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Monthly Archives: March 2013

Nude house of wacky people.

There are times that you can’t figure out whats wrong with people.

There is a lady on the corner where I am stopped at the light.

And she is screaming at the top of her lungs at her little dog.

She isn’t hitting the dog or even yanking on the leash, she’s just screeching at it.

Super Bitter to the rescue.

I try not to get involved, but I love dogs.

Not little dogs, but there is a principal involved.

“Hey! Knock that shit off!”

There, I did my part in fighting crime.

Besides, A guy and his wife have walked up and are getting into it with the screamer.

My work here is done.

About 5 minutes later, I was pulling into the underground parking bunker that I am forced to park in.

And there is a car in the middle of the aisle, parking.

At least, that is what I am assuming.

Parking usually involved pulling into a parking spaces, stopping and turning off the car.

That is not the case here.

The car is a mid 70’s Oldsmobuick of some sort.

And so far, the geriatric driver, a blue hair that CANNOT see over the steering wheel, has pulled out and back in 3 times.

In the end, 6 was the magic number when it come to adjusting the parking spot for the Oldsmobuick.

I would normally be pissed and lay on the horn, but, from what little I could see of the driver, she looked a frightening amount like my great grandmother.

And just the memory of that woman kept my hand off the horn.

If half the stories about my great grandmother are true, then God help me if I piss her off.

Dead or alive, the woman was a force of nature not to be fucked with.

Just over 5 minutes later, I am sipping scalding hot coffee in my favorite small round table at Starbucks.

Ah, sweet addiction, how I have missed you.

A young mother just stepped away from the cashier with 3 kids and that really tense stressed look on her face that you don’t understand if you haven’t had kids.

But for those with kids, its like a guy watching someone getting kicked in the nuts.

You feel that sympathy pain, combined with crushing relief that it isn’t you.

The barrista is hitting high speed today and has her coffee creation ready when she gets there.

And then they sit next to me.

Great.

I despise other peoples children.

I am comfortable with the fact that there is a shallow little piece of my soul that views others kids as semi-retarded, dull and ugly.

It is what it is.

And her kids are making me feel so in the right for my feelings today.

Chatty is a word you might use.

Mom looks like she is in the same place as me, and they are her’s.

“Empty mouths” Mom says it quietly.

The kids giggle for half a second.

And then all 3 stick their fists in their own mouths.

Silence reigns.

I might be in the Twilight Zone again.

Mom sighs like someone is giving her a backrub and sips her coffee.

The kids appear to be enjoying the game.

Its a very weird bubble we are existing in right now.

But at least its quiet.

 
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Posted by on March 29, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

Like a desert Twilight Zone

Picture a man stepping out of everything he thought he knew.

Stepping into a place where the world is different and operates on different rules than the ones that he sarcastically
belittles when scribbling in his little blog.

He has left the mundane world, and as it says on the sign post ahead.

He has entered the Twilight Zone.

Rod Serling was the shit.

That man made some of the worst Thanksgivings in my life growing up bearable.

The Twilight Zone marathon was the Thanksgiving staple for years.

Or Football, depending on what the ranking adult in the room who possessed the remote wanted to watch.

So why am I taking us down memory lane with Rod and the Zone?

Because I am in it.

The Twilight Zone evidently exists in Joshua Tree, California.

I was travelling thru on my way to a hippy camping weekend.

As I stopped at a stoplight, a cop car pulled up next to me.

I never get in trouble with the law, being the solid citizen that I am, so I don’t sweat it when I see them.

But, much like coming across a big dog you don’t know, keep your distance.

Just because he seems friendly, doesn’t mean he won’t turn on you without warning.

So, when he smiled and waved, it caught me a little off guard.

I decided to get some gas and perhaps a bite to eat.

As I pulled up to the gas pump, a kid in a white shirt came running out.

“Pump your gas for you, sir?”

Are you shitting me?

I stared at this kid for a long moment.

I heard myself answer out of shocked reflex.

“I got it, thanks.”

Where the hell was I?

I am not sure I remembered putting gas in the car.

Food, food would help at this point.

I don’t handle confusion well and tend to treat it like a plot by an evil cabal thats out to get me.

There is a pizza place next to the gas station called Mo’s Pizza.

The building is fairly rundown and there is a homeless guy patrolling the front.

Dubious food to be sure, but I am hungry.

As I park, I notice the homeless guy eyeballing me hungrily.

I walk towards the front door, bracing myself for the pitch for cash.

He says nothing, just opens the door and smiles.

I am not even asking questions at this point, I am just hanging on to the roller coaster and hoping the ride is over soon.

The inside of Mo’s Pizza is worlds different from the outside.

And then there’s the food.

The pizza appears to be pretty high end stuff.

Several have Feta and Goat cheese.

I recognize several combinations of cheeses and meats that you will rarely find in any but the most pretentious
gourmet pizza shops.

I order a slice of Alfredo/ricotta with carmalized onions, cajun andouille and chunks of garlic.

Wow.

I eat my slice like a man on death row, sure that the hammer is about to drop on me at any moment.

However, nothing happens.

I hightail it out of Joshua Tree and try to put the events of the evening out of my head.

I am still not sure what happened, but it sure felt like a Twilight Zone Episode.

Maybe the homeless guy was Jack Klugman.

 
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Posted by on March 25, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

Wipe your mouth when your done.

I was looking back over my blog posts for the last year and I am amazed that I managed to find so many different things to write about.

And yet, when I first started this, I was coming up snake eyes.

I wrote the first line earlier, then decided to get some coffee.

And I was in line when it happened.

I met the most unhappy man on the planet.

“I don’t even know why I’m here, I hate coffee.”

This is already a decent opening line, right up until you realize that he is not talking to anyone, he is standing in line alone.

My muse is here.

It opens a big box of WTF questions.

The one that is sitting on top of the question pile is a pretty obvious one.

“Why is he a whiny little bitch that spouts off to no one?”

Apparently the contents of my question box differs from yours.

You have to dig a little before you get to “f you hate coffee, why did you come to Starbucks?”

Because there are several other questions above that one.

Like, “Who the fuck dresses this buzz kill?”

And, “This guy is enough of an annoying shit head, that he must be worth a fortune.” (Ok, so that one is not a question, but it is in the box.)

Now, at least, I have something blog worthy to focus on.

Trust me on this, I can smell annoying shit to make fun of a mile away.

“Why does yogurt have such a high sugar count?”

I realize he is asking me.

I shrug my shoulders and mutter something.

Partially because of my rule of not interfering, and partly because I really have taken a dislike to this guy.

That may be shallow and such, but it is what it is.

I am comfortable with my inner asshole, and cater to him often.

The actual answer to the yogurt sugar question is, you are in Starbucks.

If you are looking for health food, look elsewhere.

This is like a legal crackhouse that sells a legal drug.

I try not to feel bad about my caffeine addiction.

And they don’t make me perform sex acts to get my fix.

Its the illusion of civility that makes us all feel safe.

However, God help us all if the economy gets much worse.

At that point, all bets are off.

And if you want your Venti Caramel Macchiato?

Get on your knees, bitch.

 
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Posted by on March 22, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

The day after.

When an Facebook friend of Italian descent adds “O’” to the front of his last name, it doesn’t make him Irish.

Just saying.

I always find it interesting that the stereotype is that the Irish are a gang of drunken thugs and on St. Patrick’s day, everyone else wants to be that stereotype for the day.

So for all those that will today enjoy all the drinking, singing, fighting and promiscuity, along with more godawful corned beef and cabbage, let me say this:

Your welcome.

Ok, its is now the morning after St. Patrick’s.

I got a touch of hangover going on, so don’t fuck with me.

I would not be adverse to getting a handicapped sticker for my car on days like this.

And there was some serious highlights last night that has at least cushioned the anti-everybody else but the Irish feelings.

Especially when, at a fine Irish pub, Pete, the drunken self proclaimed “Proud Italian” finished his 10th shot in 1 hour, vomited on the bar, slid of the barstool to the floor, and may or may not have shit himself.

It was beautiful.

I realize that it more or less makes me a bad person to take such delight in someone elses misfortune, but drinking is like a self imposed curse that we cast upon ourselves.

Plus, he was Italian.

And before someone emails me to berate me about the “Disease” of addiction, save it.

A disease is something you have no control over, addiction you do.

That’s my view, I’m not changing it, bite me.

I have dealt with my addictions in the past that I wanted to change, ignored my present caffeine issue because it is more of a plus than a minus to me, and moved on in my life.

And if none of that explanation keeps you from wanting to write that email, think about this:

Bite me.

I can’t make it much simpler than that.

 
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Posted by on March 18, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

You gotta wait for it, sometimes.

When you are on stage, you should perform, thats all I’m saying.

It is the obligation of the actor, performer, singer, animal in a cage, whoever, to put on a goddam show.

And they are just sitting there.

Sitting at a table in the front of my favorite Starbucks.

Evil Couple.

For those new to the blog, I have written tens of thousands of words about the most dysfunctional couple I have ever met.

These posts are the most viewed, most loved, and by me, the most obsessed about subjects on the site.

Hell, they are why I started this site.

Here is the past saga’s. https://bittermac.com/in-the-beginning-evil-couple-part-1/

Good reading if you like uncomfortable public situations.

Anyway, why the hell bring it all up right now?

Despite the fact that I love these two?

They are sitting there, doing nothing.

Dance Monkey, dance.

Oh, well. There are worse things in the world than waiting to be amused by evil people.

I am a patient man.

Plus, I am in line and have nothing else to do.

Take it where you can get it.

And the thing I don’t get is, there is a serious environment for absolute mayhem from these two, and they are oblivious.

First off, they are in the front of Starbucks, a location that Mrs. has practically shit herself over in the past.

They are sitting in front of the huge bay window that looks out on the street, and on the brick sitting porch.

There is currently a homeless guy and his dog sitting there.

The dog is vigorously licking his own nuts.

And the homeless owner is fluffing his shirt out around his armpits.

And that has got to be some sort of vile stench.

Yet, the evil couple sit there, doing nothing.

But I am not letting down my guard, I have been sucker punched by them before.

Always when I least expect it.

You’d think I would learn.

The line is going way too fast and I end up on the other side of the room creaming and sugaring my coffee.

This is not where I want to be.

I scuttle like a rat to the closest table to them.

For those that are not used to this behavior from me, sorry, its what I do.

I am not close enough to hear what the hell they are saying.

Not my day.

Well, if I can’t hear them, at least I am not missing anything.

What a disappointing day.

And then she started hitting the window.

Mrs. Evil has evidently noticed either the dog licking his nuts or the homeless guy fluff bathing on the porch.

Either way, she has had enough.

She is rapping on the window hard enough to bruise her knuckles.

I think its the dog nuts that has pushed her this far.

An awkward, twitchy silence has descended over the Starbucks, smacks against the window spaced evenly between sharp, loud “HEY!” every third rap.

Awesome.

I am redeemed.

Its childish to be this way, I know this.

But it sure as hell isn’t boring.

 
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Posted by on March 15, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

Run and hide, brothers.

Angry woman is like the first duece after a Thai dinner, angry and unforgiving.

And I am not a huge fan of Thai food.

Did you know that the Thai word for hot is the same one for sweet.

No shit.

Why bring any of this up?

Because a woman screaming at a man on the street is an event of note.

I am spending a lot of time in Hollywood for a writing thing I am learning/doing.

And there is an abnormal amount of weird.

Enter a woman I would like to call Bebe.

I am not sure what else to call her.

But a description would probably help.

Hot pink stretchie pants, bright blue tube top straight out of the 80’s.

Tight cornrows with red and white ribbons in them.

Her ancestors were no doubt proud Dominican fishermen.

Their newest descendant is hitting her drug of choice a little much.

It makes her unreasonable and angry.

Angry at Brian.

And how do I know the name of the poor miserable bastard Bebe is streaming at on Hollywood Blvd. at midnight?

Because Bebe is screaming his name as she follows him down the street.

The odd thing is, no matter what vile thing Bebe screams at him, Brian does not react, he just keeps walking down the street, with the enraged and shrieking Bebe following him like a homicidal puppy.

And, while I have no clue what crime Brian has committed, but Bebe is not letting him off the hook any time soon.

Here is an awesome sampling of Bebe’s accusations:

1. You a faggot, Brian. (Don’t ask don’t tell has not made its way to Hollywood. The irony is stunning.)
2. Fuck your momma. (At this one, Brian fists were balled up and it was the closest he came to turning around.)
3. I been fucking Timry. (Its what it sounded like, but she was shrieking here. Oddly, this did not seem to bother Brian. Probably the best day in his life would be if she left him for Timry.)
4. It’s not even your car, motherfucker. (Ok, not a seriously epic line, except for the fact that she stomped both feet on the ground for each syllable. )

and the number one best line of the whole thing-

5. My name isn’t even Bebe, shithead. (It really brought the incoherent insanity of it all to a head, like a ripe zit.)

At this point, I turned and headed back to my destination.

I had been following Bebe and Brian for about 3 blocks out of my way.

Because you never pass up a free performance.

Not in this town.

 
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Posted by on March 11, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

Lord of the Goddam Flies.

Lord of the God Damned Flies.

Anarchy, Godless Communism, oil wrestling, Zombie holocaust.

Do I have your attention?

You’re never quite ready for weird.

I love weird, don’t get me wrong, but I am rarely prepared for weird.

I am in Hollywood.

Better than that, I am early for my appointment, and I am hungry.

Time to grab a bite.

There are many dicey crapshoot restaurants in Hollywood.

But McDonalds is not one of them.

I opted for the golden arches because, at least with their food, I know why I have the shits.

It removes all the guesswork.

When you walk into a food establishment and the first, overwhelming odor is urine, that is considered a bad sign in many cultures.

And it was not just at the front door, it was all thru the dining room, and up at the counter.

I was in the middle of my order when the first symptom of a down happened.

I had yet to make my drink order, (I dislike Value Meals), when the cashier leaned across the counter and pointed at the drink kiosk.

A homeless woman was refilling a battered cup.

“You, you can’t refill that! You left the building!”

Ah, clear violation of the refill regs, I get it.

The homeless woman happened to be on her last fucking nerve.

“FUCK YOU, BITCH!”

And the woman went off.

George Carlin had a famous bit about the 7 dirty words.

This woman managed to use all of them before she chucked her torn up cup on the ground and stormed out.

And then I got a smile from the cashier, as if it no big deal, and we finished my order.

I took my new cup over to get a soda, all the while trying to decide if Diet Coke or Diet Dr. Pepper went better with the urine smell.

I heard them call my number before I was done at the drink counter, so I finished and went over a few minutes later.

And then, something interesting happened.

I told the guy that was my order, he asked for my receipt, I showed it, and he looked over at the cashier.

And she nodded.

Evidently, having the number is not enough, the cashier has to vouch for you.

I might have stepped into an alternate universe, I’ll get back to on that one, the jury is still out.

I grab my meal and scurry like a frightened rat to an unoccupied, dry plastic booth.

And I barely sit down before a man appears right in front of my booth.

And for just the barest of seconds, the background smell of urine is overwhelmed.

By the solid stench of BO.

“Got any change, help me out, I need something.”

Mumbling is always a solid way to pitch anything.

As I am not swayed, I shake my head and he walks away.

And then an epic moment happened.

The man that just hit me up for change is walking down the aisle, and he is stopped by a woman, who definitely looks homeless.

AND SHE HITS HIM UP FOR CHANGE!

Its a ballsy move, but she did it.

And the awesome part is, I am close enough to hear the exchange.

“Got any change, Bonk?” (She slurred his name, not sure if thats right.)

“What do you want?” (Bonk seems wary, smart move.)

“Just food, I haven’t eaten.”

“Someone gave me some ones. Get something.” (Bonk, it seems, is a better guy than I am.)

He digs in his pocket, and hands her a few dollars. Solid move.

Without saying a word, she takes it, moves into the main aisle, turns right to the front doors, instead of left to the cashier to order.

And she splits.

When she took the right, Bonk began screaming.

“LYING BITCH, FUCKING BITCH!”

And he follows her out.

Nice couple.

Spring is approaching, and love is in the air.

Romance come to the Lord of the Flies.

 
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Posted by on March 8, 2013 in Uncategorized