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Monthly Archives: December 2013

The dawn of the Crazy Bitch.

“That bitch is crazy.”

This is the line from the table next to mine.

The girls, mid-twenties, dressed like their parents have a few dollars but they haven’t figured out that skill yet.

The line itself is a fairly interesting one.

Crazy bitch is a staple in modern America.

Everyone knows a crazy bitch, or they have that special little darling in their own life.

But there are varying levels of crazy to be dealt with.

I did a quick study of crazy bitches online, and after you filter out the porn sites, and there are a LOT of them, whats left is some scary shit.

It seems that there is a seriously wide range of crazy bitch behavior out there.

Much like snowflakes, no two crazy bitches are alike.

But I have broken it down into the 5 basic degrees of crazy bitches.

1. Mildly crazy bitch. This is the beginning of the range and often the craziness is not obvious. You often marry and have kids with this one. Her craziness will manifest itself at holidays, company picnics and formal dinners. The red flag is that she refers to every guy she has dated in the past as “That asshole”.

2. Fairly crazy bitch. This girl is in the drama at all times. Emotionally, she is still in high school and it shows. She plays a lot of farmville and has a tendency to drink a bit too much. This is what facilitates her dramatic, over the top performances. You tend to date this one, if she is in her twenties, she will be actively trying to get pregnant and the last thing you need is to be tied to this chick forever. To quote a friend that is a stand up comedian, you can screw this pussy, but don’t trust this pussy.

3. The thinking man’s crazy bitch. She is convinced she is intelligent. In fact, people that know her will tell you how smart she is. This is your red flag, when others, typically women. instinctively offer nuggets of info as to why you should like her. In the end, they collect men like shoes and you can never be sure if you are kissing what some other guy had for lunch.

4. The “Bat-shit Crazy bitch”. This girl is sex on a stick, built like a playboy bunny on a binder. The sex is incredible and she is THE party. However, the third time you wake up to her holding a steak knife to your testicles? Thats when you find out how hard it is to put geni back in the bottle.

5. The seemingly perfect woman. She is a professional, has a great job, money, looks, seems to have all of her shit in order. The relationship is awesome, right up until its not. The crazy part comes in when you begin to notice that you are slipping into crazy when you are with her. She is a catalyst for bad in your life. She will not try to cut off your balls, but she will be there when you figure out that cutting off your own balls is a good idea. This is that chick that fucks up your relationships for a long time.

In the long run, its a natural instinct to find someone and either procreate or at least hang out.

So basically, as men, we are screwed.

Unless you want to go the asexual route, which I don’t recommend.

Michael Jackson was asexual and we all know how that went.

 
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Posted by on December 30, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Vegans and Christmas pork.

I love saying Merry Christmas.

Not Happy Holidays.

How much more of a generic troll can you be?

“I would love to express my joy, but I wouldn’t want to mention what that joy is about.”

Despite the people that required the above statement to describe them, I have hope for the world.

Because of my Muslim neighbor.

Awesome dude, great neighbor.

No drugs, no outrageous parties, nothing to avoid talking about when we pass on the street.

And, when I came home today, he yelled over from his yard, “Merry Christmas!”

I had to investigate.

“I had thought the Muslim people didn’t celebrate Christmas?”

“We don’t, but I know you do.”

“Doesn’t it offend you?”

At this, he laughs.

“That is something guilty Christians say. How could saying Merry Christmas offend anyone?”

And I realize he is right.

I have been so twisted around by the politically correct screw heads that I lost sight of basic logic.

Its a greeting of happiness.

How unhappy and deviant is your thought process to either think it would be offensive to someone, or to find it offensive?

And this coming from someone who’s stated purpose, on a regular basis is to piss people off?

This being the end of the year, I would like to give a special shout out to anyone that I have pissed off.

Sit tight, put on your big girl panties and I will piss someone else off and you can laugh at that.

I would apologize, but I have come to realize that I really just don’t care.

 

It is the day after Christmas now, and I am in a different mood now.

Not one that cares about your feelings, but kind of that “Sitting in the after glow” type of mood.

Good Christmas.

Lots of family and food.

I come from a family of either mechanics or short order cooks.

So I cooked breakfast for everyone.

And that means pork.

Pork is God’s gift to the Irish.

Not that you find a massive amount of pigs in Ireland. (Its a long story.)

Bacon and sausage, and two flavors of sausage.

Add to that eggs, waffles, hash browns, and mimosa’s.

I am a breakfast God.

It was good.

I have long preferred spending Christmas morning with bacon grease splattered on my shirt.

Psychological byproduct of growing up in a hamburger stand.

As opposed to a Vegan restaurant.

I would died by now if the family biz was a Vegan restaurant.

Without exception, all serious Vegan’s I have ever met appear unhealthy, talk about a coming or just past illness, and for some reason, have dry skin.

Just an observation, and please save yourself the trouble and don’t email me to whine about your great Vegan lifestyle.

Keep lying to yourself.

I have embraced the carnivore within, and he is a happy toothy camper.

So, the long and the short of it is that Christmas is family, food, and remembering the fact that carnivores rock while Vegan’s are slowly killing themselves.

Merry Christmas all.

 
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Posted by on December 27, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Caffeine and Print addictions, talk about a bitch.

The printed word is an addictive drug for many.

But you will never see it mentioned on an episode of Intervention.

The print monkey can sit heavy on your shoulder for decades.

Amazon’s Kindle can move you to digital, but the only difference is that it is easier to carry.

But print is print.

And a physical book has the added hook of nostalgia.

I mentioned awhile ago that an old friend had opened a restaurant in the front half of Galaxy book store in Redondo Beach, CA.

I was eating breakfast, an awesome breakfast burrito with an few Irish twists, when I heard it.

The books were calling to me.

Almost in a dream, I got up and walked thru the arch and into the bookstore.

I took my coffee, caffeine addiction trumps dreaming, 9 times out of 10.

The guy at the counter in the bookstore eyes me, but he understands the symbiotic relationship with the restaurant and says nothing.

Books were my first step out of diapers.

The first one was the Hobbit at age 7.

Mom was a little iffy about letting me read it, but she allowed it.

And that started the print Monkey’s entry into my life.

I still deal with it.

And places like this bookstore do not help.

Galaxy bookstore has that touch that only an independent bookstore has.

Its hip.

Hip in that cool way, not the annoying Katy Perry type hip.

They recently had a book signing for several self published authors.

And yet, they have all of your main authors from the big publishers.

Its a nice balance, and one that favors the reader, which is really unusual.

Or maybe its just tough for me to understand due to my whore-like capitalistic mentality.

Maybe its important not to over think it.

Bottom line is, once you get into the ritual of reading, print can open up and show you whole new universes, and yet still be mildly annoying at times.

But, like all addictions, we ignore that and focus on the high.

So Galaxy bookstore is one of the cooler crack houses I have ever seen.

I haven’t bought a physical book in several years, only digital.

And yet, sitting back in the restaurant, I realize that I have purchased several enticing titles.

In the back of my head, the print monkey is screeching in delight.

He gets that way, I swear he works for the publishers, and yet, he loves reading my stuff as well, so I know that is not true.

As I have said before, Caffeine and Print are on the lower end of the addictions list, but they are still there.

But as far as addictions go, this is one of the coolest places to get your fix on.

 
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Posted by on December 23, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Rock witch-hunt.

I was never a big Led Zeppelin fan.

I enjoy it when the songs come on the radio, but I don’t have any of the albums and never did, even back in the day.

I am on my morning walk from the underground bunker I park at down to Starbucks.

Re-reading the Hobbit one last time.

Saw the 2nd installment of the movie over the weekend.

Epic.

Right in the middle of the Troll’s turning to stone I am pulled back into the default world by incredibly loud guitar riffs.

Let me paint the picture.

Traffic is backed up in downtown Manhattan Beach, cars almost parked.

The reason is, with such a premium on space, it is tough for the garbage trucks to get to the garbage without the ass end of their trucks hanging out into the middle of the street.

Which leads to the back up.

In the middle of the intersection, stuck their during a red light, is a man that does not care.

Late model silver Lexus, not the base model.

Middle aged guy, balding on top, hair more gray than anything else hanging to his shoulders.

Speakers cranked to their loudest as Led Zeppelin is at the mid-point of one of their bigger hits.

And this guy is just rocking it!

Full on seated, seat-belted rock out going on in this car.

You’ve heard the phrase, “Dance like no one is looking?” This guy is “Dancing like you don’t give a shit.”

With a vengeance.

Its a show all in itself.

He is definitely a spectacle.

But there is a little bit of envy.

Don’t you wish you were so into something you could just lose yourself in it like that?

I realize the current ad campaign would like you to feel that way about Obamacare, but its not the same.

Traffic finally moves and the old rocker moves on, no doubt to spread the message of Rock and Roll to others.

Like some sort of seditious Johnny Appleseed, sowing the seeds of rebellion.

Interesting strain of consciousness going on here.

Obamacare and mention of rebellion one sentence apart.

Sigmund Freud would probably have something to say about that, but he would be bored because is wasn’t dirty and involving my mother.

Freud was old school freak.

I know a psychoanalyst that said that, when dealing with Feud’s work, you have to remember the specific flaws of the man and view his work thru that viewpoint.

Too much work, better to brand him a freak and move on, I got shit to do today.

If it were 200 years ago, I would have a good shot and getting the villagers to burn him as a witch, but times change.

And Led Zeppelin would have been burning right next to him, and all the rockers would probably blame me.

Because when the shit goes down, it usually is bigger and uglier than you ever intend, like when a simple liquor store robbery ends with 3 dead, like I saw on the news this morning.

Maybe that is the message of it all, the secret of keeping it together in tough times.

Keep it simple, try not to stir the shit, and whenever possible?

Rock out in your car like you don’t give a shit.

 
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Posted by on December 20, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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What a Cork’er!

I have a confession to make.

I am one of those arrogant, elitist foodie types that loves going to restaurants and either falling in love with the food or ripping it to pieces.

But only certain types of food.

High end French food? Shit

Sushi? Uncooked, possibly rotten shit.

Anything involving a shellfish of any kind? I will aim for you when I projectile vomit.

However, make me a cheeseburger with bacon and ham ground up into the patty and then stuff it with a mix of exotic cheeses and I may shit myself in delight. (And they do that in a Cafe in Torrance, CA)

All of that being said, an old friend has opened an eating establishment.

Cork’ers.

First of all, they serve coffee. You had me at hello.

Their roast is an incredible one from a small local roaster.

Then, they serve food.

Modern, yet traditional Irish food. You had my grandmother at hello.

I have yet to have breakfast, but they have a creation called bacon jam that they will be spreading over waffles that makes my naughty bits tingle quite a bit.

And, in the evening hours, they will be serving a selection of beers and wines.

I am in love, that embarrassing schoolgirl type of love.

I am going to have a friend slip the eatery a note later and ask it if it likes me. (Complete with check boxes, Yes or No.)

I had spicy pork mixed with veggies and a dollop of sweet potato mash on top.

The pork is spicy enough to clear your sinuses.

I may have found a new home away from home.

Starbucks, you are hereby on notice.

(And not in the Ike and Tina way where I slap you around and throw you out then show up crying. TAKE ME BACK BABY!)

The nicest thing of all, its a fairly healthy eating alternative to my usual eatery.

Growing up, the family business was a kick ass burger place, so my eating preference is firmly in the “Comfort food” realm.

I plan on being here a lot.

This blog isn’t going to write itself.

Alright, so writing rude stream of consciousness stuff kind of does write itself, but you get what I mean.

Plus, the change of scenery will do me good.

 

It’s Sunday now.

Had breakfast at the aforementioned friend’s restaurant.

Holy shit.

Had the waffles folded over scrambled eggs, Irish bangers, and a generous smear of that bacon jam.

Had a little food-gasm on the first bite.

But the highlight of the morning was when the manager stopped me from ordering the house drip.

“Let me make you a special coffee that is one of my favorites.”

This is a lot like a crack dealer saying, “I got a special rock, just for you.”

Not the kind of thing that refusing even occurs to you.

Ethiopian Yirgacheffe.

Good lord.

I would try to be cute and say java-gasm, but that would not cover it.

Imagine if the Victoria super models dropped by, took you out for an evening of drinking at a party at the Playboy mansion with oral favors throughout.

Yeah, its a guy’s fantasy, (and a few of the ladies) but it conveys the point.

It was awesome.

And sure, there is a bit of glassy eyed honeymoon mentality at play here.

Its an old friend, its by my house, the bloom is ON THE ROSE.

Will it fade over time?

Maybe a bit, but its an Irish coffee place that makes some good breakfast.

Thats like a crack house with a really comfortable couch.

Its the little things that count.

I don’t promote stuff here, never have. I am doing this.

Cork’ers. Redondo Beach California. Near the Galleria. Find it and get your Bacon on.

 

 
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Posted by on December 16, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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A day for clenching your ass cheeks.

Friday the 13th, are you fucking kidding me?

I hate this day.

When I was younger, I figured I would come to a point where it wouldn’t bother me anymore.

Not working out.

From the moment I see it coming up on the calendar, I am filled with a sincere feeling of dread.

My ass is in full clench from the moment I get up to the moment I fall fitfully to sleep.

And there is a voice in the back of my head that is SURE that the second I relax I will get rickets or aids or bite by a dog or something.

Like a foamy mouthed pitbull.

The breed used in the line above is to piss off a friend that rescues pitbulls.

I like to stack the “Piss off” deck every now and then.

Maybe it is due to still recovering from a lack of sleep after flying in on that flying gulag known as SouthWest airlines.

(Also got an email protesting my description of what SouthWest did to my flight schedule as “Slipping it a roofy and raping it without a condom.” And that is STILL funny.)

However, it could be a sense of dread that comes with the understanding that Friday could be the day the shit hits the fan.

Not sure, zombie holocaust type of shit, but definitely shit of some sort.

I gassed up my car and checked the oil.

Checked my stockpile of canned goods and potable water.

Made sure my ammo stash is full.

Dropped by the church and lit a few candles, I am hedging all bets at this point.

And I am still not ready.

But there is only so much you can do, other than hiding out and laying low on the day in question.

Which I am planning to do.

Don’t call me, don’t text me, and don’t even think about trying to Skype me.

I am not answering shit.

If you see me Friday, its because you are hiding in my closet and what the hell is wrong with you?

The internet is not helping.

I just found a website that has dozens of horrid things that have all happened on Friday the 13th.

The last thing I need right now are facts, mainly because the fantasy in my head is powerful enough to keep me sleepless for weeks.

So, let that be the only warning I will give.

Lay low, avoid strangers and strange things, and above all, keep me out of it.

 

Wrote the previous a few days ago.

Seems a little dour on the re-read.

Good.

I wouldn’t want everyone but me to take this less serious than I.

My plan? I will spend my day with a rabbit’s foot in one hand and a St. Christopher medal in the other and both ass cheeks in full clench for the entire day.

Swamp ass? It goes without saying.

 
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Posted by on December 13, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Bite my frozen ass, SouthWest Airlines.

And you bastards will miss me when I’m gone.

At that point, if you are in the mood for dirty talk, call a phone sex line, because there is not a lot of shit like this available.

At least outside of the redlight district. (Google it, I don’t have time to stop and explain.)

You almost lost me today, brothers and sisters.

Sliding down the street sideways due to black ice is not how I envisioned my visit to the cold North to see my kids.

Ok, so maybe I am exaggerating, but this is far from the “Pussy talk” my son has proclaimed it to be.

There comes a point when its just too damned cold for people to live, but we seem to be to stupid as a people to recognize.

The long and the short of all of this is I am cold.

Seems like a lot of whining.

It is what it is.

I was born and raised in Southern California, so warm weather is kind of all I know.

Winter in Southern California has always been a slightly cooler summer with the rare snap of cold, but a kinder, gentler cold, along with a less rare than usual chance of rain.

Everyone always claims that Los Angeles is in a drought, except for a few rare times where it rains a freakish amount.

But what we all seem to forget is that Southern California is a semi-arid desert.

That means that it doesn’t rain enough to keep the lawns green without piping water in from somewhere else.

Somewhere else, by the way, means Northern California, The bastard child of the prettier, smarter California that knows that SoCal is the favorite and whines incessantly.

On the plane flying home right now.

When I got to the airport, it was 26 degrees in beautiful Portland.

I have no idea what the temp in LA is, but I will guaranty that it is a minimum of 30 degrees warmer.

You might think of having to put on your hoodie, but the car is right there.

That is a proper winter.

The flight home is one of anger and frustration.

True to form, SouthWest airlines has taken my carefully scheduled flight plans, slipped it a roofy and then raped it without a condom.

My flight is leaving a half hour earlier than before and my connecting flight in Oakland, the beautiful land of drive bys, is now five minutes shy of a full hour late.

I have received a total of 5 text messages from SouthWest airlines, each one announcing yet another adventure in how to run an airline like the airline version of Obamacare.

Instead of getting in at the late but somewhat respectable hour of 10:50pm on a Sunday night, I will now be rolling in at the ridiculous hour of 12:15am, Monday morning.

Evertime I fly SouthWest I swear I will never fly with them again.

And then, Like an Alzheimer’s patient, like they have never screwed me before, I will schedule a flight and see them on the list of availables and say “Look, they are $15 cheaper than everyone else, what a deal!” and I sign up.

Its like putting the roofy in my own drink.

I get to the end of the order, know I have been screw again, and can only blame myself.

I can only blame myself.

I mean, look how I’m dressed.

 
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Posted by on December 9, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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