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Monthly Archives: July 2014

Life begins at 40.

“Nobody knows when life begins, really.”

That little nugget of attempted intellectual spew just came at me from the brain-dead dipshits at the next table.

College students, nothing dumber on the planet.

They have been toddling thru the latest Supreme Court decision, much to my chagrin and annoyance.

Its annoying because there is an answer.

This is what is wrong with college. Students are not taught aggression. They get their soft little heads crammed with information, but they are never taught the process to push thru to their own opinion on anything.

That is why so many of them take the opinion that is voiced to them by some bearded socialist during this vulnerable period and take it like something they got straight from the burning bush.

Its a lot like a puppy that shits on the rug. Its so fucking cute….. the first few times. And then it goes on for most of their adult life.

And that is the shitty part. (Pun completely intended.)

But the life beginning thing has an answer.

And that answer is yes.

Life begins when it begins. Thats it. It has nothing to do with a court or viability or anything.

Ask a farmer if a carrot is still a carrot if you yank it out of the ground a week ahead of time.

Is it edible? Maybe not. Was it growing? Yes, because that it what life does.

Abortion being murder is a moot point. As a society, we have long viewed the taking of life as an ok thing. Animals, people, whatever, under the right circumstances, we are more than willing to do it. Remove the back story and look at the base action. Its all the same, unsatisfying answer, still the same.

And then the sarcastic side of my mind takes over.

If you are going to talk about life, you should start with masturbation. That is really where life begins, at least from the perspective of young boys, some young girls, but not as many as you think there would be.

Despite a childhood of getting caught each and every time they sneak a cookie, every boy is convinced mom has no clue, no matter how sloppy his masturbatory habits get.

Its a gender specific delusion that seems to permeate the entire male species.

If you think about it, a lot of life has ended tragically into tissues and socks everywhere since the beginning of time.

Ok, so that was a little deeper than I was going for.

Time to get off of the pedestal, I am 5 foot 3 on a good day and that high I risk a nosebleed.

You will notice that, for the most part, I did not mention female masturbation.

That is because I am a Feminist at heart, only a misogynist would go on and on about women and their naughty habits. (Also, I try to keep the posts under 1000 words at the most.)

I think, in the end, the whole “Life beginning” discussion is one of opinion and perspective, like a moveable feast that is wholly dependant on whoever it is flapping their pie hole at the time.

The thing that fucks it all up is the legal aspects of it all.

And the really scary part at the end of it is, that the final ruling will be made by the Supreme Court.

I have not seen a Supreme Court judge that was not so old and decrepit that they looked like they hadn’t had sex in several decades. (With the exception of Clarence Thomas and his slightly odd thing for soda, pubic hair and Long Dong Silver videos. You know that man is closing some serious Supreme Court groupies.)

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Posted by on July 25, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Do not mess with the Man.

Behind the counter at a Starbucks I like to call the “Icebox” is the cutest barrista in the world.

Adorable. Under 5 feet tall, little pixie of a girl with her hair in a ponytail and cute, not hot, face.

But that will not keep her from being shit on by The Man.

The Man, at least for the purpose of this blog is a white haired old dude in a white polo shirt and pressed cargo shorts.

Polo shirts are what business men wear during their off hours. Its like a suit for them, classifies and identifies them to their peers.

Its weird, but I read an article in Forbes that laid it all out.

The Man, is retired, but runs a tight ship.

From the moment he walked in, you could tell he was not pleased with all of us.

The brow furrowed, no doubt many a junior executive withered before the scorn of that scowl.

The right toe tapped impatiently.

The sigh was audible.

The case on the iPhone 5s is a bit of a status symbol. Its one of those cases that could survive a space shuttle crash, but they will pay for a new phone if there is a nuclear accident and it destroys his phone.

The entire attitude/ensemble/presentation is one that tells you, in no uncertain terms:

I AM THE MAN, AND DON’T FORGET IT, SHITHEAD!

His order was a high level workshop in concise ordering. Eye contact, voice of a proper timber and volume medium, with a crisp delivery.

Paid, and stepped immediately to the right to await proper assembly of his java beverage.

(Technically, his ordering of a caramel macchiato flies in the face of his post cold war masculine stance. But whatever.)

Enter the aforementioned, cut as a button, barrista.

She finished his macchiato in pretty much record time.

But she forgot his whipped cream.

The combination of whining/macho posturing that followed, was embarrassing to witness.

And then he got personal.

“Do you even know what your job is? Have you been TRAINED?”

Training is very important to The Man.

The actual amount of time it takes to apply whipped cream to The Man’s hot sunday can be measured in seconds, and not to many of them.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to milk it out like a pissy little drama queen.

When he finally does stomp his chunky aging ass out the door, two guys that were sitting at a nearby table burst out laughing. One of the guys did a pretty weak mime impression of him. It was topical, but weak.

The barrista never paused, just continued making her wildly overpriced java creations for slightly over minimum wage and questionably attainable tuition reimbursement.

Because the line of paper cups with instructions written on them never seems to end.

Kind of a commercialism perpetual motion engine.

The only unanswered question from this whole scenario is whether or not the barrista indeed spat into The Man’s effeminate drink. (And before we go down that whole road of denial, yes they do. I know I would and I don’t think I am alone. I would probably do it a little more often and for lesser offenses that just being rude.)

Let that be the moral of the story.

Be nice, you never know when your attitude might cause a little extra shot of DNA into your beverage.

(If you didn’t catch that, here it is, plain and simple. “Don’t be an ass, people can and WILL spit in your food.” If you don’t think that exists, you are either naive or dumb, which is the same thing for practical purposes.)

 
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Posted by on July 18, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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I’m hip, man.

It’s the 60’s.

The beat generation, cynical and critically dumb.

Smoking their cigarettes backwards, snapping their fingers in lieu of clapping, reading REALLY bad homespun angst-filled poetry, out loud mind you, to like minded dipshits that think its brilliant.

There is a poetry group meeting on the over-sized stone patio at the LAX Starbucks.

Its a pretty grim bunch.

This would have been a motley crew in their 20’s, now imagine that same unwashed image you have in your head as being in their 50’s. (AND NOT AGING WELL.)

The poetry is some of the most self-indulgent mental swill I have ever heard.

It gives new meaning to the term “Narcissistic”.

Kind of a mental grassy knoll to take aim at your intellect.

But they are not acting alone.

You have to wonder how these 10 people found each other in a world this large.

It’s like AIDS and E-Coli go to a bar and meet up with Spanish Flu and decide to start a band.

“The eternal me is but a leaf, stuck in a cosmic sewer.” (Direct quote)

I wish the line above was an exaggeration made by yours truly.

However, that self indulgent verbal puke was real, and uttered by a mid 50’s guy with a mullet, bowling shirt, khaki shorts, black knee socks and sandals.

Black socks with shorts? Who says theres no crime at the beach?

Think of Billy Ray Cyrus mixed with a homeless guy. Some of that Miley-style crazy.

I have been told that I am too judgemental, too harsh without provocation.

Fuck it, this dude is all kinds of crazy stank, rolled in self indulgent polyester.

And it has not bathed recently. (True, the wind shifted and I got a whiff.)

So now my nose is being gang raped along with my ears and my intellect.

Overly dramatic, maybe. But the line between an overly dramatic douchebag and an accuracy driven asshole is a thin one at times, and the same thing the rest of the time.

And yes, I get it, I should not make fun of the shitty poets. Their look, their style of dress, and certainly not their SHITTY FUCKING POETRY!

Two things. So be it. And bite me.

And before we start that whole “Why did you go there?” thing, lets just understand that I AM THERE, and I rarely go elsewhere.

I am glad I got that off my chest.

On to better things.

Long story, but I have the day off of work.

Not working is a good thing for most people.

Except me.

One of my more neurotic issues is the fact that while I don’t love work, I feel awkward when I am not there.

I like to think of think of it as my immigrant ancestry showing.

And not immigrant sneaking across the border, I mean coming thru Ellis Island immigrant. (At least my great grandfather did.)

There is no real joke here, just the one on us when everyone realizes that the several million welcomed illegals that are streaming across the border are going to have to have someone pay their tab.

There, got my little rant in. I feel better, like my mental/emotional colen just started a cleanse and a sizable quantity of “Shit” just passed.

Thinking about it, that would make this blog a toilet.

I am ok with that. The imagery is a little nasty, but the analogy is solid.

One of the unwashed beatnik’s just said the word “Profit” 10 times in a row, smacking his chest the whole time.

Thise is beginning to take on a whole new level of fucking horrible that I have never seen before.

This might be a spoiler alert from a horror film. The killer kidnaps someone, chains them to the wall in some filthy tiled bathroom, and trots out the beatniks to perform.

And the hostage chews thru his own neck it get away.

I could definitely see that.

It would be worth it.

 
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Posted by on July 11, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Let a Player play!

Every now and then, I ask myself, “What would Jesus do?”

I am pretty sure the answer is not “Smack a bitch.”

Although, the guy at the next table seems to think that is a viable answer to the issue with his, I am guessing here, girlfriend.

Girlfriend is a very loose term that I gleaned from his frequent comments about, and I am quoting, “That wack bitch.”

Shakespeare was known to coin many words and phrases in the course of his writings, but I don’t believe he was the originator of “Wack bitch.”

Setting: Starbucks on Grand, El Segundo, California. 2nd table from the front. Morning, weekend.

1st table, right in the middle of a busy morning rush line, is The Player.

I am not sure who he is talking to based largely on his REALLY poor communication skills.

I thought he was talking to a friend about said “Wack Bitch”, and then, he made a comment about “You know what’s you done.” (Direct confusing quote there.)

I have no clue. (Then again, I don’t think I would be scooting that far out on a limb to say that The Player may not have a cache of clues squirreled away back at the house.)

Every now and then, I come across an example of humanity that really makes me dread the future of this country.

And I am fairly certain that hip hop is involved.

Don’t get me wrong, I used to listen to some of the most gritty, grungy, crappy music out there, but hip hop seems to have a rear-naked choke on raw intelligence that will not only end the fight, but the concept of intelligence itself may end up dead as a result.

The argument could be made that this is racist or class-derogatory or even as a reach, Moperic. (Google the word Mopery. Work with me here.)

If it sounds like I am being hard on the younger generation, please understand that its intentional.

Its not that I think they are dumb, far from it.  (My own brilliant  bloodlines  excluded).

I KNOW the younger generation are dumb.

(Sidenote. I would use the crudish term “Tarded” here, but the sheer volume of hate email that follows takes hours to sort thru. And the incredibly poor grammar always gets nasty responses back from me, which only makes things worse. Shoot me, but for God’s sake, use a comma and look up the meaning of a double negative.)

I would worry about backlash from the younger generation, except that it is a well known fact that, unless accompanied by a pic, such as a 12-step affirmation printed on top of a low graphic photo on Facebook, they cannot read.

I would say that a formal declaration of war against ignorance has been made. My own particular brand of ignorance is hereby excluded.

Think of my perspective as the Geneva Convention of online blog wars except for the implied “Take no prisoners” clause.

As always, if any of this bothers you, feel free to write your own blog.

From a cathartic standpoint, this blog has always existed as a mental chamber pot that I routinely fill with the shit in my head, to be dumped out the window at random intervals, to land on the unsuspecting and the dumb.

Talk amongst yourselves.

 
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Posted by on July 4, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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