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.