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Monthly Archives: October 2014

Pigeons are homeless.

There is nothing that can make me almost shit myself faster than a pigeon slamming into my windshield when I am driving down the road.

Its upsetting. I thought my damned windshield had cracked.

Luckily, it didn’t. I am wildly happy about that because that costs money to fix.

And the shit doesn’t grow on trees.

The pigeon? I dunno, he’s probably dead.

I have given it a lot of thought and I have come to the conclusion that I don’t care.

For all I know, the pigeon was suicidal and this was his way of checking out.

Either way, its not like it was a dog or a cat.

If it is not a domesticated animal, its on the food chain and up for grabs.

I am sure some of you wonder how I can be so callus about an animal’s death.

Animals die every day and the world keeps spinning.

Life goes on.

I saw a thing online of a guy who is obviously shilling for the vegetarians who claimed to have been employed by a slaughter house.

He had a whole tearful spiel about how the cows cry and show emotion before death.

Like the only reason carnivores have been eating animal flesh since the dawn of time is because we had no idea the meat didn’t want to die.

Vegetarians are the Johova’s Witnesses of the nutritional world.

Not only do they believe something, but the are fairly incesant that you believe it too.

It almost reminds me of the anti bullying movement that figures that all you need to do is let the bully know that its not cool and it hurts someones feelings.

I have actually seen some schools put up “No bullying Zone” next to the “Gun free zone” sign.

Awesome, it will probably work just as well.

Using that flawed logic, the only way the bullying will stop is if the people that pay no attention to the ridiculous “Gun free zone” sign accidentally shoot the bully.

That is a truly messed up line, but there is an element of brutal truth in there.

But, simply because something is the truth doesn’t mean it should be said.

Somebody posted a thing on Facebook that said that it isn’t hating if its true.

Not true. Ask if its your job to say it. If its not, it may still be true, but you are a douchebag.

If you are going to stake out the “Truth even if it hurts feelings” don’t try to cover that with the shield of truth.

Take responsibility for it and don’t try to cover your ass with some soft headed platitude about the hating/truth thing.

That means you know that you are a douchebag and you are reflexively looking for the emotional get out of jail free card.

It’s not your fault, its the pussy society we live in.

Confrontation has been beaten out of you to the point that even when you want to rub someones nose in something, (Remember, because its true) You have to wuss out and preface it to try and deflect the douchebag label that is heading your way.

I gave that one up awhile back.

Try it sometime.

And the first time someone tells you “You’re an asshole”, revel in it.

Otherwise, you are just another pigeon, hitting the windshield.

 
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Posted by on October 31, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The Insanity Revelation.

A homeless woman screaming at traffic outside of a Coffee Bean in the wee hours of the morning will always catch my eye.

But a homeless woman screaming scripture at traffic will pull me in like a moth to a bug light.

I applaud both her general nuttiness and her faith, because they both seem pretty strong.

But what is it about Revelations that draws the insane mind to it?

I have run into a bakers half dozen of these street preacher/screamers in the past and every one of them was spouting the final book of the bible like it was the only one they knew. And maybe it was.

There is almost a hope that they would take a break and at least read Mathew 6. (For you heathen types, thats the passage that says to go pray alone in your room.)

But, her reasons for not doing it could be as simple as not having a private room to pray in.

The world is her room.

And dammit, its a noisy room.

I got my scone and a coffee and had a seat on the patio to watch.

I would have bought the crazy lady something, but she was out here the other morning screaming about “YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE” and I bought her a scone. For a moment, I thought she was going to come after me.

And when a 400lbs crazy woman with a scone turns on you, haul ass.

Because you don’t want whats coming.

There is not a technique in modern martial arts to drop 400lbs coming at you like a BO scented tornado.

You could get her in a couple of arm bars, break both of her arms and she may still come at you like the homeless version of the walking dead.

Little Lulu here could use a prop, something for people to focus on.

I once saw a homeless guy in Reno screaming Revelations at traffic with a 3 foot tall dark mahogany cross that he carried in front of him like he was the Majordomo.

She could use that here.

It would also ratchet up her danger factor and practically guaranty a visit from Santa Monica’s finest.

Because nothing fixes things quicker than a visit from the boys in blue. (Alright, boys in black. You got me.)

And despite my vicious attacks on the Coffee Bean, their clientele and the average age of customers being 92, I have come to enjoy both their coffee and their ambiance.

There is less of a shotgun approach to their music that is fairly pleasant on the whole.

And they don’t switch from one musical genre to another like they have the attention span of a ferret on meth. (Small rodents are not known for their addictions. Outside of a laboratory that is.)

The overall musical effect is one that backs my teeth away from that terminal itch feeling I have come to know so well.

What is it about these coffee houses that attracts me so?

Oh, caffeine addiction. Right. Forgot for second.

Glad I cleared that up.

 
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Posted by on October 24, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Talking a little crazy here.

I sometimes have a hard time coming up with an idea for a blog post.

After writing 500+ of these in the last 3 years, everything has kind of been done.

So sometimes, I just look for a hook, something that stirs my imagination when I hear/see it, and your imagination when you read it.

The post you are reading, I am writing the day before its due.

I got nothing.

Or, at least, I had nothing.

But as I was crossing the street to head into the Coffee Bean, 2 homeless people began loudly arguing on the corner.

And the hook fell, like manna from heaven.

Out of the mouth of babes, or in this case, a 400lbs homeless woman.

“YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE!”

I found myself repeating that phrase as I waited in line to get my caffeine fix.

And I came to a conclusion.

I don’t know her life.

However, I could probably make some pretty accurate guesses. (And I am ridiculously accurate when I am just guessing.

1. Odds are, we are not dealing with a graduate from a master’s degree program.

2. Perhaps the exact mix of the cocktail is questionable, but I am willing to go out on a limb here and say that perhaps drugs played a big role. (I have a whole slew of friends that will piss and moan and make all sorts of claims about the harmlessness of drugs. Sorry, my blog, my rules, and you get to gag on my opinion like a first timer in the big house.)

3. Whatever happened to old school crazy? Everyone wants to pony up excuses, well crazy is making a comeback. Whether its naturally occurring or chemically induced, there does come a level of fucked up that you just don’t come back from.

I can almost see the excuse fanatics lining up on this one.

“Judge not lest ye be judged.” Don’t go biblical with me, you’ll lose. That passage was not a biblical get out of jail free card. Its meaning was don’t judge cheaply or with bias, or you’ll be judged that way. Fine, use my own measuring stick against me and see how unsatisfying it is.

“Its not her fault, society/Dems/GOP/whoever is to blame.” No, they’re not. Ultimately, fault lies with her. Some situations have you seriously behind the 8-ball, but that is where the tenacity of the human spirit comes in.

“You don’t know what an addiction is like.” Yeah, I do.

“You are a racist/bigot/misogynist/cat-hater.” Entirely possible. Bias, preference and dislike are human traits. There are exceptions to every rules and there are examples that prove the rule. Case by case is how I take it. I have yet to meet anyone on this planet that loved everyone with the exception of the soon to be sainted Mother Theresa. (Rumor had it she hated the Italians.)

In the end, the secret to getting the crazy lady calmed down and away from flowing traffic was to buy her a cranberry orange scone.

Even crazy loves a scone.

 
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Posted by on October 17, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Dickens, motherfucker.

A tale of two cities.
To paraphrase Dickens, it was the worst of times, it was even more worst of times.

City #1 is in Torrance, CA.

I make no claims of being a saint.
But evil lurks in the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf.
And, as it always does, it is in the form of a woman.
I will get some hate email for that line, but its true.
Women are the root of all evil, its a scientific fact.
Plus I read it on the internet.
The localized evil in the Coffee Bean has taken the form of a late teens girl named Sarah.
Sarah is special.
Not as in the mentally handicapped form of special, I mean self-inflicted special.
You can tell in the way Sarah drove up in the parking lot and took up two spaces.
The way she sauntered across the parking lot like her life depended on being the hottest chick alive.
Swag wise, if she were a dude, her dick would be hanging out.
At the front door, she stopped, and waited for a guy that was still 10 feet away to open the door for her.
She walked by the pastry case and eyed the goods.
Her order, when it came, was done while not looking who she was talking to.
One of those personalities that you hate instinctively.
Not evil at this point, just annoying.
And then her coffee came, and the evil began.
“What the hell is this?”
Turns out her latte was off.
Her next statement was double the volume.
“How hard is your fucking job?”
It went on with Sarah running at the mouth and embarrassing both herself and everyone that had to hear that shit spewing out of her festering gob.
This is why people’s food gets fucked with.
Sarah is the epitome of arrogant entitlement in this world, you can’t help but hate her.
And her parents.
I blame them.
Shitty kids come from shitty parents, its an old story.
And one that only gets worse every time you hear it.

City #2

Hawthorne California.
I try not to screw with people who could spit in my food.
Call it a personal thing.
And Papa John’s Pizza is the last place on earth I would screw with.
Because where they make their pizza’s, I cannot see.
That means if I am an ass, my pepparoni and sausage is getting either teabagged or an extra shot of DNA.
And nobody wants that, especially not me. (I mean the cold sore on the pizza prep guy’s lip LOOKS like its clearing up.)
But things are not looking good.
There are three people ahead of me.
The first two are given partial refunds and free chicken wings, mainly because it is taking so long.
The guy who ordered just before I arrived is losing his mind.
They end up giving him an entire pizza for his trouble.
And then it was my turn.
I ordered online, I waited 20 minutes before I came in.
They checked my id, assured me that the pizza would be ready soon.
20 minutes later, I asked and the guy checked, any minute now.
This is when the guy ahead of me got the free pizza and left.
And it was mine,.
Had to have been.
So, 45 minutes after I entered the front door, the Gump-like cashier finally fessed up that the pizza was either given away or not made.
Would I like a refund?
I WANT MY FUCKING PIZZA!
I told him to make it, and send out the manager.
In the mean time, I stood on my tiptoes to watch the guy make my pizza.
If he spit on it, he would have had to have done it when he put it in the oven.
And that is when the 12 year-old with the manager name tag came out.
He barely spoke english, the cashier spoke no spanish.
The pizza prep guy had to stop what he was doing to come over and interpret.
I am beginning to see the problem.
I told the guy that I had ordered 80 minutes ago, been in the building for an hour, and been assured by Gump 3 times that my pizza would be “Up soon”.
The pizza was cooking, and I would be taking it with me.
He would also be refunding me what I paid.
Then, he would be jotting down his name, and the name and phone # of the regional manager.
I am beyond dick at this point.
I don’t yell, but I realize that I am talking lower and over enunciating each word.
Translation: Pissed off.
This is why I will fight tooth and nail to keep $15 an hour minimum wage from happening. The job and the attitude are just not worth it.
You want to make more money? Work your ass off and get some skills and a raise.
And if you have no skills and are trying to raise a family on minimum wage? Shame on you. You are a brand of stupid that $15 is not going to fix.
And the pizza sucked too.
 
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Posted by on October 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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My whore complex.

There is something horrific about a woman in her 70’s that likes to chase men half her age.

For the record, I am not a whore.

But, this is what happened.

I was driving a long distance thing recently.

4-5 hours in a crappy rental car is enough to make anyone a little punchy.

I can drive that far only if I have adequate amounts of caffeine.

Which explains why I am in a Starbucks in a major tourist city.

And that was when I met Betty.

Betty is 70 years old.

I know this because Betty told me.

Would you like to know what else Betty told me in the span of 3.5 minutes in line?

1. Betty’s husband, Herman, sleeps 12 hours a day and has not had sex with her for over 25 years.

2. Betty loves men in their 40’s. (This was said after she asked me my age.)

3. Betty has the cutest condo, just down the street, and I should come see it.

And then she bought me Coffee and a scone.

Let me paint you a picture.

The grand mother of ancient whores is prowling tourist spots and attempting to buy souls for coffee and shitty English pastry.

And the worst part is, she is cheap and has low standards.

You might think I am smacking myself here, I’m really not.

I am a realist.

I am five feet nothing with a gut, a bad attitude and tend to scowl when thinking about things.

This is not the usual demographic of a gigolo.

I have had friends over the years that were the type of good-looking that men, women, and couples would hit on them.

I am not that guy, and I came to peace with that long ago.

There is a solid reason I developed this vengeful nasty attitude.

But, this is not about me, this is about Betty.

Betty is a realist too.

Betty is not searching for Mr. Right.

Betty is looking for Mr. Right Now.

Someone who would be more than willing to drop whatever they were going to do on a Tuesday at 11am at a tourist stop, and give up the goods back at her retiree, ben gay smelling condo, all for the price of a coffee and pastry.

I should be insulted, but I find the whole thing kind of desperately charming.

Betty is not from a generation that does this.

So my mind immediately goes to what road led Betty here.

She let me quiz her for the better part of 10 minutes before she finally figured out I was not a team player and just turned and walked off, getting back into line behind a mid thirties redneck wearing an Earnhardt tee shirt.

I watched the whole thing unfold as I ate my cranberry-orange scone.

Jethro, for lack of a better name, listened as Betty laid it all out to him. He then got his coffee, took a bite of the cookie she bought him, and headed out the door with a delighted Betty.

You have to wonder how it all turned out.

Did she enjoy herself? Probably. I mean this is evidently her whole thing. God knows how many times a day Betty is making the Starbucks run.

Did he enjoy himself? Probably. Women that old usually know their game well. Also, it may have been quite a while since Jethro got anything other than chafing marks from his right hand. Its called lotion people. Look into it.

Did Herman wake up and realize his wife is banging countless strangers in the guest bedroom? For all we know, Herman is dead and his memory is now being served up as part of Betty’s “Mercy fuck” pitch

Did I miss out? Probably not. I am in my own head often enough to know that this twisted little scenario is tailor made for nightmares and indigestion and being even more of a disappointment in the sack.

So, all in all, Betty actually gave me a better gift than some wrinkled ass and crying in the shower.

A somewhat lurid blog, which I always love, and an interesting half hour during a boring drive.

Plus, the coffee was good. (And I do enjoy a good scone.)

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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