Category Archives: Uncategorized

Girls gone wild, Guatemalan roast edition

I have joined a sorority.

At least, I think I have.

At any moment, a pillow fight in peekaboo nighties may break out.

Keep in mind, public masturbation is still a crime in the USA. (Europe? Who knows anymore.)

I know, I know, details.

I am in a Starbucks that is in a really nice part of town.

Translation? Money, lots of money in this area.

This is LA so the definition of money can hit ridiculous levels. (As compared to parts of the country where “Money” translates into an ac unit in front room AND the bedroom of your double wide.)

It was one of those days were I sat down to write and came up empty.

And then the front door opened and in they came.

12 young, well monied, college girls.

This might be the beginning of a porn film.

And then the “Basic bitch” shit began.

Coffee selfies were taken.

Ridiculously basic complaints were made and the shrill voice of my sorority sisters proceeded to ruin every vile thought in my head.

Very disappointing.

Why do basic bitches have to ruin everything?

Shouldn’t they be passing Facebook chain letters?
Poorly written cut and pasted messages that claim to have been hacked, so don’t accept a new friend request from them. (AND NO ONE GETS THAT REQUEST)

Or posting memes about how a real man or a real friend behaves.

You know, weak minded, basic bitch stuff.

But maybe I am being mean here.

So let’s look at the facts:

  • I am making fun of total strangers without knowing anything about them.
  • I am not related to any of them.
  • My coffee is cold.

Ok, I am absolved of all blame here.

How can I possibly be expected to be nice to total strangers with cold coffee?

I think you are asking too much of me.

The manager sees me approaching and pours me a venti Christmas blend.

I must look shakier than I thought.

When I am low on caffeine, I get twitchy and am capable of anything.

The girls begin shrill laughter about something Manda has on her phone.

Gonna be a long day.

This started out so exciting.

And now? Migraine is developing.

I am creamed and sugared and just settling back in at my laptop, when things change.

Two of the girls begin to quietly make out, and Manda is now getting teary eyed at something in her phone.

Sex and drama, the two things that could salvage this.

There is a part of me, the part that was an alter boy, the one that is thoughtful and kind, that realizes that its wrong to be both joyful at Manda’s pain and horny at the young ladies intimate moment. (Sporting a semi that no one knows about is NOT a crime.)

However, let’s not lose sight 2 very important things:

  • I was only an alter boy for 10 days before that whole scandal erupted. (And thank God for bad memories, no one but me remembers the details of that vile affair.)
  • A single tear making its way down Manda’s cheek, public tongue kissing by smoking hot collegiate girls and an amazing Guatemalan dark roast can make the disappointments of the moment evaporate like a humor blog with little to no readers.

Plus, the Guatemalan roast is THAT good. (God bless Guatemala)

Mmmmm coffee.

Happy New Year.

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Posted by on December 31, 2018 in Uncategorized


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The legend of King Salami.

There are things in life we are never going to be proud of, no matter how far back in the past they are.

This is where that kind of deep down scandalous shame lives and eats at you for decades, but only late at night, when you are at your weakest.

There is a quote that goes something like, “The only thing necessary for evil to flourish is for good men to remain silent.”

And that is where I come in.

It is a tough thing to admit you don’t have a big penis.

Not exactly something you shout from the rooftops.

Maybe some backstory is necessary here.

I tend to be cynical and somewhat sarcastically rude, always have been.

But every now and then, someone decides I am their best friend.

If its a woman, what this ultimately means is, we are not going to have sex.

The friend zone sucks.

Anyway, when I was about 18, I managed to pick up a new “friend”.

Lovely girl, just broke up with her boyfriend and was crying about it on the phone to me.

In my head, I think I was trying to figure how to parlay her heartache into a naked wrestling session.

I know, what a dick.

Anyway, in the middle of the phone call, my older brother, who happened to be celebrating something by having gotten hideously drunk, got on the extension.

This was back when people had house lines.

The conversation went something like this:

“I’m on the phone.”

“Oh, sorry, sorry, was just going to make a call.”

“Ok, then get off the line.”

“Who are you talking to?”


“Why is she crying?”

“She broke up with her boyfriend.”

“Shit, that sucks. Hey Honey? I can fix your problem here.”

“Get off the phone.”

“I’m trying to help here.”

“Honey, the best way to get over an old boyfriend is to get under a new one. You are talking to my little brother here, and he can solve all your problems. He’s the King Salami, a genuine horse for christ’s sake!”

“Get off the phone.”

He got off the line, and the conversation remained fairly miserable.

And it would have ended there.

But I made a tragic mistake.

I told someone about it.

Not claiming it was true, but just relating the whole story.

And it was their idea to spread the word.

And the rumor took on a life of its own.

It went viral before Youtube even existed.

And to my shame, I never corrected anyone.

It was an interesting form of celebrity that I had never experienced before.

I liked it.

And then the inevitable happened.

Someone called me on it.

Worse, a woman called me on it.

I have used the term size queen before on this blog and I need to use it again here.

I was asked out, bought dinner, taken back to her place, properly seduced, and then all hell broke loose.

Size queens, it seems, are easily disappointed.

This was not a fun experience, during or after.

What had been an incredibly hot, flirty evening became a glaring angry question and answer session with only one outcome.

So I let that be a lesson.

Don’t lie about shit you can’t fake, because someone, in this case a wildly hot woman in a peekaboo nightie, will call you on it.

And then you have another rumor going around about the size of your genitals.

And that rumor is not as much fun.




Posted by on September 25, 2012 in Uncategorized


Make sure you pack clean underwear.

I personally think its impossible to get thru your teens, 20’s, 30’s and into your 40’s without baggage.

And I don’t think of kids as baggage.

Kids are the whole reason you go down that path, whether you realize it or not.

Some people either forget that or never realize that.

Its an instinct thing.

Herpes, now that is an example of negative baggage, but that is not the point I am making.

Fear of commitment, anger management issues, trust issues…etc.

Issue type issues.

That is baggage.

And its the type of baggage that can get you more baggage.

I have used the phrase, “You gotta find someone who’s bags match yours” before, but I was to explain what I mean.

It’s not just a catchy phrase.

Its like the anger management thing.

I have a couple of friends that have always had issues with their temper and their mouth, especially their mouth when their temper is up.

But each guy’s partner has different baggage and it affects the mix differently.

The first guys wife is a clueless dippy with little sense that likes to bait him.

I have waited for years for that fateful phone call that he killed her.

That line is only half kidding, by the way.

The second guy’s wife has past experience in counselling.

And he can be defused by her before he ever gets too cranked up.

It really is nice to see.

However, the second wife has a rare enough skill set that you wish occurred more often.

But, like diamonds, if you could find them everywhere, we wouldn’t value them as much.

And that seems sad.

One of the worst types of baggage you can have is a bad relationship.

Because once they end, the big piece of baggage splinters into multiple pieces of baggage.

And they morph and change, but generally eat away at you like radiation.

I know people who spend the rest of their lives dealing with the aftermath of the tragically bad relationship.

I may know something about this.

The best you can hope for is that, in the long run, you keep yourself open to opportunities and try not to shut sections of yourself down out of fear or reflex.

That being said, to use the old hippy adage, if it feels good do it.

One of the baggages you can pick up is a misplaced sense of trying to please people who are no longer in your life.

I had a divorced woman I have known for quite a long time admit to me that she does not let people she knows meet any of the men she has slept with since she got divorced.

She does this because she doesn’t want anyone to think she’s a “Slut”.

Who are these people?

As near as I can figure, it was whatever gaggle of rude judgemental bitches she ran with in high school.

Here is the truth, “Slut” is a high school term for a girl who’s jealous friends wish they could make out with the hot guy she was with.

Its what I like to call  a “Rotten jealous bitch” term.

And it really belongs in high school if at all.

Once you get out of your teens, if you decide to sleep with a guy, you are an empowered woman who knows what she wants.

And good for you.

In the end, I kind of think about it like the latin phrase, “Primum non nocere”

Translation – “First, do no harm”

And that counts if you’re naked or not.




Posted by on September 24, 2012 in Uncategorized


WTF is not just for texting.

I was going to write a line about how losing your car keys is like some sort of mental/emotional nightmare, but I managed to stop myself.

Restraint? WTF?

I recently rewatched Nightmare on Elm St, possibly the most twisted horror film I have ever seen.


It was bad enough that I feel like a whiny ass for even writing that line.

Unusual feeling for me, because I have written some foul shit on this blog without even pausing.

So, my somewhat pathetic minor annoyance at losing my car keys this morning has shot my day all to hell.

How sad.

I am currently in the middle of a working out binge, but being forced to bicycle commute because I am a dumbass with short term memory issues.

Maybe its Karma’s way of telling me to step it up.

I wouldn’t put it past Karma to screw with me.

Karma and I have a bit of a love/hate relationship.

I rip Karma on a regular basis for not doing its job consistently.

I want the evil to suffer, the righteous to prevail and such.

And Karma is severely hit or miss on this subject.

But, if Karma worked consistently, we wouldn’t even need laws.

And there is a difference between having a dirty mind and being evil.

A dirty mind is harmless, more or less.

Unless of course, you are one of those high strung people that lives a life of totally denying dirty exists, and when you run across it, you freak like there’s shit on your shoe.

I seem to run into those people all the time.

There are more of them than you think.

But at least I have a little patience, or at least time my descent into dirty a little slicker.

Because timing is everything.

Here is a perfect example.

A friend of mine told me about an encounter she had the other night at a concert club.

She ran into a guy that grew up locally.

And here is the first three things he said to her.

1. Oh, you went to #### High School? I went to #### High, just down the road.

2. Do you come to these shows often?

3. You should text me some sexy pics.

Let me make it perfectly clear that I am in favor of sexting when you know each for more than 5 minutes, but good Lord, dude!

As quick as this guy was off the start, I am shocked he didn’t whip it out and start jerking off at the table.

And trust me, nothing starts the party quicker than a little public masturbation.

But its that kind of lack of control that makes all men look bad.

Now, I am not providing excuses for this guy, but the woman in question is stunning and, in that sort of venue, drinking was involved.

God knows I have probably done worse, but its been awhile.

So the end result is that men look a little bit worse, women have their guard up a little bit more, and the whole game just got a little bit harder for everyone.

Nice going, dude.



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Posted by on September 21, 2012 in Uncategorized


Devil with the new suit.

There is serious business going on at the little mexican restaurant around the corner from my house.

The main player is a tall guy in what appears to be a really expensive suit.

I say appears because I used to dress formal business for work and I know suits.

What he is wearing is one of those “3 suits for $200 dollars” and they soak you for the tailoring.

The end result looks nice, but the material is usually pretty cheap.

But the sloppy looking bunch at the table with him are buying it.

The question is….what’s he pitching?

And he has to be pitching something.

Call me cynical, but it all comes down to buying, selling or recruiting, and various combinations of the three.

This is really where the sales background makes me an untrusting asshole that assumes everyone is a theif.

Except that I am usually right.

He could be selling cell phones.

But the venue is wrong, the suit is too much, and its a sale you make with the product in their hands. Let them fall in love with it.

I would venture that he is selling some sort of financial scheme, except that these kids don’t look like they have two fucking nickels to rub together. Just this side of Occupy types.

Religion comes to mind.

The suit fits, except that the guy’s hands are on the table and not moving.

Every time I run into someone talking religion in a public place, they gesture with their hands a lot.

And it stops being a stereotype when it is true every time you see it.

And that leaves recruiting.

For what?

The answer comes a few minutes later.

This guy is the evil task master and I am trying hard not to laugh my ass off.

Here is his pitch.

“Ok, I am going to take a chance on you guys because I like you.”

“You have to be moving the whole 4 hours, waving that fucking sign at traffic.

“I see you stop moving for 1 second and you don’t get paid for the whole day.”

Where do I start?

I love the affection at the beginning, moving into the dire threats and promises of refusing to pay.

I will tell you right now that there is no way in hell that he is paying them any way but under the table.

I would feel bad if these kids were teens, but these are guys in their 20’s, but from the general look and feel, these guys have never had a job.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.

The world needs ditch diggers.



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Posted by on September 20, 2012 in Uncategorized


Buy American, or my father won’t work on it.

Cars are a dicey thing.

You can baby them and also treat them like shit, depends on your habits.

But, even if you give the car nothing but TLC, it can still break down.

Such was the case with me and my car yesterday.

To be honest, I don’t shower the car with TLC, sadly my habits of vehicle maintenance are sorely lacking.

But you cannot pin the starter going out on me.

Much as you may want to.

Let me explain.

I come from a family of mechanics.

My dad is a master transmission mechanic.

My brothers and I grew up in his transmission shop.

Everyone is a fair mechanic.

Except me.

Not sure why.

I mean, you can try to pin it on extreme ADD growing up, but its a tough fit.

I can do the easy stuff, oil changes and brakes, maybe even a sloppy tune up, but that is about it.

So I counter this combination of sloppy maintenance and weak repair skills by buying american and only models my father likes.

The reason for that is not to curry favor, but to make sure he will work on it should it break down.

Lets be honest, what most repair places want to charge is a God damned crime.

So having a master mechanic in the family is a good thing.

Especially for your finances.

My morning started out fairly well.

I had some items to take into the office that were too bulky and heavy to carry the quarter mile from the parking bunker.

So I drove down.

However, stopping by Starbucks for a few moments for coffee and an email check sounded good.

It was when trying to leave and get to the office that everything went to shit.

Turn the key, nothing.


Now, I know what a dead battery sounds like.

Multiple clicks and sad sounding weakness.

And I was getting nothing.

So, I called dad.

Sounds like the starter.

I called AAA.

They insisted on sending out a very nice Armenian guy named Moe to check the battery.

It took 20 minutes longer than they said, but I am in no position to bitch here.

And this was after I told them that my mechanic had said starter.

Moe had all the latest equipment.

He had a grand total of 3 diagnostic things hooked up to the battery.

A half hour later, he smiled a gap-toothed smile at me.

“Its your starter.”

Thank you Moe.

So Moe left, he was only in a small pick up truck, and not the tow truck I originally asked for.

55 minutes later, Ceasar showed up.

Watching a gifted tow truck operator work is a serious treat.

I was parked nose in, on a hill, at an angle, on a busy street.

Ceasar had me out of their in under 5 minutes.

Did I have him tow it to his shop? The one he recommended no less than 5 times?


I took it to dad’s house.

I’m negligent, I’m not stupid.



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Posted by on September 19, 2012 in Uncategorized


Do what you gotta do.

There is a term that has become popular over the last few years and I have kind of blown it off till now.

Man cave.

The idea is that a guy has either a room in his house or at a favored bar that he considers his domain.

A place to go and typically watch sports and enjoy the company of other guys.

Drinking beer, belching, rude gestures and obscene stories are often there in abundance.

And there is a reason for this.


I have been in relationships since my mid to late 20s, and I am one of those that gets into it.

Yeah, I know. Say what you like. I do what I do.

The one side effect of being in a tight relationship is that your relationship with your friends suffers, unless you have the skill to keep all the plates in the air.

This is a skill I don’t possess.

So, for the first time in a long time, I find myself single.

Not by choice, exactly.

Story for another time.

So, to keep from brooding, I have begun filling up my time.

The UFC Gym provides some exhausting and much needed workouts, as well as a few bruises.

Ran into an old friend at the gym, and got invited to watch some football.

At the man cave.

I had forgotten.

There is a certain primal thrill to those stupid man things we do.

The dick jokes, hammering the other guys team, all of it.

And you don’t realize how much you missed it until you run into it again.

And the term “Man cave” certainly fits.

Its a primal thing.

Since its illegal to grab your spear and run out and kill things anymore, this is the next best thing.

Some women get that and some don’t.

The ones that do are quiet about it.

The ones that don’t are noisy as hell. Pretty annoying too.

These women are often single or are in a relationship, but never for too long.

And they usually have a lot of city miles, if you get my meaning.

To continue with the same analogy, you need to find an understanding woman with highway miles.

Lets face it, once you are out of your 20’s and 30’s, it is impossible to find a woman with really low mileage anyway.

So find one without ridiculously high miles that has been treated well by previous drivers.

And that one goes both ways.

Guys and girls, we all seem to travel thru life with a lot of baggage.

Some good, some bad, but everyone has baggage.

Its not hard to find someone to be with.

Its just hard to find someone whose bags match yours.

So is it better to settle and be with someone?

Or hold tight, set the bar maybe too high, and possibly be alone forever?

There is no science to it. No right or wrong. Everyone answers that one differently.

Do what you gotta do.



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Posted by on September 18, 2012 in Uncategorized


Dance, monkey, dance.

Just read something funny.

There is a serious post on Facebook by someone who posts nothing but protect life, protect the animals, blah, blah, blah.

And everyone who comments are the same types.

I have often heard them reference life as being sacred.

I agree with that, but not in the soft headed new age way.

But here is the funny part.

The latest post is, “Why are we still doing animal testing, when there are pedophiles in prison.”

And here is why its funny.

The list of comments is long and all centered around a common theme.

That pedophiles, (And most in prison, to quote one) deserve to be tortured to death.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no love for pedophiles.

In fact, I am in favor of torturing them to death.

But I don’t squeal at the mention of how cows are treated at a slaughterhouse. (What the hell did you think goes on there, dumbass?)

Or at the thought of global warming. (And if you buy that pseudo science I have some swamp land you can buy cheap.)

But enough of that.

I am currently baiting a severely soft headed acquaintance on Facebook.

She is like a brook trout, rising to the bait like she hasn’t eaten in years.

It all started with a fairly shitty comment about someone elses performing career.

Its one thing to have an opinion if asked, but when you blurt unasked for, really harsh critiques of others, I figure its time to play.

Dance, Monkey, Dance.

Sadly, I stopped being serious about a half hour ago, a lot of people miss that.

It does make for some serious fun.

People take things too serious at times.

I like to think that I was put here to help show people the error of their ways.

My vicious enjoyment of it is just a bonus.

I think it really comes down to this, just because you have an opinion, doesn’t mean you should go public with it.

Wait for it.

But if you do, do NOT act offended when someone calls you on your stupid shit.

I throw a monstrous amount of shit out there, but I am more than willing to argue about it.

I kind of view all of this as MY house.

We play by my rules here.

Which may explain why this poor little dough-head is getting so upset.

Some people don’t realize that you have to EARN the right to be believed.

Some of us will just blow you off as a little slow until them.

I view these people as overly emotional playthings to twist up as I see fit.

This is the part where I go a different route from most.

As you grow up, whenever someone was ignorant and rude, others would say, “Just ignore them”.

I don’t play that way.

You want rude? I can do rude.

And before you forget.

This is my house.



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Posted by on September 17, 2012 in Uncategorized


Who ya gonna call?

I was listening to a numerologist today that was on the phone to someone, pontificating about their life.

It seems the person on the other side of the phone had just lost their job one morning.

So she went over to her boyfriend’s house to tell him the bad news and be comforted.

She got there just in time to catch him shagging one of his neighbors.

Now if she got hit by a car that would be the trifecta of shitty days.

In situations like this, I am completely sympathetic, but I use humor.

Not so with Numerology girl.

“He’s a 2, you’re a 7, it was doomed from the start.”

The only thing worse than an I told you so friend is a new age friend touting some sort of pseudo science to say I told you so.

I don’t even know this woman. I have been in her presence for less than 5 minutes and I can’t stand her.

Numerology is bad enough, but she is what I call the “High Maintenance Woman.”

Its all there, the arrogant entitlement, the “I’m the expert” attitude, and, last by not least, her cup.

The side of her paper Starbucks cup reads like hieroglyphics.

I have no clue what she is drinking, but I can count 10 separate instructions on her cup.

She’s difficult.

I find that very annoying.

By contrast, my drink has one ingredient.


Well, hot water.

I add the Via instant coffee to it, and drink it.

This is a simple recipe, to be repeated if necessary.

I prefer things simple.

Right up until they get complicated.

Being a smartass when things get complicated is a helpful thing.

Dr. Oz agrees, so its all good.

I never found out what happened to the woman who lost her job and boyfriend in the same day.

And maybe thats a good thing.

Because other than being a sad thing, I don’t care what happens to her.

Thats not being selfish, thats called triage.

I have a select group of friends in my life that I care about.

And I am available for their problems, not everyone elses.

Yes, that makes me a little rude, but it also makes me an awesome friend.

Now, if the sad girl on the phone was a friend of mine, I would give a shit and talk to her.

I would also arrange for some cruel world types I know to go over and batter him till he shits himself as a reminder that infidelity is a sin, with the penalty taken out on his flesh.

Old Testament style.

(Please don’t riot and burn down embassy’s over that line, I didn’t even mention HIM.)

Moving on.

The true bad guy in this whole scenario is Numerology Girl.

She really is a waste of space and an entirely too complicated drink.

Not because I think Numerology is a joke, which I do, by the way.

But because her roll as friend is not to chastise the friend when she’s that low.

It to tell her what an awesome broad she is, and her former boss and boyfriend are assholes and should get some sort of disease that makes their balls fall off.

So, while Numerology Girl is amusing on occasion, however rare they may be.

I am still the one to call when the shit hits the fan.



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Posted by on September 14, 2012 in Uncategorized


Pissing off the help.

I sometimes don’t recognize when the situation goes south on me.

There is a really naive side of me that sails along like a slow child on the merry go round.

And then reality hits.

And yet, when I look back, I realize that I have that type of personality that seems to start trouble.

The art of pissing off the waitress is a subtle one.

It requires a fine hand, one trained for years.

Or it just happens.

The restaurant is a really nice one.

The occasion is a birthday dinner.

The fact that it is for a stunning 43 year piece of ass, made it even better. (Please forgive me.)

At first, I didn’t even notice that the waitress had an issue.

However, when the bread bowl is dropped from 6 inches off of the table’s surface, it is indicator that something is up.

I looked up to see the waitress glaring at me.

My mind begins asking and answering questions.

Have I ever dated this women? While it would certainly explain the animosity, she is too young and is built in the exact opposite of what I like.

Lets face it, being built like a 2×4 is not sexy, not to anyone.

How to play this?

Lets assume its a simple mistake and make her come to the party.

“Hi!” I tend to talk too loud and be way to cheerful when the shitty stuff starts, its a nervous reaction that makes people think I am enjoying it and am even more of an asshole.

“Can I get extra butter?”

To me this is simply a feeling out question. How bad is it?

The response is a sigh, an eye roll and she stomps off.

What the hell?

I the interlude while she was gone, I began to review my actions and trying to pick out what the hell I’ve done to piss her off that bad.

I find myself doing this on a regular basis.

Kind of a recurring theme with me.

And I have come to focus on the push off I gave her.

The push off is when you just sat down, and when the waitress first comes over, you tell her to give you a minute.

And maybe telling her that 4 times prior to ordering drinks is a little excessive.

But I am still kind of confused.

This is one of those restaurants that automatically adds 20% to the bill, so what in the world would she be pissed about.

Thats it! I think I nailed it.

When a waiter or waitress no longer has to worry about the whole hustling for a tip thing, two things happen.

The first thing is that when you remove the need to hustle for a tip, there is a certain amount of “I no longer give a shit” that goes on with some servers.

The other is the somewhat whiny sense of entitlement that happens.

Shit that they used to forgive and brush over in their quest for money.

Now? You are wasting their time.

Pretty much throughout the entire meal, she had this look on her face that was either annoying or disturbing.

And then my mind wandered, and I began to wonder if she really had an issue and I was being cruel.

Perhaps she has a rare form of facial Tourettes Syndrome.

Or maybe she got some botox from a doctor with a shaky hand.

Who knows?

And then I focussed more on the fact that the service blew chunks.

The fact that the meal was about 3 times what it would normally cost made the shitty service sting just that much more.




Posted by on September 13, 2012 in Uncategorized