Monthly Archives: June 2012

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


The raising of the victims

Every now and then, I write something a little off-color.

If you read this blog at all, you kind of expect it and know that its coming.

I am the blogging version of that dirty little boy everyone knew when they were a kid.

I was one of the first to tell dick jokes in grade school.

Catholic grade school, by the way.

Might just explain a lot, really.

I am not necessarily proud of this, but I’m not ashamed of it either.

The kids that tended to distance themselves from the outgoing and strong personalities, thru grade and high school, tended to really be rather unimpressive intellects in the long run.

Me? I ran with a pack of sharks.

The quietest one among us was more outgoing that the average.

You either held your own or you sank beneath the waves.

Kind of a personality “Culling of the herd” as it were.


I have never believed in that “Everybody wins” thing they do in grade schools.

Where a child can be a slug on a rock and achieve.

But what do they achieve?

A false sense of security, thats what.

Failure leads to achievement.

And if it doesn’t, the parents are losers.

But nobody wants to hear that.

Every parent wants to believe that their kid is special.

But, that is highly improbable for the majority.

By process of elimination, somewhere out there is the dumbest non-retarded kid in the US.

And his parents need to deal with that.

While he was eating glue in kindergarten, they were dreaming of college and universities.

When they really needed to be hoping for trade school.

If they were lucky.

Political correctness should be outlawed as a term.

Use of it is punishable by being kicked in the crotch, man or woman, and waterboarding if you are a politician.

I think the current mindset of entitlement is the product of this kind of socio-evolutionary hand holding.

Meanwhile the rest of us have been browbeaten into silence thru the use of a form of mental pillary absolution. (If you’re not getting the verbiage, Google it, I don’t have time.)

You can’t spend your life and the life of your kids, trying really hard not to rock the boat.

I saw a killer sign online yesterday.

It said the following:

“I don’t embrace insanity,”

“I feel it up, french kiss it, and buy it a drink.”

I laughed when I read it, I love the attitude.

Go big or go home.

I have a different idea.

I like to call it, “Raise your kids the way your grandfather would have.”

And if your grandfather was an abusive ass, no, not him.

I am talking about my grandfather, and great grandfather.

Amazing men.

Firm belief that hard work and dedication can help you get ahead.

Strong personal faith, too.

Raised amazing kids, who became amazing people.

That mind-set seems to be sorely missing these days.

Do us all a favor and pass that along to your kids.

“Bust your ass, work like a fiend, make smart moves when you can.”

And I think we’ll all be ok.




Posted by on June 15, 2012 in Uncategorized



I had a little writers block recently.

And when you write a daily humor blog, thats a bad thing.

I happened to be texting with a friend of mine and mentioned it.

She immediately slipped into “Fountain of ideas” mode, and began speed texting.

I actually used one of them.

But one of them was just so naive and cute, I had to tease her about it.

Turns out she was serious and began speed texting me her argument.

Here it is.

“I wonder if men realize that women want more sex than they do, but don’t know how to ask for it.”

OMG! That is just too cute and funny as it gets.

Mainly because it is so far from being true, it borders on mythical.

Argue this all you want, you are still wrong and ignorant.

You have to be a man to understand it.

Here is the basic difference.

Women want sex.

On the Titanic, with Leonardo Di Caprio (Loaded with Viagra) in the perfect setting, with an award winning soundtrack, and then several days of chocolate and snuggling.

There is a basic desire there. but it has only a tenuous hold in reality.

Men want to have as much sex as humanly possible.

And while they are waiting to recharge and have sex again?

They would like the woman to masturbate in front of them until they are ready to go.

Eventually, their heart will give out.

A lot like that experiment where they teach the rat to push the lever and get a food pellet?

With unlimited food pellets, the rats pushed the lever until they ate themselves to death.

Yeah, thats about how it is.

So, it is actually a good thing that women don’t have that kind of drive.

Otherwise, all the men of the world would be dead.

Once the angry lesbians are done cheering, I will continue.

I can wait.

All day long if I have to.

In the beginning of a relationship, women can match you, mano a mano, with the libido.

But it can’t be sustained without testosterone.

I had a co worker tell me once that she wishes she had a set of balls, she would do things differently.

No you wouldn’t.

Be happy that you think you would and then let it go.

There was a supposed Army General who was speaking to the graduating class of a military school who said the following:

“Men see it this way – WOMEN love SEX.”

“Women see it this way – WOMEN LOVE sex.”

The capitals in those sentences are significant, by the way.

It sounds like a bullshit story, but it does make an excellent point.

Women want love, affection and fulfillment.

Men want penetration and breasts. (Some guys are ass-men, but you get the point.)

Most men will tell you the same.

Just make sure that a guy is the one asking.

Because, if its a woman asking, he will tell her whatever he thinks she wants to hear.

Because he might be able to nail her.



Posted by on June 14, 2012 in Uncategorized


Avon calling, open the door before I kick it in.

There was a woman that used to come visit my mom when I was little.

Visit is actually too kind.

A 300 pound woman in a mumu and WAY too much perfume used to invade my house like the Germans when I was little. (That description is a lot closer to my memories.)

The Avon lady.

This woman was like a crack dealer back in the day.

And she never took no for an answer.

She only took orders

Fast forward to today.

I have a friend that recently held a party for her friends.

Products and services were demonstrated and sold, and she got a lot of free product.

Was it Avon?


Was it aroma therapy candles?


Some sort of financial planning thing?

Not even close.

Botox and designer jeans.

I shit you not.

Since when is crappy perfume not good enough?

Now it has to be several hundred dollar denim and facial injections of poison.

I am a little leary of the whole botox thing.

No judgement here, if its your thing, feel free.

But I would never be able to shake the feeling that I would be that one in a million person that had the bad reaction.

Freeze my face in a permanent Elvis sneer.

Like when you were little and your mom told you not to make a face or it might freeze like that?

Odd the stuff you take serious when you were little.

Back to the old school Avon lady.

She had this really thick southern accent and when she entered the house, her voice would boom off of the walls.


She has been dead for twenty years and a cousin of mine will go into back spasms if you imitate that voice.

I will sneak up behind him during the holidays and do the voice.

But I will not even attempt to replicate the overwhelming perfume that used to arrive 5 minutes before she did.

However, if memory serves, she always brought coffee cake, a sure indicator that she was going to stay awhile.

I think that is where the whole coffee thing started for me.

Good times.

Speaking of the Avon lady.

She was actually a nationally ranked Avon fire-breather.

Absolute badass, Avon style, bitches.

This was back in the days that women didn’t make a lot of money.

Not like they do a crap load better now, but back then it was classic repression.

Now? Its a lot more covert.

I ran into an Avon lady the other day and she was a damned cream puff in comparison.

It is the type of job that requires that certain lack of concern for intruding.

A solid saleswoman of this type has the type of mind that it never occurs to her for a SECOND that you are not thrilled to see her coming.

Self fulfilling prophesy there.

Because you will be happy to see her.

And they always have a lot of samples.

Because, like any good drug dealer…

The first hits free.




Posted by on June 13, 2012 in Uncategorized


The Stanley cup, Cannibalism, and Caligula.

Los Angeles.

City of Angeles.

Birthplace of the Crips and the Bloods.


Some of the highest priced real estate on the planet.

And yet, today is LA’s lucky  day.

LA woke up lying on a bed of 4 leaf clovers.

Won the lottery.

Found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

In other words…

The King’s won the Stanley Cup.

Evidently, miracles do happen.

And by miracle, I don’t mean the win, which was incredible, in and of itself.

I mean, if LA doesn’t destroy itself with riots by the morning, it’ll be a miracle.

We don’t have a great history in the restraint department.

The moment the final buzzer sounded, you could hear the gunshots ring out over the city.

Not a good indicator of restraint.

Time to hunker down and hoard canned goods and ammo.

And, before its all over, there will be a few isolated reports of drug induced cannibalism.

It seems to be all the rage these days.

Dark and troubling times.

You never expect a riot, you just survive it.

Kind of like a social plague.

But you never heard anyone suffering from the plague justifying it later.

Hopefully, the King’s fans will keep it together better than Laker fans do.

I would say “And the Raiders” but lets face it, there is no danger of the Raiders winning the super bowl.

What a silly thought.

You would have a better chance of getting a massage from leprechaun who rode in on a unicorn, complete with “Happy Ending” finish.

Gross, but just as improbable.

I have to admit, it was a damned exciting series.

And I am not even a King’s fan.

But, God dammit, they played like God’s.

And if you think the players are not at parties that make Caligula’s finest moment look like a church social, you’re kidding yourself.

There isn’t a cop in this town that will break up that party, no matter who calls.

LA is a town of low morals and serious fuck-you money.

But, to the winner his due.

Its not like my team did a damned thing this year.

They were eliminated early and embarrassingly from the playoffs.

Fortunately, I never bet on sports.

I am a fan, but not a smart one.

Gambling requires a cold logic that I have never developed.

So, the not gambling thing is good.

Otherwise, I might be destitute, living on the streets.

Possibly a drug addict, despite having avoided the whole drug issue so far.

And, once my addiction hits the bottom, the whole cannibalism thing starts.

Hopefully, that won’t happen while my mother is still alive.

Because then we would all be in deep shit.

Everyone who read that last line came away with the demented desire to spare my mother the grief.

I will get a call from my mother, trying to figure out why I wished her dead.

Bizarre, I know, but this is the woman that raised the man that writes this twisted crap, so it makes perfect sense to the two of us.

And she’s not a King’s fan either.

But she did watch the games.

Nice job, LA.



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Posted by on June 12, 2012 in Uncategorized