply with those that claim the cops are corrupt.

I was once given a card from a guy at an event, and it detailed how to basically tell a cop to fuck off I am not even giving you my name, in legalize.

When I asked why, he said that it was necessary because the cops will search your stuff illegally otherwise.

To find what? I ask because I am THAT innocent and naive.

Drugs is the answer that comes without hesitation.

Have you been wrongly busted for drugs, I ask.

Yes, but they were not his.

Of course they weren’t, how silly of me.

For perspective, I went to the drug and alcohol counselor in the family and asked If the cops plant drugs and do all this bad stuff.

The statement was that all users come into group therapy making that claim. It is after a lot of counseling and groups that they finally come clean and admit that, shocker, the drugs were theirs.

Given what I have seen and observed of human nature, I would have to put the “You are lying thru your teeth” ball back in the users court.

This is goddam America.




Posted by on June 29, 2012 in Uncategorized


Hello darkness, my old friend . . . do you want fries with that?

Funerals are always a sad thing.

Even when they say things like “Its was a mercy” or “its for the best.”

Death sucks, any way you slice it.

In my family, there is a Byzantine conspiracy of who announces it first.

There is power in that announcement.

Kind of an odd version of “Hot potato”.

(Potatoe? Am I Dan Quayle now?)

Few of you got that last line, including a few who should have.

I have actually heard the disappointment in family members voices when they called to tell me someone died and found out I already knew.

(Hey, my mother is a Psychic, I hear about MOST things ahead of time.)

That disappointment is sad, in and of itself.

It makes the unspoke statement, “They would have been happy if I was really upset.

But some people thrive on that.

I used to have a aunt related by marriage, (Somehow) that I would never hear from unless someone died.

Funerals are a big deal in my family.

Part grieving, part reunion, part party and sometimes just an evil chance to see how poorly others are aging.

And the food at the after party is usually pretty good

Pot lucks mostly.

It seems that all families are the same.

Everyone seems to have their signature dish.

“Those of Emma’s potatos” or “Thats Traci’s green bean salad.”

I don’t really have a dish.

I cruise the buffet and sit in judgement on others and their culinary skills.

However, if we BBQ, I am in command.

I can man a grill like nobodies business.

In our family, we had a hamburger stand, and an automatic transmission shop.

So you either cooked are turned a wrench.

And I am not much with a wrench.

So cook it is.

The nice thing about having a whole family that can man a grill is there is no shortage of temps if you need to go to the bathroom.

I have a cousin that was one of the more high powered criminal defense attorneys in Southern California.

You should see him man a grill.

You never forget those skills.

Growing up, it didn’t matter what you wanted to do in the long run, everyone worked at the burger stand.

Kind of like a family tradition version of jury duty.

So it is not a shocker that there is a lot of comfort food at these events.

The food seems to help.

It doesn’t make grieving any easier, but it does seem to give some comfort.

Instead of a hand on your shoulder, its more like a soothing hand on your belly.

“Everythings going to be ok” with gas.

In the end, I think all families evolve the after party into whatever seems to help everyone get thru.

And thats the whole point.



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Posted by on June 28, 2012 in Uncategorized


ADD, my old friend.

It goes without saying that ADD can be confusing.

Not just for the person suffering from it, but for everyone dealing with that person.

And since I have posted blogs with over a half dozen subjects in just one post, we’re talking about the fact that I have never responded to Ritalin.

That is why I spend the amount of time in Starbucks that I do, self medicating my ADD with caffeine.

Brings a lot of things into focus, doesn’t it?

I sat down for a five minute period this morning and pondered blog subjects.

I ended up with a pretty odd scattering of topics.

And here is what I came up with:

  • Joe Biden is senile. I am not making a political point here, I am making an observation based on the crap that crazy old man spouts on a daily basis. The only thing missing is that elderly head shake, but I am sure that is just around the corner. Any day now. The one thing I want to see is him relieved of office before the headlines read “Vice President has fallen, and he can’t get up.” Clap on, clap off, the Clapper.
  • There is a commercial for the special Olympics that has a guy shooting a compound bow with his feet. Now that is a an accomplishment. I once tried to brush my teeth with my foot, mainly because I saw a woman on TV do it, and I could not hold the brush with my toes. All I ended up with was losing a half hour of time, got toothpaste on my shirt and a cramp in my foot.
  • Does it really matter if a homeless guy says please? There is a new homeless guy hanging around the Starbucks these days. He will ask for change and if the passers by don’t respond, he leans forward, and throws out a “Please?!?!” in kind of a high pitched, plaintive wail. In my opinion, it is not going to get him anything other than chased away when he freaks out some well monied old resident with some pull at the Manhattan PD. I have been known to take the homeless for bagels and coffee, but I don’t do annoying, I just don’t have the tolerance for it.
  • I read a thing on Facebook today about a guy who was busted for interfering with a DUI arrest. I clicked on the offered link and was taken to a website presentation that actually had video. It was grainy and poor quality, but you could make it out. When the video came to the part where the officer claimed the guy spit in his face and he wiped it, they slowed it down. The guys arm was in the way of seeing his mouth, and the officer was turned half away. Bottom line the guy could have spit and the officer could have wiped. And yet, the comments were interesting. The comments from people who stated that ALL policemen lie, are taught to lie and do it as part of their job, they all admitted that they had criminal records. I have a relative that is a Drug and alcohol counselor. It is a commonly held belief that the police lie and plant drugs on people every day. And they all disagree and call the counselor a liar when the statement is made that they have never even been ticketed in their life. I think if you put yourself in that kind of life style, you form the opinion that allows you to think of yourself as a good person. YOU aren’t breaking the law, the cops are the bad guys. Whatever gets you thru the night. There are some cops out there that do bad stuff, and there is also people out there that break the law and lie thru their teeth.
  • If they remade the musical Oliver today, the artful dodger would be an underaged male prostitute. And he wouldn’t be English, although, a lot of underaged male prostitutes are. I once saw a version of Oliver that had the dodger played by the same annoying kid from HR Puffinstuff. I have hated both that show and that actor for decades.
  • What exactly do sand crabs do besides tunnel up and tunnel back down thru the sand as the water rushes in and out? It seems like a pretty useless example of life. At no point in their short lives do they cocoon up and turn into something else. Its pretty much the same activity from birth till death with no let up. Even coal miners get the weekend off.

Do you see what I mean about scattered?


Posted by on June 27, 2012 in Uncategorized


The lifetime wingman.

There is something about old friends.

And I don’t mean the kind of old friend that you had a few classes with.

I mean the guy who held your head out of the toilet while you puked and lied to your mom for you.

As the saying goes, a friend will help you move, this kind of friend will help you move a body

You name kids after this kind of friend.

We all clear on this?

Anyway, I ran into an old friend today.

Its been over a decade since we last spoke.

Didn’t make a difference.

This was my best friend for one of the best periods of my life.

Goddam nice to see him.

He went from being the goofy funny kid that he was to being a goofy, funny family man with a nice life going on.

Good job.

Moving on.

Friendship is an odd thing.

Kind of a life puzzle that you are expected to solve before you die.

Seems like the kids today don’t understand the concept anymore.

I read a news report about a kid in Chicago who had been robbed and stabbed over his new Nikes.

The kid that robbed him he had been friends with since kindergarten.

Even if they weren’t the best of friends, if you didn’t stab him in the previous decade, it’s confusing why you would do it now.

Bad form.

I know someone who had asked her best friend to be her brides maid for her wedding.

The friend goofed off for a month before stepping out, and telling her she would not only not be her brides maid, but not be coming to her wedding.

She did this by email.

And this is a best friend?

I played a quick question and answer with the bride, and found out that

she had only known the girl a few years.

I don’t care how close you get in a year or two, a best friend doesn’t happen that fast.

Like fine wine, or cheap wine for that matter, friendship ages well.

If it survives the test of time, its a keeper.

Facebook throws a different spin on the whole friends thing.

I am more in touch with people I went to grade school and high school than when I was IN school.

And the basic philosophy is this:

I haven’t killed them in the last two decades, so we MUST be friends.

Warped but true.

One of them, I cracked over the head with a Corona bottle (They are unbreakable).

However, he is a solid family man who appears to be good to his kids.

We are friends now.

Odd how that works.

There is a long list of criteria that you should use when you coonsider how  good a friend someone is.

But it kind of boils down to this.

When you imagine dealing with something really cool in life, or something really terrible, and you imagine who you would like at your back, they are one of the first people you think of.

Good to see you, buddy.

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Posted by on June 26, 2012 in Uncategorized


Take a bow, monkey.

Money makes the monkey dance.

That is possibly the coolest phrase I have ever heard of.

Mainly because that is what the Mayor of Cudahy, California said to an FBI informant.

Turns out he was taking bribes for permits to open Kush Clinics.

Why, because its big business, but nobody wants that clientel in their neighborhood.

Because the homeless smell better.

Back to the mayor and his awesome speaking skills.

He’s got my vote.

Speak into the microphone please.

That is old school graft.

It conjures up images of smoke filled rooms and big cigars.

Hookers and fixed elections.

As opposed to the modern version of vile politics we have now.

Makes me feel nostalgic.

It is such an interesting phrase, and could be used so many different ways.

The easiest one to see is the racist one.

But that lacks imagination.

And really, if you are going to go that far, at least make it a little more clever.

Google makes no mention of Organ grinders or their hairy cabaret.

I can see it now.

That cloying, grating organ grinder spewing out that innocuous old world

muzak, and the monkey on a leash, complete with a little red fez hat and a blue vest.

I would pony up a buck in a heartbeat, you CANNOT find entertainment like that nowadays.

It could be a line from a song on Sesame Street.

Not sung by Elmo.

That kid has yet to pay his dues, in my book.

I see it as a vehicle for Kermit.

Or possible a duet with the Count and Oscar the Grouch.

On a side note, does anyone else wonder if Grover was sleeping with the chickens?

Just me? Ok then.

I often wondered if Oscar the Grouch was his undeclared father, who had fallen on hard times.

Yes, one is blue, the other green, but there is a strong resemblance.

A quick Google search claims that that phrase is the title of a famous Nil Lara song.

I have never heard of Nil Lara, so I took a quick trip over to Youtube.

It’s shit.

And if you are a big Nil Lara fan, what the hell’s wrong with you?

Pretentious coffee house bullshit.

And while I have never said it before, I have made this plain.

I am IN the coffee house, I am not OF the coffee house.

(I once heard a born again guy say that about the world, and I have always found it amusing.)

Google is no help on the origin of the phrase.

Its either the Mayor of Cudahy or Nil Lara on first page of the search.

Except for one entry.

It seems that someone thought it was important to note that there is no phrase in the Czech republic that means the same thing.

On a side note, I hope the Mayor gets raped in prison.

And it would be ironic if it was by Nil Lara.

Why would Nil be in jail you ask?

For murdering music, as we know it.

(How did you not see that one coming?)



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Posted by on June 25, 2012 in Uncategorized


Like Annie said.

Opportunity can be a rotten bitch at times.

I have never been a big believer in fate.

It always seemed more plausable that its all about opportunities, both good and bad.

Life is ruled by those opportunities, the ones you go for, the ones you don’t and the results there of.

This is where stuff like regret and angst come from.

And then there is the good stuff.

The ones you went for, sometimes on faith alone, but they paid off.

Those are the ones that can define your life.

Career, family, children, military, you name it.

Some big, some small, but all significant in their own right.

Such as this morning.

There is an opportunity about to happen, for good or bad, its about to happen.

There are two morning people I see on a regular basis.

You know one of them.

The seven foot tall woman is in here every morning.

Actually, she is only probably 6 foot and some change, no more than 6 foot 4 at the most.

And she loves to wear 6 inch heals.

God love her.

She is gorgeous, perhaps a little self conscious, but a very pretty girl that intimidates a lot of people.

I am at the other end of the hieght scale, literally a foot shorter, and I don’t imagine that life is any easier for someone outside the norm on the other end.

I have seen more than a few guys hit on her, only to be shot down, in some cases horribly.

Mainly because they are hitting on her for the wrong reason.

She’s a challenge, being so tall, and she can sense this.

Enter Opie Cunningham.

I call him that because he is the all American boy next door.

Not the guy who was on the football team, I mean the plain looking guy that was an average student and is 5’7, maybe.

And Opie has been watching her for weeks.

Nobody notices shit like this but me.

I think it would bother me, but its not hurting anybody, so back off.

It would appear that things will come to a head today.

From the moment she walked in, Opie has been eyeing her.

He has that scared shitless look in his eye, like someone about to do something that absolutely terrifies them, but they are going to do it anyway.

When she got in line, he got up from his seat, took one step towards her, then turned back and sat down.

She ordered and moved over to the pick up window.

Again, he stood, thought better of it and sat down.

I think he is done, son.

You can see it in his eyes.

Hunter S. Thompson called this the fear.

She has collected her drink and moves to the cream and sugar kiosk.

He’s up, the motherfucker is on his feet and moving her way.

I would cheer, but no one else is noticing this.

He is walking slowly, like a man taking his final walk to the chair.

Dead man walking.

Only if he chickens out.

He is at the kiosk, getting napkins.

He is not much taller than me, about 5’6.

Ok a lot taller than me.

I’ll be a son of a bitch if she didn’t just laugh at something he said.

I am running late, so I begin packing up.

They leave the kiosk and go back to his little round table.


As I walk out the door, he is animatedly telling her something.

And she appears to be listening, with a little smile on her face.

The sun is peaking thru the overcast.

Its gonna be a good day.

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Posted by on June 22, 2012 in Uncategorized


Our first anniversary together.

I’m getting all teary eyed.

One year ago, I started writing this blog.

That was 240 posts ago, just in case you are keeping count.

Add them all together and its the same word count as one of those thick romance novels.

It all started when I succumbed to a taunt from a friend on Facebook and began writing down the funky goings on at my morning haunt, Starbucks.

The first blog was about a complete asshole who was both hitting on a woman while at the same time detailing his crappy FU plan of attack on his soon to be ex wife and kids on the phone with his lawyer.

Take a peek at that one here:

While I loved that post, the whole reason I started the blog was to share the vile relationship of the Evil Couple with the world.

I didn’t get to them  for another 5 days.

I had been posting on FB for awhile about the most dysfunctional real couple on the planet.

I named them Evil Couple, and yes, I was a little obsessed with them.

Here’s why:

Looking back, I have written thousands of words about them.

I love them still.

There was a post that, at first, I considered a throw away.

And then it went viral, several thousand hits in just a view hours.

And it kept going, several days in a row, and every now and then.

It was about teenage girl who had already had 2 kids by her also teenage boyfriend.

It is to date the most viewed blog I have ever written.

The tale of A girl named Maria:

This post also led to my receiving the first batch of serious hate emails. (The kids happened to be hispanic, which I mentioned because they were.)

The second most viewed blog ever took its title from a Facebook status update that I was going to make fun of, but ended up trying to answer.

What is the difference between love and lust?

I think of these blogs as the ones that, if you only read a few of them, read these, they are the primer for

I originally started the blog for the dual reason that the Evil couple needed to be shared with the world, and that I wanted a platform to promote some novels I have written.

I now have a few novels coming out soon that will be blog collections from the last year.

Talk about weird shit taking a turn.

In the last year, I have offended more than a few people, forced several to spew coffee out of their noses, and made many more laugh out loud.

Good enough.

And along the way, I have written some of the finest stuff I have ever written.

If you like the blog, if you hate the blog, just read the damn thing and leave a comment.

It has been a lot of fun.

Stay tuned for the months to come.

Bite me.

Hugs and kisses,



Posted by on June 21, 2012 in Uncategorized


The Cougar is on the prowl.

Starbucks cashiers come in two flavors.

Either the hot girl or the hot guy.

There really aren’t any other combinations that I see.

Today the cashier is a young guy that is not the sharpest tool in the shed.

Lets call him the Cub. This will make sense in a moment.

This is the kind of kid that his parents gave up on the idea of college a long time ago and would be thrilled if trade school happened.

Enter the cougar.

A woman just entered the Starbucks that, well she is just on the prowl.

Late thirties, push up bra, tight t-shirt, low-rise/skinny jeans, all the ingredients for cookies.

Has that whole attitude that says, “SOMEONE is gonna treat me like the hoe that I am.”

She leans in to catch the eye of the cashier and a loud “Hi Trey!”

Of course his name is Trey, this is Manhattan Beach after all.

And why she would be pressing her breasts into the pastry glass is beyond me.

And the cashier, reacting by instinct because he is too stupid otherwise, answers back with a “Hey Tamra.”

Of course she is a Tamra.

Isn’t anyone named Betty or Diane anymore?

As the line moves up, the cougar is fidgety like a kitten on crack, desperately looking for someone to pay attention to her.

Its pretty awkward for a few moments until the line moves enough for the Cougar to talk to the Cub.

And it is at this moment that I see something that absolutely dropped my jaw.

Hair flip, with a giggle.

Are you shitting me?

Honey, high school was obviously more than a decade ago, what the hell?

And the Cub eats it up like a cupcake.

This is almost too much to watch.

With the frenzy that she is after him, they may consumate the relationship right there on the counter.

Bare minimum, she may flash him.

And then, the magic moment is over.

The cougar casts a last, lingering look at the Cub, and moves over to the pick up window.

And begins hitting on the barrista.

The Cougar is relentless.

And what ruins all of this, a fairly hot woman in heat making the rounds, is the fact that she isn’t discerning at all, hitting on anyone in a Starbucks uniform.

Like the old Playboy write ups on the back of the centerfold, its a Turn off.

Plus she is younger than me, and I have issues with that.

If she is of an age that I could have fathered her, I am out.

But maybe thats just me.

But the most frustrating part of all of this is the cashier.

The Cub appears to be totally unaware of the fact that, if he figured out houw to work it, he could be closing like a revolving door, constantly and easily.

That may be a little crude and blunt, but it is a basic truth.

As I get older, it is the truly scandalous moments that I passed up that I regret the most.

Odd phrase, but a solid truth.

And truth is a good thing.




Posted by on June 20, 2012 in Uncategorized


Big trouble in little Chinese food.

Every now and then, you just gotta get your Chinese on.

And if you can’t find authentic Chinese, Panda Express is not a bad substitute.

Besides, I once went to a seriously authentic Chinese restaurant and I thought I was going to die.

None of the food was bad, but I had quacker shits for three days.

When you walk into Panda Express, two things happen.

You are treated to Chinese muzak. (Which is just as bad as American muzak.)

And you smell, something.

Something vaguely foodish, with the chemical smell of industrial cleanser.

Nothing immediately separates itself.

You don’t smell the food specifically until they start stirring it up to serve it, and that always makes me a little suspicious.

There are times I imagine some sort of elaborate “Food odor release system” is being used to fool me into thinking its fresh.

It wouldn’t be the first wide spread plot by the Chinese, if I might take a walk on the paranoid wild side.

It was at Orange Chicken mid-sniff that I realize that something was wrong.

There was Mariachi music playing.


Now this is LA, so Mariachi’s are as easy to find as shit in a dog park.

But Panda Express has been a “Chinese Muzak only” zone forever.

Not today.

A quick look around shows that the entire staff, without exception, are Mexican.

Maybe there are a few Cubans mixed in, but you know what I mean.

The food is hot and the line is moving.

In short order. I find myself sitting at a table, setting myself up for having a snack in two hours.

And then I see the Dragon Lady.

I recognize her immediately.

She is normally behind the counter, asking me if I want to try the Walnut Shrimp.

I don’t eat seafood, so it is always an awkward moment.

I always figured she was the manager or the owner, making that totally racist connection purely on the basis of her race.

(Deal with it and move on, I have.)

The Dragon Lady is walking towards the front door.

The girl serving food has disappeared.

When the Dragon Lady is 5 feet from the front door, the Mariachi music fades and the Chinese Muzak is now oozing thru the speakers.

The counter girl suddenly appears and begins slopping chow mein.

The Dragon Lady moves thru the room, sensing something out of place, but not knowing what.

Its kind of like when a predator moves thru the forest and all of the little animals stop making noise, waiting for it to leave.

The noises slowly returned to the fast food jungle.

The Dragon Lady took up her usual post, point man for slinging chow mein.

And all was right with the world.



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Posted by on June 19, 2012 in Uncategorized


Biblical Uber Blonde

Ah, the Europeans.

They have acceptable shit in Europe that the rest of the world, or at least the patio at the El Segundo Starbucks would frown upon.

Let me paint you a picture.

To start with, lets be honest, its last nights makeup.

She’s a blonde, and the dye job was awhile back, so the brunette is peaking back thru.

Late twenties, early thirties, city miles rather than highway.

Three different layers of sheer seethru for a blouse.

The pants are what look like white and black zebra print tights.

And the shoes have 6 inch heels and are screaming “FUCK ME” but in French.

And while I usually blanche at rhinestones on shoes, they seemed to work with the overall theme here.

I could be wrong, but I rarely am when I am guessing about terrible shit, but I think this is a “Walk of shame” with a stop for coffee.

Gettin her slutty caffeine fix.

More power to you, sweetie.

I understand that need

Why else am I at a Starbucks at 7am on a Sunday?

Uber blonde is trying to coax a little bird that is hanging out into eating coffee cake off of the table in front of her.

The bird is not going for it.

And why should he?

Birds are skittish just to be difficult.

Its because, pretty much everything out there, including some other birds, are out to eat them.

So Uber blonde’s, smelling faintly of last night’s perfume, alcohol and extacy are not high on their “Safe” list.

But, like the rest of us, Uber blonde can’t resist the little bird, so she finally throws the crumbs far enough away that the little bird darts in for a quick snatch and leave.

Uber blonde, finishing the reast of her coffee cake, begins to head back over to the International hotel that all visiting Euro trash stay at.

I miss her already.

But maybe I am being too judgemental here.

I have been known to jump to evil conclusions.

Perhaps she simply has horrible taste in morning fashions.

Perhaps she is on her way to a scantily clad bible study group.

Improbable, but it could happen.

Scantily clad, slutty appearing European men and women looking for Jesus.

I am so going to hell for that one.

I am seriously banking of the Almighty getting my sense of humor.

Or he could be a little Old Testament, in which case, I may end up made of salt.

It could happen.

It would be along the lines of shooting the foul mouthed messenger.

Wrong, but not unheard of.

Hate the player, not the game.

Moving away from dire Sodem and Blogging-Gamora predictions for a sec.

The little bird eventually did eat off of the edge of her table.

And then he followed her down the block.

Maybe the bird is a different judge of character.



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Posted by on June 18, 2012 in Uncategorized