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Monthly Archives: July 2013

Drink coffee if you want to live.

Studies show that coffee drinkers are less likely to commit suicide.

This one caught me off guard.

Twitchy is my medium, my area of expertise.

However, stability is not one of the things I ever figured would come from my caffeine addiction.

Not that I have suicidal thoughts, I am fairly rock solid on the idea of the whole sticking around thing.

Besides, who would write the blog if I went belly up?

Who would give enough of a shit to do it is the real question?

This blog disappears and there are at least 5 unhappy people out there.

(I think it is a healthy thing that I recognize that no one reads this thing, don’t you?)

On an interesting note, on the same page as the Java-death article was a link to a story about Adam Lambert.

For those who are not in the know, Adam Lambert was a pretty obviously gay kid who was on a previous season.

He kept his sexuality under wraps but it was pretty obvious to anyone over the age of 15.

However, the 15 and under crowd kept him on the show WAY past his his exit cue, but he finally got sent packing.

And the second his expensive Italian shoes hit the exit, the fire alarms went off because the term flamer barely covers the sexuality combustion that occurred.

Despite have slightly less than his full 15 minutes of fame, he disappeared pretty quickly.

Once the 15 and under crowd could not even delude themselves anymore about one day becoming Mrs. Adam Lambert, they had to come to grips with the truth.

Shitty music is shitty music, no matter how much you hype it, or view it thru the flattering haze of the past.

That doesn’t explain the career of Vanilla Ice, however.

I am assuming some sort of national psychosis.

He has a show flipping houses for profit, which puts the lie to my claims that he is homeless on Hollywood Blvd.

Oh well.

It was long enough ago that I cannot remember if I actually saw him or if I am just flat out lying.

I like to think of it as shaping my own reality without the inconvenience of having to be logical or follow the rules of society of physics. .

Its funny and convenient and makes things easier to deal with.

It’s like a half-assed crazy streak that is a sort of a release valve, letting off that excess pressure.

Without it, shit builds up and up.

Till it hits the tipping point and the camel’s back is torn in half.

And at that point, no amount of coffee in the world would keep you from trying to use a hollowpoint as a breathmint.

What a line.

Golden, once again.

 
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Posted by on July 29, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

Public sex is a bitch.

Dogs are a big deal in Manhattan Beach.

It is a town that goes to great lengths to show their wealth, but even greater lengths to show that “Its no big deal, we’re just regular folk.”

It can be pretty funny at times.

There are some situations in life that force people to out themselves both about how much something cost and the fact that the pomp and BS is really important to them.

And then there is me to figure into the equation.

I take a sort of vile delight in tense, unhappy situations that I witness.

So imagine the “Xmas come early” ass clench I experienced when I came around the corner to my favorite Starbucks in downtown Manhattan Beach, to find a shouting mob out front.

People yelling, animals barking, and an odd howling.

What the hell?

Rather than shove my way thru the crowd, I went out into the street, walked thru the planted corner and climbed on top of the newspaper stand, having a seat to puzzle out the goings on.

Oh my.

Two dogs were locked up, screwing away.

And their owners were losing their fucking minds.

The dogs were having a great time.

The male was an impeccably groomed golden retriever, beautiful dog with a great disposition.

And, evidently, he is a canine porn star, because the bitch was having herself a time, lightly howling the whole time.

The bitch, just to use the proper terminology, was a beautiful Alsation German Shepherd, which happens to be one of my favorite breeds.

A quick Google search after the fact shows that the Alsation German Shepherd could be one of the most expensive breeds out there.

And the owner certainly agrees.

“THATS A FUCKING EXPENSIVE PURE BREED!”

Yeah? Well, now she’s ruined.

“SHE COST ME $10K DOLLARS!”

Then why the hell do you have her out while she’s in heat? That is not taking care of your investment.

And the dogs are seriously locked up at this point.

There is no getting them apart. I have seen a bucket of water thrown on them, beat them with a broom, and old school try to pull them apart, nothing works and most methods can hurt the dogs.

Best to just let them “Hit it and quit it”

The police have arrived.

Oh, good.

It seems there is no statute to have the guy arrested, a detail that the lady is pissed about.

And her request to have the guy’s dog shot was flat out ignored.

But she has decided to vent her wrath on the cops.

But even she runs down after a few minutes.

Eventually the Golden Retriever made his canine “O” face and they came apart.

The woman left indignant and stomping her little feet with several muttered “This isn’t over!”

The guy finished his coffee and petted his dog.

The cops went in and had coffee.

All is right with the world.

But I will give you odds she gets her lawyer involved.

What a bitch. (The lady, not the dog.)

 
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Posted by on July 26, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

Evil baby watch.

The royal baby watch is on.

Who gives less of a shit about this than I do?

If I gave two shits about it, it would be two shits more than the whole thing deserves.

But the news cannot let the romance die.

Rather than send a reporter over to England, Channel 5 sent a reporter to Santa Monica, hot bed of English life in the USA, and posted her up outside of an English pub/gift store.

And her excitement level was just this side of bipolar.

She gently fingered herself over the idea of Kate squeezing one out for the better part of 5 minutes.

Will it be a boy or a girl?

The names have already been chosen.

If its a girl, Alexandria.

Pretty name, I have a neice with the same same, stunning girl.

Pity there might be some horse toothed wench from the isles with the same name.

And George if its a boy.

Not a bad name, but to quote George Carlin, its the worst name ever.

Its never finished.

G-E-O-R, G-E-O-R, G-E-O-R…Etc. Never finished.

Still a solid bit.

Personally, rather than a boy or girl, I hope its a lizard that pops out amid wild screaming and scurries out the door.

This of course would lead to a large scale manhunt for the scaly heir to the throne.

King Hiss the first. (George being hard to say with a forked tongue.)

Sorry, I am Scots-Irish.

The Irish having a famous love hate relationship with the English.

You would think the Irish would let it go by now, but a thousand years of genocide will make you a little unreasonable.

Go figure.

Scaly heir to the throne may be the most inspired phrasing I have pulled off in a long time.

In an ironic note, the guy at the counter in Starbucks just ordered something with an English accent.

I will take that as a sign from the Almighty that I am right.

I love how that works out.

And, of course, I realize the odds are incredibly slim that anyone in England will read this crappy little blog, so there is no chance that I would ever be put on whatever passes for a “No Fly List” in England.

Like I would ever go there.

Ireland maybe, England? Not unless forced.

However, I have said the same thing about France in the past, and the week I spent in Paris made me want to move there.

I reserve the right to be a complete and total hypocrite.

However, French food in general and pastry specifically is far superior to most other countries.

I can’t prove it, but I remain convinced that most English foods are based on a dare like some sort of International food Fear Factor.

In the end, Kate married into that pack of miserable bastards and I hope they don’t chew her up and spit her out like Diana.

God save the Queen.

 
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Posted by on July 22, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

The Homeless Breakfast Club

When I was 12, I read a book that helped shape my growing thought process.

Starship troopers by Robert Heinlein.

Possibly my favorite book, or at least in the top 3.

It was written back in 1959.

A sci fi book based on a war with an alien race.

It is a boy’s philosophical journey into manhood and the idea of duty.

An epic book that I have found myself referring back to dozens of times over the years.

So,  when I heard the they were making it into a movie back in 1997, I got excited.

Would it live up to deep philosophical themes?

Could it tap into the Heinlein genius of bonding ideas into unforgettable characters?

In short, no.

They named a movie Starship Troopers.

The characters names are from the book, as is the overall plot.

But every bit of anything below the surface is gone.

There is no depth, the film is nothing more than a sci fi shoot em up using Heinlein’s legacy like a travelling businessman uses a low dollar whore.

I was crushed.

What the hell does that have to do with today?

The book was written over 60 years ago, and the movie was made 13 years ago.

I just finished re-reading Starship Troopers for about the 2 dozenth time.

I am reborn.

Just needed to get that off of my chest.

 

On to other things.

For a long chain of reasons, I have not been at work for the last few days.

Kind of a paid vacation.

So, I needed to find something to write about and I headed out to a Starbucks I had never been in before.

Morning at a Starbucks is a totally different vibe than any other time of the day.

People are usually in a hurry to get their fix and get to work, so there is this tension that hangs in the background the whole time you are in the building.

Except for the comfy seats on the far side of the room.

Sitting in the 5 plush chairs, is a collection of homeless people, eating english muffin and egg sandwiches.

The Homeless Breakfast club.

Makes for an interesting picture in your head, doesn’t it?

Except that the homeless Molly Ringwald has some SERIOUS BO and fresh stitches on her face.

Now there is a different picture in your head.

Your welcome.

Actually, I don’t know any of them, but I know why they are here.

Garrett the homeless guy in Manhattan Beach once informed me that people will give a Starbucks gift card because they think that any money they give will be spent on drugs.

And the unspoken is, they are right.

But at least the Breakfast Club got something to eat.

But I still don’t recommend homeless as a career.

 
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Posted by on July 19, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

The things we deal with

Rude blogger saves retarded paint department employee.

Tomorrow’s headline for the Los Angeles Times.

There are reasons I avoid going to Home Depot.

The main reason is, I have been completely unable to prove that they aren’t trying to get way too many tax breaks by hiring the mentally deficient.

Now I realize that, with a few exceptions, most people there are minimum wage and lucky to have it with their given job skills.

Kind of the modern day ditch diggers.

15 minutes seems a long time to stand at a counter while the paint guy makes and discards 4 different attempts to make the shade of paint the lady ahead of me wants.

I mean, the system is all automated, put in the paint code and they system does it for him.

That seems simple enough, right?

Wrong.

3 shades wrong and back to square one.

After messing with it for 5 minutes after that, he even unplugged the machine and restarted it.

The lady behind me left and then came back at the same time the announcement came over the PA for assistance in Paint.

Assistance? I want FEMA and some grief counselors for all this dead time.

As he was trying to remove a gallon of paint from the spinning machine, I found myself wishing that he would be successful in getting both hands around the can before it is done spinning and the machine tears his hand off.

It would be like a scene from an action movie.

He falls to the ground, screaming and clutching his stump.

I would vault the counter, applying a tourniquet using his Home Depot apron strings.

There you go, local hero.

Ok, so its a sick little daydream, but I really hate waiting.

Now, I realize that the knee jerk reaction of a lot of people is that “Well, if the rich corporation that owns Home Depot would pay more, they could hire better people”.

The sad reality is, no, it would just be the same scenario, but this moron would be making more money.

Not that I’m against someone making money, but I am against people being paid for being bad at their job.

Which explains my dislike of politicians in general.

Back to the paint counter.

In the end, from the moment I walked up and got in line, to the moment I walked away with properly mixed paint, 45 minutes had elapsed.

I might have discovered a cure for cancer, but we will never know now.

(Probably not, but is still within the realm of chance.)

However, and this is much more likely, I simply hate waiting and have a rude child’s mentality.

And whats not to love about that?

 
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Posted by on July 15, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

Your ignorance is stronger than my kung fu.

A 500 pound man has no business wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with “No fat chicks.”

At that weight, unless he has millions to burn, does he really think that Pam Anderson is waiting in the wings for “Some of that?”

I think as a people we have serious gone down a weird path.

Very precise definitions of beauty or “What’s hot” seem to dominate the airwaves.

Effeminate gay men from Milan tell the rest of the heterosexual world what they should find attractive.

Hugh Hefner has always had the right eye for the hotness.

But the question making its way thru my head right now is “What the hell is a 500 pound man doing in downtown Manhattan Beach?”

I mean, this town is ESPECIALLY obsessed with looking good.

Everyone is doing yoga, paddleboarding, or something new involving your “Core”.

I am still shocked my fat ass is not stopped at the border.

Its like a society based on the superficial side of things.

Southern California style Logan’s Run, just to go old school for a moment.

I loved that film.

The special effects, acting and even the premise sucked, but it was about as good as sci fi got in the early 70’s, so you take what you could get.

Plus, a scantily clad Farrah Fawcett was in it, nuff said.

That woman was the masturbatory fantasy of a generation.

Any man that denies feverishly rubbing one out to her at one point or another is a liar.

Which brings us to Charlie’s Angels.

Good lord.

I am lucky I didn’t rip it out at the root because of that show.

Just saying.

But enough about me.

There are two issues here, the first is the kind of man that would buy a shirt that says “No fat chicks” in a 5XL and a company that would make a shirt that says “No fat chicks” in a 5XL.

Both are offensive, but for slightly different reasons.

The guy has set a low bar for himself and a several hundred pound higher bar for women.

There is a reality check that is way overdue here on both sides.

First he needs to talk to the man in the mirror.

Find a really wide mirror though.

And the company that made that shirt needs to get it thru their head that, yes you sold a 5XL shirt, good for you.

However, and this is the hard part, more money is to be made selling to the under 5XL crowd.

How do I know this?

Because, the 5XL people don’t live that long and are not really that fashion conscious.

The standard S-M-L crowd are the ones that pay top dollar for yoga, paddleboarding and anything to do with their “Core”.

Also, anything that will make this spoiled, overly monied crowd feel like they are not spoiled and overly monied will sell well.

Something with a silly Occupy slogan on it will sell out quickly in these parts.

Are you picking up what I’m putting down here?

 
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Posted by on July 12, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

All about your little penis.

Give me a minute to lay this one out for you.

An event was held cross country and I did not attend.

However I happen to know someone who did and they are the type that tries to do a good deed.

In this case, it is finding a lost object and trying to find the owner.

However, and this is where it gets good, first you have to identify the object and inventory any contents.

Item: 1 black leather flap bag with crome raven on the front.

Contents: (Pay attention here)

1 pack of cigarettes. (A filthy habit, best left to old folks and angst filled teenagers.)

PAY ATTENTION, THIS IS WHERE IT GETS GOOD.

1 tube of MR. THICK – Thicken and Elongate (Half empty)

1 tube of ROCK HARD – Maintain Firm Erections. (Three quarters full.)

And thats it.

We really should discuss this.

The first thing is a pretty obvious thought that first occurred to me when I saw the tube is that, if it will make your penis bigger won’t it make your hands bigger, too? (I actually heard a comedian use that joke years ago, and this is the first legitimate chance to use it.)

There is an overall creepy factor, sure, but the specific creepy factor comes from the fact that the tube is half empty.

That is “Clammy handshake” gross.

The “Clammy handshake” is the handshake that comes from the slightly damp hand of the guy that, if you found out he was a serial killer or a pedophile, it would not shock you one little bit.

A picture of the bag has been posted on Facebook with the caption, “If this is yours, claim it by describing the contents.”

And who the hell would do that?

A better question is, who has the unflinching balls to do that?

That is one wildly embarrassing phone call to have to make.

“Hi, um, my name is Joe and I am calling about my bag. The contents? There was a pack of cigarettes and a couple tubes of penis thickener and hardener to use on MY PATHETIC PENIS!”

I realize I am paraphrasing a lot here, but that will be the gist of it.

The creepy, sweaty gist of it.

We may have to have an exorcism before we give it back.

Go all “Old time religion” on it.

Ban a few books while I’m at it.

Or maybe not.

People should be free to let their freak flag fly, no matter how sick it may be.

And trust me, there are some seriously freaky flags out there. (No personal knowledge, but I’ve heard.)

Quite honestly, I hope no one claims it, I really don’t want to meet whoever it belongs to.

Whoever they are, they walk thru the door and put on a big fucking “Creepy” coat.

So just buy a new bag, replace your penis creams and half a pack of cigarettes.

Take your freaky self and go.

 
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Posted by on July 8, 2013 in Uncategorized