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Monthly Archives: September 2012

When you need a friend.

A 20 minute political conversation about Franklin D Roosevelt is enough to make anyone a little edgy.

Add to that a buttload of caffeine and you have the recipe for a hostage situation.

It seemed like just another day.

And then Leonard came into my life.

I didn’t ask for Leonard, Leonard just happened.

Like a bad case of the shits.

“You sure got some nifty electronics.”

Its a pretty harmless phrase as far as opening lines go.

But the word nifty should have tipped me off.

Leonard is not just a retiree, hell, Leonard’s son retired 10 years ago.

Do the math, the man farts dust.

Old dust at that.

And he is just mezmerized by my laptop.

Lets take a look.

The hair is white and thick.

Not all old guys go bald, some go bushy.

The hair, the ears, the eyebrows, and of course, the nose.

Everything spews bushy white hair.

And trust me on this one, bushy white nose hair is creepy shit that Stephen King hasn’t even thought of.

And he has a new book.

That he wants to share with me.

Shit.

I played the basic brush off, avoiding eye contact, grunting replies and just hunkering down into my laptop.

This is the Starbucks version of falling to the ground and playing dead in the hopes that Leonard will sniff my supposed dead carcass and leave me alone.

NOT GONNA HAPPEN.

He forges on with a determination that John Wayne would envy.

The next 5 minutes was what I call “The First Facts”:

  • He was the first president to speak on television.
  • He was the first president whose mother was allowed to vote for him.
  • He was the first president to fly in an airplane.

Then, in a masterstroke of annoying verbiage, he launched into 5 minutes of somewhat creepy shit I did not want to know about FDR:

  • His mother made him wear a dress till he was 5.
  • He was related to 11 other presidents. (Ok, maybe not creepy, but righteous conspiracy theory shit yourself stuff.)
  • He had a mistress that Eleanor Roosevelt told him never to see again, so he didn’t, not till he was on his deathbed. And his daughter helped set him up with the mistress.

And you would think he would just let it go, what with my soul having been drained out of me during the last 10 minutes.

Not so Leonard.

The knock out punch came at the end of it all, when I was just about to pack up and leave, he opened his FDR book to a page showing Eleanor Roosevelt.

I had just taken a large gulp of coffee when he informed me that Eleanor Roosevelt was a MILF. (He must have a grandson)

I managed to spit coffee about 6 feet.

Good morning Leonard.

 

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Posted by on September 11, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

You got a purty mouth.

In any big budget Hollywood movie, there is a lot of money and time put into casting.

The look, the experience, the talent of the actors is all weighed heavily before choosing the perfect person.

And yet, in our little scene today, the actors just showed up.

And its perfect.

I am in Starbucks, where else, with a friend who is determined to provide entertainment for the blog.

I can always use the help.

I stop short of staging events, but participation is always allowed.

Our stars for the scene are:

Cashier. She is young, dumb, barely able to count, fairly lazy, and the perfect career cashier.

Granny. She is the dehydrated, wrinkled, hillbilly manager/crappy barrista that runs the place.

Mr. Howell. He is from old money. Back East money. Rockafeller type dollars. He is also gay as a two dollar bill. (I mean that in a totally non-homophobic way. He was, so I mentioned it.)

Our scene opens when we enter the Starbucks.

There is one person ahead of us in line.

Then its our turn.

Cashier is friendly and asks about our needs. Its not a difficult order, two coffee creations and some pastries.

Cashier opens her mouth to ask…something, don’t know what, when Granny erupts.

“What’s she want? I can’t hear her!” Granny can’t wait for the cup, she is far too sophisticated for high fallootin shit like that.

Cashier doesn’t like Granny, that much is obvious.

“Sorry.” She mouths this at us.

She thrusts the paper cup with the writing at Granny.

What happens next is awesome.

She takes out her readin specs in order to read the cup.

At the spot on the cup that shows “Shot” is written a “1”.

“Does she want an extra shot?” Granny is sounding more and more like Minnie Pearl by the second.

Cashier rolls her eyes. “I wrote it on the cup.” She tells us, annoyed and embarrassed.

Granny taps the cup on the counter to get cashier’s attention, when cashier looks over, Granny does an awesome hands out “What the hell?” shrug.

I pay and we sit to await our creations.

I am more than a little worried that Granny will poison us because I fear she cannot read.

Enter Mr. Howell.

He is wearing beige capris, with little crossed golf clubs on them.

His haircut is black curls that sway on his head like Howard Stern and his shirt is a vintage polo.

And black socks.

And they say there is no crime near the beach.

Mr. Howell begins hopping from foot to foot in front of the cashier, staring at the menu as if he is not sure what they sell here.

“I would absolutely LOVE a grande iced half caf triple mocha latte macchiato.”

I would love to know what that is.

Cashier takes a full three minutes to write it up.

Then she hands it to Granny, who pulls out her specs.

I have to see this. I head up to the counter on the weak premise of ordering, well, anything as long as I can see whats going on behind the barrista station, mainly because Granny has disappeared.

I am so glad I cam up here.

Granny is hunkered down, leafing desperately thru a book.

It is the coffee version of the Mr. Boston guide.

It tells you how to make the drink.

I stare while trying not to laugh when cashier leans over.

“She doesn’t like to clean the toilets, so she has to barrista.”

Good lord.

I order nothing and sit down.

Mr. Howell has shuffled over to the pick up window and is staring up at a wall hanging of Kenya, he begins to tell no one about his trip to Kenya last year.

And for some reason, he then notices what Granny is up to.

“Do you know what you are doing?” He leans into the barrista station.

Without missing a beat, Granny picks up a cup that is sitting on her station, and throws it on Mr. Howell.

I had a clear view, there was a shot glass of water, no more.

But she threw it on a customer.

And begins to laugh.

It is an evil, scratchie cackle that seems to boom off the walls.

Cashier looks like she is either scared or constipated.

And, at the height of Granny’s laugh, Deliverance shows up.

Out of the back room, mop in hand, comes a true rarity in the beach cities.

A backwoods, banjo playing hillbilly.

Okay, so it was just a guy with an apron and huge ears.

I also think one of his eyes was offset due to inbreeding, but I am prone to overreacting.

Deliverance chortles like a slow madman and heads back into the back room.

And that is when Mr. Howell begins to laugh.

He laughs like he has seen the funniest thing ever in his life.

He then calls someone named “Bons” and tells Bons all about the water.

I am worried about his sanity.

But he gets his coffee and leaves, still laughing.

Granny watches him go.

The door closes and Granny stops laughing and glares at the door.

“Bu-bye!”

I need to stop coming here at night.

 

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Posted by on September 10, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

He don’t know, and you can’t tell him.

“You never do shit for me, David.”

Imagine the first part of that sentence being said almost casually, with very little inflection.

But the raised voice his on his name makes the whole thing shine.

David, for his part, didn’t even flinch.

Hell, I don’t think he even heard it.

Maybe he’s deaf?

Which would make her cruel for bitching at her deaf boyfriend, instead of just whiny.

I am in line at Starbucks, where else?

David is standing with his nose an inch from the bakery case, fogging up the glass in his attempt to eat pastry thru the glass with his eyes.

No clue what her name is.

“You want a pastry, Nat?” David finally turns away from the foggy glass, looking like a 5 year old on Christmas morning.

Nat. Natalie? Perfect. I hate that name.

I really need to quit being so judgemental, but writing these blogs makes that near impossible.

“No, David, I do not want a pastry.” If sarcasm was a physical thing, it would be dripping on the foggy glass.

For the next few minutes,  I listen to Natalie castigate David over everything he does, or she believed he did.

And it is like water off a duck’s back for David. the man has transcended his bitchy girlfriend to a happier state of mind.

How the hell do you get there?

Because, lets face it, there are a LOT of Natalie’s out there.

And society is to blame.

Check the media.

I just watched a commercial where a woman is riding in a bicycle marathon.

Every time she looks up, there is her boyfriend, holding encouraging signs.

And, as she rides across the finish line, the boyfriend is sitting on a car hood, eating pizza.

Pause, 2 beats, focus on the shock on her face.

And then he opens the pizza box to show he has written “I love you.”

Isn’t that just the CUTEST GODDAM THING EVER?

Its also the most unreal thing ever.

I personally know of 5 women I grew up with that would have torn his testicles out before he could open the box.

One or two would still do it after they saw the I love you just to keep it real.

They would be driving home with his balls hanging from the mirror.

I think commercials like this are a bad thing.

It gives women the wrong idea.

Sets an expectation that guys do not have a shot of living up to.

The commercial was written by a team of paid marketing pros.

And guys are just on their own.

We might get lucky with the occasional cool thing.

But the odds are against being able to sustain it.

So I would like to send out a little something to the ladies out their.

Cut us a break.

We are not the guy from 50 Shades of Grey.

We are not a love sick vampire with serious hair.

We are the same guys that you kind of fell for prior to thinking we were romantic magicians.

Because too many out there are Natalie’s.

And not that many of us are David’s.

 

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Posted by on September 7, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

The tangled, sticky web.

Its like a God damned soap opera.

I read an article online about a love triangle.

The couple were married over 20 years ago, but it was to keep her from being deported back to Guatamala. Her name is, well, since I don’t like her, lets call her Lump.

Even after 20 years, Lump evidently still claims that it was all just to get a green card.

So we start out with a little fraud, sets the mood and gets the ball rolling, doesn’t it?

They still have sex at least once every few months, perhaps its just their way of “Keeping it real”..

Which, even by the standards of a poor marriage, sucks.

Enter the other woman, lets call her Margarette.

Margarette did the legwork and investigated the situation prior to getting naked with the guy, who we will call Conrad.(I have never liked this name.)

And Conrad, shady prick that he is, went willingly.

So they are little sex bunnies evidently.

Fast forward to 5 years later.

Conrad is still living the loveless fraud with Lump.

And Margarette is getting frustrated that he won’t leave her.

I think all three of them are seriously screwed in the head.

Sign of the times.

The person who wrote the article is a “Good friend of theirs”.

I think this “friend” is more of a Jane Goodall type, observing the animals in their natural habitat.

And the trio don’t disappoint, they behave like animals.

And we watch like pervy old dudes at some back alley skin show.

Even if you never heard about this trio before this, you have read about something similar, the internet is full of it.

Hell, the reason I started writing this blog was to relate a story about a couple arguing in public.

Guilty as charged.

Hypocrisy has a flavor to it, you can get used to it after awhile.

The internet started as a way to share information.

And what has evolved is a way to share porn of varying degrees.

Guys are what drive the porn industry.

Some women claim to love porn and make a big case out of it being a mutual thing.

Bullshit.

The overwhelming majority of women have been fantasizing about their wedding day since they were little girls.

Men have been finding new and better ways to masturbate since they were little boys.

Doesn’t matter how well you think you know your man, ladies.

He has done some weird shit in the name of masturbation.

Yes, him too.

I don’t think it outs an entire gender if I just point out the facts in this case.

Now, how did I end up talking about masturbation?

Again?

I think I am starting to see a pattern emerging.

Awful lots of FAP talk going around.

(FAP is an internet term for the sound of male masturbation. Don’t judge, you were going to Google it anyway.)

The ladies, with few exceptions, just went “Ewwwwwww”

And some of the guys are ready to hang me.

So be it.

To quote Dennis Miller, let he who has a free hand, cast the first stone.

 

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Posted by on September 6, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

High maintenance women, whats not to love?

I have a friend who married poorly.

It happens, and when a good friend gives the ring to a woman that he would’nt if he was thinking straight, there really is nothing you can do but bitch lightly and let him hang himself.

Not now, but for the rest of his married life.

Which will hopefully be short for this guy.

There is one child involved, but before anyone moans about “The sake of the kids” keep in mind that seeing mom castigate and de-ball dad at every turn is not necessarily a “Nurturing environment.”

In an unusual act of complete disclosure, I freely admit that I do not like this woman.

That being said, she’s a bitch.

Flat out, from the start, old school, if she didn’t a vagina she’d have a bounty on her head, bitch.

I do the whole “Don’t like” thing well, call it a gift.

Its kind of like a less-philosophical  version of Henry Rollins “If you’re going to love something-” speech.

The high-maintenance wife can come from two different places.

The first and most likely creator of the high maintenance wife is the high maintenance mother raising a high maintenance daughter.

Because misery loves company, and what better way to have company than to make it yourself.

The daughter is carefully crafted with a sense of bitchy entitlement, while the son spends his pre-teens, teens and early twenties paying penance for the un-named sin of being born with testicles.

The second place a high maintenance wife comes from is the most rare, but the worst one.

They are just born that way.

Unpleasant in the crib, bitchie as an infant, horrid as a pre-teen, and fast approaching the C-word as she moves thru her teens like an angry snake.

You can’t help but hate her with a passion.

And this type always seems to be the ones your friends pick.

Later in life, this type is prone to depression, loudly proclaiming to anyone who gets stuck listening that she can’t figure out why no one likes her.

I would tell her, but I can’t stand to be near her.

These types have a tendency to refer to me as “That asshole friend of yours”.

Its accurate, but rude.

The majority of these marriages end in a divorce that soaks him for every dime he’s worth.

The only upside to the divorce is that these husbands hit the divorce road like a man busting out of jail.

These are serious pent up party people.

You have to ride shotgun with these guys a lot, they have a tendency to experiment with drugs like a curious freshman.

As long as you can keep them away from Meth, you are fine, let them sow some oats, its been building up.

But slip a few condoms in their pocket at the beginning of the evening, they grew up during a time when STD’s were curable, and they rarely listen to reason when they are drunk and have a hard on.

But, if they find the condom themselves, they feel more like its their idea.

Whatever works.

And thats what friends are for.

 

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Posted by on September 5, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Sleep it off.

Coming off of one of those vacations where you don’t get a lot of sleep can only mean one thing.

Lots of make up sleep.

Its like make up sex, without the fanfare.

You are still in bed, but unless you are a necrophile, no one is having sex.

Cause I sleep the sleep of the dead.

Rip Van Bitter.

Except for the whole falling asleep for 20 years thing.

That would be kind of cool.

But I am sure that someone would steal my shoes.

But the economy would have to be better, right?

Couldn’t be any worse.

Although, by then, I will owe back taxes because I slept thru tax season.

But Washington Irving left that part out.

I always got the feeling that he wanted to be that wild guy.

Makes you wonder if his wife was a nag to the point that he was living vicariously thru Rip.

The kind of guy that could step out and sleep till she’s gone.

And then his life is one big pantsless party.

Like the guy from the herbal viagra commercial, “Stepping large and laughing easy.

I never trust those commercials.

They never really come clean with specifics.

You can watch a prescription drug commercial and they get into EXACTLY what the drug is intended to do and what the side effects are.

But that is the law I think.

The herbal viagra I mentioned a few sentences ago? Nope.

They always show a guy and his girlfriend talking about “It”.

It makes it “You know” better.

Its, yeah, bigger.

And I was like, wow.

And these are quotes.

Tough to pin down a false claim there.

Like holding water in place with a push pin.

I think if he had just finished the Rip Van Winkle story today, Washington Irving would have crumbled it up and tossed it in the trash.

In all fairness, Irving was a seriously humble guy that accomplished a lot and hurt no one, which is tough to do.

But I don’t think he would be a fan of the pace of the world today.

Life has changed.

Life is just too, required, now days.

You can no longer wander the hills and live off of the land anymore.

Which is a tough life even in its hay day.

There are a lot of “Have to’s” in the world now.

Some are good for you, some suck so bad they are almost against the laws of nature.

Taxes and most business law.

I read an article about a businessman who’s required permits and fees have increased by 5000% in just 10 years.

And everyone bitches that jobs are going overseas.

They don’t hate businesses over there.

Not everyone is a worker bee, someone has to own the factory.

But you have to hate that guy, I mean he has money.

You better agree with that statement or you will find yourself on the “No fly” list in a heartbeat.

Certain governmental agencies have NO sense of humor.

And they will not be named here.

I need to fly on occasion and I would rather not get my flying privileges revoked because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

Nuff said.

 

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Posted by on September 4, 2012 in Uncategorized

 

Some people need a beating.

You can choose the lesser of two evils, but you are still choosing evil.

And I cannot remember a time where I chose the lesser of two goods.

Good always seems to be in short supply, while there is always a lot of evil to go around.

The guy next to me seems to be obsessed with evil.

He is on his cell via bluetooth.

I love bluetooth because it requires that you talk just a wee bit louder.

Making it all that much easier to listen in.

That’s where I come in.

He is having some sort of philosophical discussion that is begining to border on old school crazy.

Its ADD on steroids.

I thought at first it was a discussion about legalizing pot.

Then I thought it was about religion.

Or baseball.

Maybe the bath salts/zombie attack in Florida.

My head hurts, I can only imagine the carnival going on in this guys head.

However, knocking someone with focus issues is kind of a glass houses thing with me.

There ought to be rules for this sort of thing.

Even if you are batshit crazy, you should still have to keep your ranting in focus.

But, I guess I shouldn’t complain.

I mean, there is a reason I drink this much coffee on a daily basis.

I just can’t bring myself to take  Ritalin.

Although it does seem to be the opiate of the masses.

Every kid you pass on the streets is on minor speed these days.

Or at least, they should be.

Case in point, the little girl running around  Starbucks fairly unattended right now.

Mom is WAY too busy texting  and cackling to pay attention to her young one, who is currently running laps in the middle of a fairly busy Starbucks.

As she rounded the corner on one of her laps, she flicked out her hand and smacked the paper of an older woman reading the paper.

Aside from pretty much shitting herself, the shocked reaction alone screamed “HEART ATTACK!” to those of us paying attention.

I am glad my Red Cross card is up to date, because CPR was on the table for a few minutes.

I once watched a little old lady slap an out of control little kid once.

Where is she when I need her?

Because SOMEBODY has to put genie back in the bottle.

I have said it before, but it bears repeating, people need to beat their kids more often.

There should be parenting classes.

“How to beat your children.”

A class that all pregnant teens should have to take by law.

Now, before you all start moaning sentences that start with “How dare you-” and “Do you realize-” Take a moment and think about the fact that most of the people that would write such an email needs that same ass whipping.

And NO ONE is above an ass beating.

Chris Rock is a prophet on that one.

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Posted by on September 3, 2012 in Uncategorized