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You cannot prove it

I don’t think of myself as a heartless fuck of a human being, but when the homeless guy with the sign asking for help is sporting a fresh haircut, clean clothes, and nicer sneakers than me? I refuse to help him.

I have nothing but heart for the truly needy, but fuck that guy.

Before you send me email and Facebook messages telling me that I know nothing about him and he may need the help, save it.

There has to be someone out there that gives less of a shit than I, but they will be hard to find.

There is a really brutal answer as to why.

Its honest, but you aren’t going to like it.

And here it is.

I prefer my homeless a little more pathetic.

I am driven by the visual as a general rule.

If they don’t look like they desperately need my help, I don’t have the heart.

It is not my role to help someone going thru a little bit of a rough patch.

The only thing that gets a dollar out of my wallet is the thought that this dollar is the only thing keeping them from either committing an atrocity to get their drug fix or eating their own foot out of cannibalistic starvation.

That sounds cruel, but keep in mind, I am comfortable with cruel.

My test reader made the point that my last line may not be nice, but at least its honest.

Lucky accident, honesty was not my goal.

Karmically, there has to be a category for people who beg for change when they could totally hold down a job.

Or at least they look like they could.

Karma is normally a lazy shit that rarely carries it own weight.

But every now and then, karma steps up to the plate and knocks one out of the park.

So, that being said, what would karma do? What would satisfy the universe at large when faux beggars abound?

A disease would be sufficiently horrible, but raped in prison would also suffice. (Thats not from me, I just know how karma works.)

Ok, now it has been pointed out that I am somehow wishing for horrible things to handle this total stranger based solely on my fabricated scenario of his life.

Yeah, like that.

Why would I need to know anything about him other than what my mind has generated?

That last line has stuck in my head until I realized why it doesn’t bother me.

And there it is, the answer.

It doesn’t bother me because I suddenly realized that he may not be real.

We are now back to my popular theory that most people you see in life, mostly the homeless, do not really exist.

This is an off-shoot of the main theory of nothing on Facebook being real.

That whole line of reasoning makes ignoring this homeless guy that much easier.

I even had to talk myself out of running him over with my car, a Honda Civic that I know for a FACT actually exists.

In the end, I did not run him over, nor did I give him a dollar.

But I did feel a touch guilty on the drive home.

And then it happened.

Redemption.

I pulled up to a stoplight and saw him.

Walker.

Walker is a crazed homeless guy that walks, back and forth, non-stop.

I have never seen him standing still, sitting, or passed out on the ground.

He is a pure breed.

He doesn’t ask for money, doesn’t talk even if you ask him questions, doesn’t give a shit about those around him.

Almost like we don’t even exist.

Food for thought.

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Posted by on September 22, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Nuns and hidden agendas

I often wonder what is the driving force behind old school shitiness.

I bring this up mainly because I found an old picture of me as an alter boy and I was reminded of what a better person I am than most. (I was an altar boy for a total of 10 days and then I was dismissed as part of the “Sacrificial wine scandal” of 1976. I was a victim.)

And then I came to Starbucks and just got in line in time to catch the tail end of a “How hard is your job?” berating of an irate dick head directed at my favorite barrista.

I was about to say something when the nun spoke up.

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?”

She was loud, she was angry, she had the most delightful jersey-girl accent.

And she was in full habit.

Nothing more intimidating than an angry nun in full habit.

Like a pitbull armed with a straight razor.

Bad memories, like PTSD, come boiling up from my past.

If you never went to Catholic school, its a lot like being a former resident of hell.

But going to Catholic school that is taught by nuns it like being in a prison and wearing a pretty sun dress that shows off your legs.

You know you are getting screwed at some point.

And its your fault.

Before you ask “What is my fault?” understand that EVERYTHING you do in Catholic school  is a sin and you are guilty!

Nuns are married to God, and it looks like a bad marriage.

Now, before my mother weighs in on this subject, let me state that I am a deeply devout man, or I am at least close.

But nuns have a general hatred of anyone with a spark of excitement for life.

And that is when I met them.

The penguins.

It started in first grade and continued to 8th grade graduation.

I had nuns continually riding my ass like a chronic hemorrhoid in a black habit and rosary beads.

First grade was when I was first expelled for accidentally stabbing someone in the neck with a pencil.

And blood is one of those things that cranks up the screaming.

You can apologize all you like on that one, you are not getting away with a slap on the wrist.

3rd thru 5th grade was the hayday of silly reasons to expel me.

There was the gambling ring, the extortion ring, truly innocent slave trading, and a misunderstanding involving a game of show and tell in the girl’s room. (All excuses are ignored when you have no pants on.)

My mother was a slick horse trader and alternated between being the school nurse and substitute teacher for 8 years, never being paid. (The penguins even had fact teaching credentials made up for her that evaporated when I graduated.)

The deal was understood.

Shut your mouth, tow the line and we will let that little bastard stay.

Not bad as far as back room deals go.

Back to modern day Starbucks and Sister Mary-Goomba.

She followed Mr. Rudeness over to wait for his coffee, glaring at him like a mad woman the whole time.

If anyone else pulled this kind of shit, they were either homeless or dealing with a different type of crazy.

Nuns get away with everything.

I got my coffee and began writing this, delighted at finding a solid blog subject.

They can be hard to come by.

“Friggin lesbians!”

This little muttered tidbit came from the guy sitting next to me.

I took out my earbuds, I had nothing playing, and turned to look at him.

Stir the pot.

“I know, right?” Apparent agreement is the quickest way to find out what makes someone tick.

He looked at me, maybe for the first time, then nodded slightly.

“They have a whole fuckin agenda!”

I sipped my coffee and tried to figure out if he was homeless or not.

Crazy was already a gimme at this point.

Some days you rack your brain trying to figure out a subject to blog about.

And then some days, they fall out of the sky, like some sort of literary coffee cake, to be paired with a delicious roast.

Mmmmm Coffee.

 
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Posted by on September 15, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Drowning kittens doesn’t sound so bad.

Stupid is as stupid does.

That is an iconic line from Forrest Gump, the story of a slow man who has wild adventures by simply being.

Deep thoughts there.

And then there is the college students sitting next to me.

There is a HUGE difference between being intelligent and thinking you are intelligent.

Someone told these two they were brilliant and they ran with that.

But the stupidity is mind numbing.

Think I’m kidding?

Top 3 brilliant utterances of the Mensa twins:

  1. “The professor doesn’t understand that you can know all the different elements of a subject and not be able to express them in test form.” (You mean that point where you acknowledge what you know?)
  2. “It’s a sexuality class, I shouldn’t have to discuss sex, I KNOW sex.” (How silly of the professor to discuss sex in a sexuality class. Hang it up, teacher! You missed the point!)
  3. “Calculus is misogynistic at its core. It should be illegal.” (Its fucking math, sugar! I agree it should be illegal, but for different reasons.)

I truly weep for the business community when this generation is five years out of school.

The amount of wrongful termination lawsuits will be staggering, right before all of them are thrown out of court.

Because you are allowed to fire people for being slow, lazy, dumb and self entitled.

Thats not illegal, thats smart business.

An entire generation you can label “Dead weight”.

I feel dumber for sitting next to these empty vessels.

I now feel bad for the “Empty Vessel” analogy.

Because it goes both ways.

You can fill an empty vessel with knowledge and facts and its a wonderful thing.

Or, as in this case, you can fill it full of shit and garbage and this liquidy stuff that has equal parts of shit and garbage in it.

Bad analogy, and a scary visual, shit and garbage actually have a purpose in life.

What is the purpose in life for these two mouth-breathers?

After they graduate with diplomas in women’s studies, they will flit from one job to another, not being good at any of them.

They will go to ANTIFA protests and get their topics wrong.

They will finally settle into non-paying volunteer work, because “Thats their passion”. (And charities are notoriously forgiving if you are willing to work for free.

And in the end, you and I will have to pay for their healthcare and student loans.

But, to get back to the empty vessel, whats wrong with filling it with coffee?

Mmmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on August 25, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Now go wash your hands

Let me say, first and foremost, I am AGAINST goat rape.

Glad I got that out of the way.

And if you happen to be a goat rape enthusiast, I am judging you, sorry but it is what it is.

This twisted little train of thought came from a Facebook link a friend of mine posted.

It was a link to a news article about a man caught raping a goat.

It was a typical FB echo chamber of 20 people saying the same thing, but within the range of total outrage on one end to the ironically humorous hipster douchebag comments.

And then theres me.

My goal is not to contribute to the conversation, its to break it down into angry response discussion groups.

You find out a lot about people when they are pissed to the point of not being PC anymore.

“The heart wants what it wants, and sometimes, the heart wants a goat.”

That was the opening line of my defense of the goat rapist.

On a positive note, I like to think that it truly united the entire group into a unified front of anger.

Directed at me.

Somehow, not denouncing the goat rapist made me the following things, all at once:

  • A racist.
  • Pro human rape.
  • Pro sex trafficking.
  • Anti feminism.
  • Pro elder abuse.
  • Pro misogyny.
  • A hater of all animals.
  • A Trump supporter.

And those were just the public comments.

The private messages were more fun.

One of the first called me the “N-word”.

I am still not sure of the connection between Goat rape and the N-word, but they repeated it a few times.

My favorites are the animal rights people.

Their strings are so visible and easy to pull.

Simply find out what their animal of choice is and disagree in an aberrant way.

The level of outrage when a “Sea Shepherd” type is told that dolphin is delicious can be heard from space.

In my defense, I don’t attack anyones belief system that didn’t come to me first.

It is selective bully-ism employed on the people that usually bully others, so its justified in my mind. (My perspective is wonderfully streamlined to make me the hero in almost all settings.)

I read the article and it took an odd turn.

The goat owner suspected his neighbor was sneaking into the barn to abuse the goat.

So you lock the door, right?

No, this guys plan was to hook up motion detector cameras and chain the goat out in the yard.

This is like suspecting your neighbor is a pedophile so you dress your little boy in a Catholic school girl outfit and play on his pogostick out in front of the neighbors house everyday in the hopes of catching him.

The goat owner is culpable in all of this, like a beastiality pimp of some sort.

By the way, if you explain this reasoning to people, it will not go well.

Some people are not ready to hear these kinds of revelations.

At least, not without coffee.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on August 18, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Gentle versus a solid ass kicking.

Dylan Thomas was an English poet in the 50s.

Like all poets that means he was all about the pent up, whininess that permeated the overwhelming majority of poetry from that era. (Test reader is a poet, after reading that line I was told to go fuck myself. I think I am onto something here.)

However, in the realm of pent up emo angst, Thomas was a god and should have sacrifices made in his name. (There has to be perks for being the top of your field, even if its whiny.)

But, and this may be a valid question, why should morning coffee and Dylan Thomas go together?

Good question, let’s ponder that over a cup.

Heading into my favorite “Coffee and healthy sandwiches” place is difficult, there is a shopping cart blocking the door.

I tried to move it slightly, only to find that the back wheels are locked up. (This happens when you take a cart away from the boundaries of the supermarket.

Magnetic locks are cheap, easy and impossible to remove without disabling the cart.

Unless you are willing to pick up the back wheels and carry.

Like a wheelbarrow that is totally back heavy and unwheldy.

I take in the pile of garbage in the shopping cart and suddenly it hits me.

Homeless, and he parked his cart out front.

Like a homeless valet service was tipped an extra $20 and told to “Keep it up front.”

I went in.

Ordering was delightful.

The nervous young lady at the counter was splitting her time between me and the collection of people at the end of the counter.

  1. End of counter roll call:
  2. The manager.
  3. The assistant manager.
  4. A kitchen helper whose attendance might be just cuz.
  5. A large gentleman of Samoan descent whose button up, collared, untucked, white shirt says “Security”. (I wanted to call him Boagrius after a warrior from ancient Greece, but no one would get it. I hate being the only one who reads. Plus, Achilles killed him in glorious combat.)

“So what do you want?” Boagrius is big, but polite. (Fine it stays.)

“He needs to go. He is scaring people from using the bathroom.” (I am not sure this is a bad thing. Most men’s rooms look and smell suspiciously like an uncleaned monkey hut at the zoo.)

“Ok.” 

Good, I didn’t miss the opening scene. I hate that, it ruins the movie.

Boagrius saunters over to a table on the far side of the room.

It is pure serendipity that as I cream and sugar my coffee and then move to a table, that I have a perfect vantage point to watch.

The “Person of interest” is sitting at a table right next to the bathroom entry hall.

And interesting, he is.

Homeless is a gimme on the basis of BO alone. (If my busted nose can get a whiff more than 10 feet away, you need a serious delousing and a bubble bath. (And no toys, you are in there to get clean, mister.)

Older, natural aging or meth? (Both?)

There is a small cup of coffee on the table. (It has however, been torn up. This says meth to me, something I have seen them do. I don’t get it either.)

Along with 3 notebooks that I can see words and drawings on from 20 feet away. (This appears to be one of those homeless researchers. Usually, they focus on conspiracy theories. Chem trails are big with them for some reason.)

Bogrius is a big kid, Samoans are not a tiny people.

But he is polite and professional.

“Pardon me, sir?” (Leading with a polite “Sir” is a solid move, right up until it backfires.”

“WHAT?!?!” (Backfires)

As an opening line, that is a line drive home run.

The pure angst and whiny persecution in his voice immediately makes me name him Dylan. (And you thought I forgot about the Dylan Thomas shit at the beginning, didn’t you?)

“Sir, management would like you to leave.” (I like Boagrius because he stays on script, no deviation. A nice quality in a huge security guard.)

“But I bought a coffee!?!?” (Universally, this will be even the most unacceptable homeless guy at least an hour or two in the majority of coffee places. Like a low price ticket for admission.)

“Management called security, sir.” (Solid argument. Boagrius is not new to this.)

“What if I call security on you?!?!” (Plot twist, some of you saw that coming.)

“I am security.” (So who would you call?)

What happened next really bothers me.

Mainly because I didn’t hear it.

Boagrius leaned in and spoke very softly.

It couldn’t have been a threat, his body language was wrong. If anything, Boagrius and Dylan both relaxed halfway thru the comment, whatever it was.

And then Dylan got up, and gathered his notebooks.

He and Boagrius left together.

Dylan lifted the back end of his shopping cart and began to roll away.

He stopped.

Turning, he reached out and rapped on the window, pointing at the manager.

And flipped him off.

Defiant to the end.

“Do not go gentle into that good night”
“Old age should burn and rave at close of day”
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Dylan knew his shit, I wonder how he took his coffee? (The poet, I mean. The homeless guy is drug addled to the point of possibly not knowing anything of value anymore.)

 

 
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Posted by on August 4, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Amusement and ADD

“Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.”

Sipping coffee.

Surrounded on both sides by borderline weird.

On my right, is old, plain and simple.

This couple is so old, you cannot figure out how old they are.

Old enough that I didn’t realize there were people that old out there.  (Contemplated several “Farts dust” comments and decided against.)

They did not use the seats that came with the table.

They roll with their own seats. (Literally. Their walkers have built in seats.)

And the weird thing was, they didn’t have to move the chairs that were in the way, they just kind of disappeared.

They rolled up to the table and people just kind of grabbed the chairs and moved them.

No words were exchanged.

And the old folks said nothing.

They just sat and sipped tea.

Starbucks just became the afterlife’s waiting room.

I am waiting for the Grim Reaper to walk in and ask if the chair across from me is open.

And on the other side…

“What is so important, Chuckie?” The voice is tired, and the conversation just started. You have to wonder why.

“Charles, please.” Being corrected by a decidedly effeminate voice holds it own special brand of annoying.

“Fine, Charles.” The sigh is a gimme. “What is so important?” (I present the rest of the conversation without my comments, to preserve the integrity of the art.)

“The power is out at my apartment.”

“When did this happen?”

“2 days ago.”

“2 days?!?! Dude! What did you do about it?”

“I have sent the management company several texts.”

“Texts? So you have been living in the dark for 48 hours? Did you check the breakers?”

“I don’t know what those are.”

“Chuckie, you are fucking useless.”
“It’s Charles. Stop being crude and help me.”

“Why are we meeting here? Why not have me meet you at your place?”

“I just couldn’t even today.”

“What the hell does that mean anyway?”

“I would call you a menace, but you lack the ambition.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“Yeah, I will help you. Fuck you are useless.”

“Belittling me is not helping.”

“I’m just amazed. Fucking amazed. Fine, lets go.”

“We can’t yet.”

“Why?”

“I’m waiting for a caramel macchiato.”

“Oh my God!”

Now, for a little scenery.

“Chuckie” Has the little brother feel to him. His hands are soft and you can tell that whatever he does for a living, its not strenuous and he rarely breaks a sweat.

“Older Brother” is dressed in a vintage AC/DC t-shirt and shorts with work boots. His hands have the look of a construction worker.

The two look enough alike that they have to be brothers.

Except for one thing.

Older brother is thin and maybe 5’3.

Chucker appears to be 6 foot plus.

The genetic keno game odds on this one boggles the mind.

It was at this point that one of the old folks on the other side of me, remember them? Anyway, one of them, no clue who, farted pretty loudly.

The wife looked across at the husband.

“What?”

I sipped my coffee and looked straight ahead.

“Clowns to the left me…”

 
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Posted by on July 21, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Talking about ass here…

“Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one.”

Someone threw that line at me recently.

As my twisted mind spent the next 20 minutes finishing that line.

Here are the top 3 second halfs to that phrase:

Opinions are like assholes, everyone has one-

  1. And unless its your own, it stinks. (Think I’m wrong? Next time you are at the bank, bend over and stick your nose in the ass crack of the lady ahead of you. Once the effects of being maced and/or tased fade, see if you can remember if it stank or not. And if she was hot, the test is now tainted. Guys will accept anything for hot chicks.)
  2. And mine is better than most. (I have to say, this is the God’s honest truth. My ass is awesome. I’m not saying you could bounce a quarter off of it like when I was a pre-teen alter boy, but if I shaved it, man or woman you could not keep your hands to yourself.)
  3. And keep your finger out of mine. (I think that line speaks for itself.)

There comes a point when you need to recognize that your opinion is just that, an opinion.

And then…..

Let it the fuck GO.

I have had 3 instances that simply pointing out the hypocrisy or the irony about some screed that someone posted online led to upset.

And the level of butthurt that went on was shocking.

2 of them were about how to live your life.

Vague, tough love credos tend to be the type of thing that goes over big in the off the rack society generated by social media.

The one thing that they all seem to have in common is that they badger you about how big a waste of time social media is, while using social media links like the biggest attention whores on the internet.

The 3rd one had such a solid base of hypocrisy, it was like the literary version of slight of hand.

It started off talking about the ultimate acceptance of all things and all people and posited that everyone is right.

Religion, politics, social conventions, and anything else you can think of.

And then, the next 3 quarters of the screed was a promotion of their personal religious/political belief is the only thing that makes sense to the point of other beliefs being ridiculous.

The biggest mistake you can make when dealing with the echo chamber mentality of modern thought, is to voice either a contrary opinion or not praising it immediately.

And I want to feel bad, but there has to be a line where people stop being coddled.

The base understanding needs to be made that not everything one person or group believes is right.

Sometimes, and lets all take this step together, sometimes there are multiple correct things.

And this is where coffee comes in.

Because when someone makes a comment that you either disagree with or you think is simply half tarded, you can just pick up your cup and take a long sip, then sigh, and say the following:

“Eh, what are you gonna do?”

At first glance, I realize how that line looked to those who have never done it.

But try it, honestly, you will be shocked.

Its the move that they will see as whatever they want it to be.

And it saves the butthurt.

Plus you get to drink your coffee.

Life would be easier if all communication was centered around coffee.

Mmmm coffee….

 
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Posted by on June 23, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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