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Monthly Archives: February 2014

Death is not a secret.

Popquiz hero, what do you do?

 

Bomb squad in the hizzy, y’all.

There are 3 members of the pd bomb squad sipping coffee in the El Segundo Starbucks.

Its a little daunting, I mean, are there really that many bombs going on in beach cities?

Even the cities that butt up against LA Airport?

Evidently so, the bald one with the extra bulky kevlar vest under his shirt just finished his coffee and declared that they better get going, it was going to be a busy day.

Am I the only one that is more than a little scared about the fact that the beach city has a serious full time bomb squad? Couldn’t they just be part timers, meeting once every few months to update paperwork?

As I watch the bomb squad get in their ominous black SUV and leave, I notice that people are beginning to arrive for the daily meeting of the “I want to die, soon” club.

There are just 2 members out on the patio right now, lighting up.

I have never seen people aggressively smoke like this.

Most people smoke by taking a drag, and letting the smoke sit in their lungs, then letting it out.

Its disgusting, but that is how its normally done.

Not these guys.

Suck a lungful of that smoky death and then let it out and take another hit before the old smoke is completely out of their mouth.

The overall effect is like picking up disgusting in a bar, taking it to dinner, slipping it a roofy and then treating it like a naked farm animal for the rest of the evening.

So its really gross.

You have to wonder what makes someone hate themselves to that point that dying a horrible death is desirable.

Its not like its a secret anymore, if you smoke, it will kill you.

It even says it on the pack.

I thought killing yourself was illegal?

I once heard a kid give a really stypid opinion about smoking.

To be clear, the kid was barely out of his teens, so old enough to make his own choices, but young enough to make really stupid choices.

His claim was this, a friend of his went to a doctor who told him that the human body can absorb the toxins of a couple of cigarettes a day without a problem.

The level of ignorance is pretty deep on this one and the “I weep for the future” is obviously implied.

At the time, I said nothing, mainly because I wasn’t sure where to go with that.

“Your an idiot.” Seemed too obvious.

What left me stumped was where to go with this for maximum insult.

Lost opportunities and all that.

The one thought I keep circling back to is that this is more of a modern version of nature thinning the herd.

This kind of stupidity removed from the gene pool is not necessarily a bad thing.

I subscribe to the “Everyone is responsible for themselves” thought process.

Not a popular thought process, by the way.

We do live in an era that absolutely no one is responsible for anything, except the rich, they are responsible for everything else.

Thank god the smart asses are not on the dime for anything.

First, you would have to find one of us who gave a shit about anything but our own amusement.

Lets face it, we’re a shallow bunch.

And we like it that way.

 
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Posted by on February 28, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The problem is that your dumb.

When I was growing up Evelyn Wood was a unicorn.

Let me explain.

Evelyn Wood Reading Dynamics was a speed reading course who’s commercials played non-stop on the radio and the pre-cable low end channels, 5 and 9.

The reason she was a unicorn was that, despite the fact that her program was advertised everywhere, I never found anyone that had actually bought it.

Till now.

There is a lady at the next table at Starbucks that is averaging a page every 8 seconds.

Its pretty impressive.

She has 3 books on her table and I have no doubt she will finish them today.

And then what does she have planned?

Cure cancer? Bring about world peace? Fix the economy?

And then, when she got up to go to the bathroom, and hit me up for some change because “I need to get something to eat” it occurred to me exactly what her plans were.

Meth.

Glad thats out of the way, I hate unsolved mysteries, both the show and in life.

While I am thinking about it, some mothers need to be shot.

Just wanted to get that out there while I am still looking at the 300 pound 7 year old in line with his mother.

And I am sure that if you confronted mom she would peddle some song and dance about thyroid issues and such.

However, there is not a 7 year old alive that needs 3 cranberry/orange scones in one sitting.

The kid is not fat, he is being created in a fat image.

He is going to have to deal with mom’s sloppy parenting skills for the rest of his life.

I wish you well kid, your battle will be an uphill one at best, if the battle can be won at all.

To many times I have run across the parent that has no clue how to parent.

They want to be their child’s best friend.

Good ambition, but that comes later.

Till then, give “Being a parent” a shot.

Set some boundaries, smack a few asses and ground them a few times.

When my kids were little, there was a friend that informed me that I was too strict and that I needed to be more of a friend, let them make their own mistakes.

Lets roll 15 years later.

Both of my kids turned out awesome, the boy has a solid career, doesn’t touch drugs by choice, and his sister is an A student with a solid head on her shoulders. I have a good relationship with both.

Arrogantly proud father here. I am a bit of a dick about it.

The friend with the parenting advice? Both kids went down that drug road and have little to do with their parents.

So, when I throw out some wisdom, understand that I only do so because I know more than you do.

Accept it and lets move on.

Thinking of getting one of those scones, they are so tasty.

I will have to buy my own.

Because you know that kid won’t share with me.

 
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Posted by on February 24, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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All the slutty news that fit to print.

“I should just take him home and screw him.”

That is a line from a Jodie Foster film, one that she was raped in, by the way.

And it was just spoken by a woman in her 60’s at the next table, by the way.

It would usually be the type of thing that would catch attention.

But it was her friends comment just before that made me look.

“Whats the latest news?”

That is the type of question that you expect some sort of solid reply about politics, world news, or family business.

Not some random lament about whether or not she should get her skank on.

The two women at the next table are well dressed, mid-60’s and have a solid upper-middle class look to them.
And, apparently, they are a couple of old school sluts.

I would say hoe, but its a different generational term.

The primary skank, lets call her Thelma, has a new male friend who is in the process of finalizing the estate of Thelma’s aunt.

Louis, the inquisitive friend of said skank, is someone you could see running the church bake sale,

Grandmotherly.

(Incidentally, the Thelma and Louis names being used are just what it look like, a childish smack at the feminist movement using characters from a REALLY shitty movie.)

Pretty much the rest of the conversion was something out of a trashy teen comedy.

When did old ladies go down this road?

And the one phrase that keeps coming back to my mind is the comment about that news.

News used to mean so much more.

Now its used in some sort of dirty whispering like a verbal “Letters to Penthouse – Slutty Seniors Edition.”

If they were 40 years younger, hell even 20 years younger, this would be a much hotter conversation.

The object of Thelma and Louis’s conversation was the young lawyer handling the estate.

And, evidently, Thelma is a cougar, old even by the loose definition of cougar.

Poor bastard.

You would hope he has more sense, but he is, after all, a lawyer, they are capable of anything.

And so, evidently, is Thelma, or at least she thinks so.

It could end badly, the low end risk is the lawyer would be banging his client.

On the high end, well, lets just hope that his Red Cross card is up to day.

Nothing sadder than to lose a loved one during sex.

 
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Posted by on February 21, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The Cell Phone God’s are not pleased.

A lot of people have many layers, like an onion.

I am no different.

Asshole, by the way, is a layer unto itself.

Its healthy, in a way, to embrace the asshole within.

Let him out on occasion, let him piss on the grass, decompress.

Some of us need that decompression, for the safety of the general public.

Trust me on this, the last thing ANYBODY needs is me all twisted up.

Its not pretty, and thats just looking at it from this side, God knows what it looks like from your side.

I’m a mess, but thats ok, I have accepted it.

Nuff said.

Moving on.

There is a certain feeling of dread that runs thru you when your iPhone falls in the toilet.

Its an ass pucker of 9 out of 10.

Even if you snatch it out immediately, you have no idea of how bad or good it is at this point.

So you wash your hands immediately while muttering the F-word under your breath.

I tapped my phone in my palm for lack of anything better to do.

And the little bit of moisture that comes out is not reassuring in any way.

So, I googled it.

According to several websites on the subject, Turn off the phone immediately.

I didn’t know if it was off or on, so I held the button on.

Shit, the boot up white apple logo came up.

It was already off. Great.

The main screen came on, but I shut it off anyway.

It has been in a ziplock of white rice for 24 hours.

I thought about using brown rice, but I wasn’t sure if glycemic rating played a part.

I stared at it for a solid 5 minutes.

Can you see water evaporating?

I finally broke down and went to Fry’s Electronics and bought a cell phone dry bag.

For those not in the know, it is a high tech ziplock with 2 large gel bags.

Larger versions of those toxic gel packets you find in a new pair of shoes.

Its later.

I keep staring over to the counter where the iPhone sits in its high tech drying bag.

Water damage is not covered by warranty.

Being an idiot is rarely covered by warranty.

So for the next 24 hours, the iPhone is locked in its bubble.

And tomorrow I get to find out if I dodged a bullet or did I cost myself a ridiculous amount of money to fix my stupidity.

And I am pretty sure my ass cheeks will not unclench until then.

Maybe.

And the bad thing is, I know in the back of my head, that it is just a cell phone.

Except that it isn’t.

Its an addiction, plain and simple.

Between email, Facebook, Twitter, and an embarrassing slew of stupid apps, the phone is up there with crack, but has the apparent acceptability of coffee.

Which is an addiction of a different sort.

But this is not about me.

Psych!

Its always about me.

We’ve met, right?

 
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Posted by on February 17, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Raising the adult child.

It can be difficult, raising an adult child.

And I am not referring to a child that is late teens or early 20’s.

I mean the one you married.

There is a couple in Starbucks that fit this little scenario.

Lets call him Workman

And Workman looks exhausted.

Like, working 3 jobs type exhausted.

He swills coffee like a man trying to jumpstart his battered and spirit-broken heart.

Like he either wants a caffeine rush or a coronary, either one will do.

And sittlng across from him is a little honey we will call Babs.

Babs has that alert but useless look to her.

Just had her nails, hair, clothes, you names it, this leech has had it done by a professional recently.

And Workman is on the hook for indulging “Daddy’s girl”.

5 minutes of listening in fleshes out the story.

They both had solid careers.

And then she lay prone one evening and conceived.

Once the baby was born, an ugly cycle began.

The stay at home mom was born.

Don’t get me wrong, when your kidlets are wee ones, someone who shares the same blood should be with them, 24 7.

However, Babs and Workman’s kidlet just went back to college from the Xmas break.

And Babs is talking about getting involved with a ladies group for an “Event”.

Here’s why I am a psychic, watch me predict the future.

I know nothing about Bab’s, the other ladies involved, or the “Event”, but I will make a little prediction.

1. It will cost Workman money. (This one is a gimme, but I have taken an instant dislike to Babs and feel the need to point it out.)

2. It will not accomplish anything substantial in the real world. (By this I mean, if it is not completely obvious to anyone that sees it and requires anything that resembles an explanation.)

3. It will be little more than an ego stroke for a gaggle of well monied, useless house fraus from the beach cities. (Kind of like the human version of a Lamprey. A fish that attaches itself to other fish and eats the scraps.)

This annoys the crap out of me. Its like having a permanent house guest that will never leave, pick up a check, but will bitch at you about how little respect she gets.

However, its a common story, you know 3 or 4 Babs in your daily life, we all do.

Workman is stuck, raising the adult child.

And this is not a sexist thing, for every Babs, there is a Bob. (Male version of Babs)

I think recognition of who the Babs and Bobs in our lives are is sexist.

Men can only see Babs, but the Bobs are invisible to them.

Women can only see Bobs, and cannot see Babs at all.

And both are convinced that the others are lazy pieces of shit.

Sad thing is, they are both right.

There is a saying about marriage, you either grow together or you grow apart.

But what if one of you grows lazy, while the other one grows overworked and tired.

Eventually the Workman of the couple will either grow a lawyer or a coronary.

And really, both are preferable.

There is a reason why children grow up before you get sick of handling all of it.

Now imagine a child that never grows up, you end up “handling it” forever, but the child will bitch about how tired they are of the lack of respect for their “position” in the household.

You might be tempted to say that this is from my perspective and that I am transferring it onto Workman and Babs.

Wrong.

Its equal parts taken from their conversation, a little poetic license and the final part is my love of the annoying extreme.

And the fact that I don’t like Babs.

Makes me wonder what Workman sees in that leech.

 
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Posted by on February 14, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Shit or garbage, you choose.

One of the great questions of mankind is what do little old men and rap music have in common.

Not a damn thing.

Except that I am stuck in the middle of prime examples of both as we speak.

On my left, sporting a dazed look and pants that demand both to be pulled up and that his mother (If still living) smack his stupid ass for leaving them down that far to begin with.

He also has faint rap music drifting out of his iPod.

And its shitty rap music.

I am not a fan of that particular genre of music to begin with, but the crap that he is listening to hits the bottom of the “Low rent” barrel.

Plus the kid has this dazed look on his face that I believe is caused by the shitty music.

And then there is the little situation unraveling on my right side.

And by “Little situation” I mean the old guy thats unraveling on my right side.

This guy babysat Methuselah.

Old enough that I cannot even gauge how old he is.

Old enough to have that “Permanently terrified” look on his face.

Old enough to have that vague Ben Gay smell in the background.

Old enough to have a continual head shake that you can’t help but see, even in your peripheral vision.

Old enough that I am worried about him surviving my cup of coffee before slipping out of his seat in a “Code Blue”, accompanied by the crappy jazz music currently piping thru the speakers.

Got the picture so far?

And I am stuck in the middle in my own little “Special” hell.

And the sad part is they are both bopping their heads, one to shitty music, the other because of aging neck muscles.

One side Ben Gay, and there is a smell on the other side that I have not yet been able to identify. Its either BO or AXE body spray gone tragically wrong.

Vegas money is on BO.

First of all, rap music should rhyme. (Old school rules. See also, “Kid & Play” circa 1984)

Second of all, who dresses the elderly? The old guy got up to use the bathroom, and his pants are as high above his ass as the kids are below.

Third, and final, I am not enjoying the new Starbucks as much as the old one.

The reasons are various, but all kind of boil down to me kind of whining about change and how much I hate the unknown.

But, putting my fears aside, at least its still a Starbucks.

Which means coffee.

And if this blog is about anything, not just this post, but the whole blog, its about my fairly out of control caffeine addiction.

And please don’t misunderstand, I am not saying coffee is a God, I am just saying it might be.

It’s the caffeine that makes me generally edgy and rude, which makes for good reading.

For me, that is. This is not about you.

 
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Posted by on February 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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You want some spit with that?

I hate rude people with a passion.

(And yet, I am ok with my behavior. Ain’t that a bitch?)

But there is a certain charm and panache to someone who may or may not know how low end crassly rude they are and just flat out do not care.

But there is a bit of an allure to it, in a very sick way.

Theres this guy.

Nothing special about him, but thats the thing.

He THINKS there is something REALLY special about himself.

It starts with the walk.

This guy is fairly pale, and I should know, I am one shade off of being translucent.

But the swag in his walk would put the most old-school pimp to shame.

His looks are nothing special, kind of a chubby cheeked Joe Pesci with beady eyes.

But the slight wink and devilish grin he is throwing at the ladies is one that Brad Pitt couldn’t pull off in his prime.

His squeaky, low soprano voice is suffering from delusions of grandeur.

And then, to top it all off, he is rude to my favorite barista in my new Starbucks morning home.

DO NOT MESS WITH MY JAVA, JAGGOFF!

An addiction is not something to play with.

I have decided I don’t like him.

And I don’t mean, I dislike his demeanor and I wish he would leave peacefully.

I mean, I hope his face melts like a Nazi staring at the Arc as the barista and I share a laugh.

Over-reaction? Maybe.

Appropriate? To me, yes.

I have never understood why people think that over-reacting is something bad.

Anything worth doing is worth doing well.

To quote Henry Rollins, “Don’t do anything by half. If you love someone, love them with all your soul. When you go to work, work your ass off. When you hate someone, hate them until it hurts.”

I like that. Its got that beautiful touch of the extreme that appeals to the semi-sociopath in all of us. (I mean that in a good way.)

(That was a funny line, but I took a moment to refresh my definition of Sociopath tendencies at some website, and it kind of spooked me. Suddenly, that melting Nazi line is coming back to haunt me.)

In the back of my head is always the idea that the barista will behave how you see disgruntled employees behave and this guy will be getting a spit latte with an extra shot of mucus.

Finally, Mr. Wonderful got his questionable latte and left, much to the relief of the rest of us.

Because an edgy barista is nobodies friend.

 
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Posted by on February 7, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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