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Tag Archives: anger

The shit that comes out of your mouth

I was listening to someone in a Starbucks the other day and they said something odd.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what she thinks.”

First of all, ew.

Second of all, specifically, how much is a rat’s ass worth?

And why am I wondering about a rat’s ass? Is this a gay thing? Either way, its a nasty thing to contemplate.

And, as always, that got me wondering about weird phrases that I hear on a regular basis that make no sense.

And here they are:

“That guy flew, ass over tea kettle, into the ditch.”
I heard this one not five minutes after the “rat’s ass” comment so it stood out.
Why would your ass be over a tea kettle? Why is the ass involved again? It can’t be based on a physical reality, mainly because it makes no sense.
Maybe its dirty. (Pretty much anything can be dirty, in my opinion. )

“I don’t know whether to shit or go blind at this point.”
I have done some thinking about this one and it may be tied to masturbation.
Can’t be sure. Going blind, however, harkens back to the admonishments of my Catholic school upbringing.
And as I always say, we can talk about masturbation later.

“Old habits die hard.”
I doubt this is about how difficult it is to kill nuns.
Sorry, catholic school can affect your perspective for life.
So can prison for many of the same reasons.

“it’s hotter than a snakes ass on a hot rock.”
WTF? Who the hell talks this way?
If I am going to consider this one at all, I have two comments.
One. I was not aware snakes had asses. I mean, I realize that they have to have some way to shit, but you never really think about them having one.
Two. The person that thought this one up has beastiality issues. There was long, hard contemplation of a snake’s anus. Unless you are an anthropologist. this points to some sort of serious sexual issues.

“Familiarity breeds contempt”
I am a big fan of contempt. There are times that I feel like people are trying to be too polite, too politically correct.
However, I think most people find it easier to be ruder to strangers. The better you know someone, the more likely you are to be nice.
I am not a good example of this.

“Going to hell in a handbasket.”
This one makes no sense at all. This sounds more like a fetish type of thing. Some sort of fire bondage/whicker torture thing.

In the end, I think a lot of weird phrases just get made up, sound cool and caught on. They can be stupid, sick or just make no sense.

Looked at from that perspective, I am in favor of these little annoying phrases.

After all, like my Mother used to say:

“Get your ass in the house or I will plant you in the driveway and run you over with the car!”

That one never really caught on.

 
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Posted by on October 18, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Armageddon, brought to you by Pastor Harold Camping.

So, the world is ending and stuff…

Pastor Harold Camping, a serious hell-fire and brimstone snake oil salesman from Oakland California is at it again.

You all remember Pastor Harold, he was the one that said that the world was going to end last May.

Except that it didn’t.

However, right before his May 21st Armageddon deadline, thousands of the soft headed sent him millions. (If the world is ending, why should they keep it? A better question is, why would he need it?)

When that Saturday came and went, Slick Harry laid low for a few days, then said that he got his dates wrong, it was going to be October 21st.

Ok……

At a press conference back in May, Slick Harry then said that he believes Judgement day came and went and we just didn’t realize it.

The Almighty is giving us 5 months to repent since the world is going to end and all.

Kind of like an Armageddon lay-away program.

Anyway, that 5 months is up this Friday.

Time to pay the fiddler.

Let me throw out my own little prediction.

The world………..is not going to end.

And the Slick Harry, sorry Pastor Slick Harry will have an explanation why it didn’t, and it will somehow involve an extended deadline and the need for donations.

So it breaks down to the basic two items.

Nothing happening and donations.

Money makes the world go around.

Oral Roberts said, and I quote, “Donate 8 million or God will call me home”?

My brain was split in two different directions.

Part of me was stunned that the Almighty would be involved in some sort of shake down for cash.

The other part was in awe of Robert’s balls.

THAT is how you play the game.

Now, while this was in 1987, he still raised 9.1 million. In 1987, this was an astronomical

At the time, I remember wondering if perhaps the Almighty would call him home anyway.

Not until 2009.

Pastor Slick Harry is not as polished as Roberts. While his ministry raked in 80 million during a 4 year period, (According to the IRS) I don’t think he has the pull to make money demands.

He’s just not that photogenic.

Roberts pioneered Televangelism. He perfected the TV demand/pitch for decades before he tried for the big score.

Pastor Slick Harry is a fuggly old guy. (Combination of two words. Think about it.)

He kind of has that freeze-dried look I love in a tyrant.

If they arrested him tomorrow for child molestation, I would not be shocked. (Something about his eyes.)

Now if the Almighty would just call him home.

But maybe the Almighty is not looking to have to put up with him. Thats like getting stuck with the here-after check, and its never pleasant.

Or he gets shot during a carjacking, serial killer, something.

As long as its plausable, I don’t think it will be investigated all that hard.

Countdown to Friday.

 
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Posted by on October 17, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Peeing is tough enough.

I don’t like being mad-dogged at the urinal.

Let me pee in peace.

There is kind of an unspoken etiquette at the men’s room urinals.

It is a lot like being in prison.

For the most part, guys are convinced that a possible prison rape seen could happen at any moment.

Its a tense atmosphere for most guys. Except the guys that are in the men’s room, looking for love.

Me? I don’t need any new friends.

That being said, could you look lovingly into someone elses eyes for 2 minutes?

No offense. This is a don’t ask, don’t tell. I don’t ask because I don’t want to be told.

Let me set the scene.

There are four stand up urinals against the wall, with the door on the right.

If I take the one 2nd from the left, that leaves one between me and the wall and two between me and the door.

If you come in, please take the one furthest from me, it causes the least trouble.

If you take the one next to me, on my right with the door, you will interrupt my urinating as I wonder if there is an attack coming.

And god forbid you take the one between me and the wall. At this point, I am done urinating and I KNOW you have an agenda.

And I don’t need to have my urinating interrupted. I am at that age where any issue with the flow has me worrying about my prostate. You have to watch that sucker like a hawk.

Back to the urinal.

I realize how all of this sounds. There are some of you screeching “Homophobe!”

And?

I think a little fear is good for you.

So is guilt.

Keeps you on your toes, your head in the game.

I was raised Catholic, so the whole fear and guilt thing goes with it and I get that.

We keep getting away from the urinal and I am starting to think that it is an ok thing.

Urinals smell horrible.

Ladies don’t realize how bad men’s rooms are.

I always refer to them as the Monkey Hut.

Like at the zoo.

Shit on the walls is unpleasant, but not all that unexpected.

Men will pee on the seat, on the floor, the wall.

You name it.

I once read a news article about a man who had never used a public toilet. He spent a huge amount of time travelling from work to home to use the bathroom.

The more I think about that one, the more I think that it would be awesome.

It would be clean.

It would smell nice.

And no one would maddog you mid-pee.

 
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Posted by on October 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Ask not for whom the vibrator tolls…

“That thing is just obscene!”

That kind of line, when harshly whispered, will always catch my attention.

I have been waiting patiently at Starbucks for my favorite people, the Evil Couple, to start the show. I have never sat near them that there has not been a show. (To catch up on who the hell these people are, click here.)

They are whispering, something never done before.

To my mind, that says one thing.

Its something dirty.

Based on what comments I have been able to make out, Mrs. Evil Couple was either given or has bought, a marital aid.

A vibrator.

That revelation is both erotic and somewhat icky.

Let me explain.

Mrs. Evil couple is in her mid thirties, and might be one of the hottest women I have ever scene, but only on that rare one time out of a hundred that she dresses up.

The other 99 times, she has a wild low-rise blonde afro, no make up, thick gray muscle-man sweats, and a t-shirt that is always several sizes too big. (Underneath that t-shirt is a large bust line without a bra.)

Take a moment and let that sink in before you read on.

“Why does it bother you so?” Mrs. Evil is done whispering, it seems. Her tone has taken on something I recognize immediately, I wonder if Mr. Evil does?

She is taunting him.

“You don’t need it!” He is almost spitting. Evidently, even with the decade plus of marriage to this woman under his belt, he has still not figured her out.

“That is your opinion.” She lays that one down like a card shark throwing down a full house.

This was a no-look rib-kick he was not expecting.

“What do you mean by that?” He doesn’t sound so sure of his anger now.

Big mistake, this woman can smell the blood in the water like a great white.

“Perhaps this is not the place to discuss, this.” That is one of those phrases that makes you feel just fucked. That there is a LOT more to say, but it will obviously upset you, so lets take this private. Its a master-stroke move.

Now I am getting the feeling she is taunting me.

Please discuss it here, please, please, please. I am not above a little psychic begging here.

There is such a duel set of feelings in observing this woman. How can anyone be both vile and desirable at the same time.

Its like the old show Kung Fu, with the studant trying to snatch the pebble from the master’s hand. Except that the master is Charles Manson, with incredible cleavage.

Thats where I am at. Sometimes this blog twists the shit out of me.

Where were we?

Oh, right, the aforementioned vibrator.

Confusion is almost dribbling down his leg like piss at this point.

“I think we are ok in that department.” His tone makes this a question.

Oh, shit.

She will not let this one go. I have seen her eviscerate him with less of a straight line.

She sips her coffee and eyes him over the rim like a cheetah looking over the caribou from the tall grass.

This is not going to be pretty.

“It is not for me. Its for Magda’s shower.” She smiles slightly, batting her eyelashes at him.

WTF?

I’ll be damned. She let him off the hook.

She pulled her punch and threw the fight.

As I sip my coffee, I remind myself of the fact that while she may think her husband is an idiot…

He is still her husband.

As I pack up my laptop and head down the street, a song is in my head. As I get to the corner, I remember the title of the song and I suddenly know why this particular song is in my head in the first place.
“The lion sleeps tonight.”

She’ll be back.

 
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Posted by on October 13, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Deep Fried Goodness

Question: When is a deep fried Twinkie healthy?

Answer: When its deep fried in pure canola oil and wrapped in recycled paper.

Welcome to the LA County Fair.

The sign I am looking at has well over a dozen, evil gut-buster delicacies, and at the bottom of the window, a sun-faded sign proclaims that all items are deep fried in pure Canola oil.

Well, that just makes it all better , doesn’t it?

County Fairs as a general rule don’t really have a strangle hold on the health food issue.

And I am good with that.

You almost have to have bad food at a fair.

Its expected.

Not to partake of the deep fried goodness would be like going to a Tijuana Strip club and ordering a lite beer.

It just misses the point.

There is always new stuff the is deep fried every year that I have never seen.

It amazes me. You would think that it has all been done by now.

Here are the 5 mainstays of the deep fried fair world.
1. Twinkies.
2. Oreos.
3. Foot Long corn dogs.
4. Snickers.
5. Funnel cake.

Of them all, corn dogs and funnel cakes I can deal with. With the rest I have to make a judgement call as to the current state of my stomache. Nothing ruins a day at the County Fair more than projectile vomiting.

As for the new comers to the deep fried carnie-world, here they are.
1. Kool aid (I shit you not.)
2. Cream cheese. (Not bad, actually)
3. Butter. (Good god.)
4. Bacon. (Which is then dipped in chocolate, just to add insult to injury.)
5. A ten inch wide maple donut, covered with bacon bits, topped with a hot fudge sunday, topped with whipped cream, nuts and cherry. (While not a true County Fair, fried food, I wanted it included here because it shocked the living shit out of me and I am still in awe.)

My fiancee continues to argue to this day that the nuts at least “Give it some protein.”

This is a lot like arguing that at least Meth is fat free.

Let me get back to that Maple-bacon-donut-hot fudge-sunday. It was incredible.

It wasn’t even on the menu, it was a combination of two separate items on the menu. When we suggested it to the cashier, she looked at us in confusion, like we had just told her that her cat had tennis elbow.

Didn’t compute.

Three cashiers, a manager, and two cooks later, it was decided that it could be done. The biggest delay was them trying to figure out how much to charge for it. To carnies, this is their whole reason for being.

We ended up paying the same price as if we had bought both a Maple-bacon donut and a Hot-fudge sunday.

Whatever, creating a legend is never cheap.

I ate half of that monster and my stomach still twinges. Projectile vomiting was on the table that day, but I managed to keep it together.

The taste was incredible.

Plus, it had peanuts.

 
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Posted by on October 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Here Kitty, kitty, kitty

Being accused of being a burglar is a dicey thing to try to talk your way out of to begin with.

Luckily, I used to make my living on the phone, so talking is something I can do well.

But let me explain how I ended up in this predicament.

First let me say that I am not a cat person.

Never have been, never will be.

I would say that I am a dog person, but I need to be more specific.

I am a big dog person. Little dogs of the kick-em variety make my teeth itch.

But at least they are not cats.

A pet that gets to sleep in the house and gets fed daily has an obligation to protect the house. Kick-em dogs at least try to do their part and yap incessantly at strangers.

Big dogs are friendly, playful, and just might rip the throat out of a burglar on occasion.

Back to cats.

Cats are the mooching welfare recipients of pets. You owe them a living, food, board, toys…etc.

Oh, and then theres catnip.

Cat lovers love to stockpile catnip because, and I quote, “Cats love it.”

Its a drug, dumbass.

So, the welfare recipient of pets has a drug of choice?

Of course they do.

Off on a tangent there.

Cats also have the annoying tenancy to escape on occasion.

And that would explain why I am walking down the street in downtown Sacramento at 7am calling “Here kitty, kitty, kitty!”

I feel like an idiot.

However, one of the main reasons I am out here is to keep the peace.

Its my fiancee’s daughters cat, and the girl is one of those types that views the cats as her children.

I love each and every one of the dogs that I have ever had, and I have buried over a half dozen, but lets not lose sight of the fact that they are pets.

Just pets.

However, a house cat that gets out doesn’t understand about cars.

I figured that, if I cover a lot of local streets and find the cat, smashed flat in the middle of the street, I can at least scrape the poor beast up and dispose of it before she see’s it. She may read this and be pissed at me for this, but its a “Protecting” parent type of move. The last thing she needs is to get it in her head that “I have to see her”. Bad idea for the long term memories.

That way, poor Whiskers was never found and may be living happily somewhere. Certainly not tossed in someones recycling garbage can and sent to the land fill.

And then I see her.

Alive and staring at me a half block away at the entry to an alley.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

She takes off.

Shit.

I am hoofing it into the alley, fully aware that a chubby man with stubby legs cannot out run a cat in its prime, but I have to make the effort.

The cat is dawdling, about four houses into the alley, staring at me.

I get one house away, and the cat vaults the fence. The fenc e is a wooden one, a solid one despite the rickety one next store.

I am describing the fence in detail because I was eyeing it as I ran at it in an attempt to get over it.

Short men, as a general rule, tend to avoid climbing fences in a hurry. Its the type of thing you really need to take your time at.

Except that I am in a hurry.

The little furball will be gone if I don’t hurry.

I vault the fence and flip over it, land in a three-point stance.

Kitty is across a short yard and three steps up on the back porch.

I walk up slowly, making “It’s ok” sounds.

The cat isn’t having it. She runs up the porch and hides in a corner.

I am on the porch, walking towards a hissing cat thats cowering in a corner, when it hits me.

Wrong cat.

Thats when all hell breaks loose.

Back door creeks.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY CAT?!?!”

Shit.

Some of my slickest fast-talking bullshit comes during moments of extrame stress.

I twisted a masterpiece of BS involving a diabetic cat dying of cancer that desperately needs its meds.

Cat lovers eat this shit up and I have absolutely no shame at the moment.

In short order, I am let out of the side gate so that I will not have to hurt my back again going back over the fence again.

I believe the poor old woman was going to get her shawl so she can go look for poor dying, diabetic, cancer-ridden (I have to stop this shit at some point) Whiskers.

My phone rings.

“I found her! She was hiding in a laundry basket! Isn’t that cute?”

I hang up.

God, I hate cats.

 
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Posted by on October 11, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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My rude past…

I have an odd reaction to really embarrassing moments.

I get louder and become fearless.

This can be a really bad combination and it rarely leads to things calming down and moving away from whatever the embarrassing starting point was.

Here is a good example from my past.

There is a fine art to having sex in a restaurant.

And I am not artist.

Maybe I should add a little bit of back story here. In a certain sense, I am still the dirty-minded 13 year old I always was.

I was in an El Pollo Loco with a new girlfriend.

We were in the honeymoon stage. That cool period of time right after you figure out that you are sexually compatible, and you really can’t keep your hands off of each other.

You can only sit in a booth making out for so long before the help begin to get twitchy. And we are not wide eyed teenagers. Being past the age of being old enough to know better, but obviously not giving a shit ratchets up the discomfort of others even more.

And that is when the idea of sex in the bathroom begins to make sense.

El Pollo Loco almost encourages this sort of behavior. The bathrooms are always in their own little secluded hallway.

This discourages witnesses. And the bathrooms are single occupant only.

We are both a little iffy about the whole scandalous thing right up until we get in the bathroom.

Its on like donkey kong.

Less than 30 seconds later the knock on the door comes.

Its loud, its impatient and its incessant.

“We have to stop.” She is the voice of reason in these situations.

“No, we don’t.” I am really not in control of my actions at this point. My penis has taken control and he is a tyrant.

“Stop” Once out of their teens, women are much harder to talk into things they have decided against.

“How do we get out of here?” NOW she is worried. Women hate witnesses. Men view witnesses as more of an annoyance than an embarrassment.

This is where I become Rambo with a hard on.

“We go out one at a time, no eye contact.”

She straightens her clothes while I put mine back on. Men seem to get naked a hell of a lot quicker in these situations.

I put my hands on the lock and the door knob and look back at my somewhat nervous partner in crime. I blow her a kiss, but I can tell she is missing the humor of the gesture.

I open the door and find an old woman waiting with her hand poised to rap on the door again.

Her eyes widen in shock at a man coming out of the bathroom. I focus on the hallway next to her and step past.

“All yours chief.” I am now headed for the parking lot.

Pure guilt makes me look over my shoulder.

It is worth risking the look back.

My partner had tried to push the door shut the moment I cleared the thresh hold.

The old woman recovered from her shock quickly and tried to get into the bathroom.

There is a brief struggle with both trying to move the door, one to get it open and the other to close it, presumably to hide.

Then the door is forced open.

My partner makes her first mistake.

Eye contact, frozen in place.

A number of things should be falling into place mentally for the old woman at this point.

If there is more to be seen, I have no way of knowing.

The front door is in my hand and I am now free.

You are on your own, sweetie.

Don’t hold it against me, survival is an instinctive thing, and those old ladies can be vicious.

A few minutes later, my now thoroughly embarrassed partner exits the El Pollo to find me across the parking lot, sitting on the hood of the car, smiling and about to begin laughing loud.

“You’re an asshole!”

What the hell did I do?

I would ask, but I have pulled enough shit in my past that I don’t question the asshole accusation.

She forgave me, eventually.

As part of an unspoken agreement, we steered clear of fast food bathrooms from there on out.

Looking back, I view that as a damn shame.

There is a poster I see here and there about living life.

Here is my version.

Live well.
Laugh often.
Love deeply.
And if you are ever kicked out of an El Pollo Loco bathroom for having sex, NO EYE CONTACT!

 
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Posted by on October 10, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Don’t shit on the help!

Some people are just genetically pre-disposed to pissing me off.

I am in a looooong line at Starbucks. In front of me is a woman that, and I rarely use this word, but it fits, is snooty.

Make that snooty bitch.

The word bitch gets over used by so many that it almost loses its charm. Just when I am tired of it and just about to quit using it, I run into someone that bristles with indignation over the mere utterance of it.

Back to the snooty bitch.

She is on her phone. Whoever she is talking to may as well be asleep because snooty bitch is talking non-stop about every subject under the sun, without stopping, barely pausing for breath.

Like some sort of unstoppable chatty-Cathy doll that figured out how to yank its own string.

All things seem to fall into one of three subjects.

1. How much it cost. There was a brief tirade over the merits of her car versus her sisters car. “My car is a $50K Mercedes for gods sake, Her car costs less than $20K and she boasts about how many cup holders it has, if you can believe that.”

I like cup holders. Where would I put my coffee otherwise?

2. Where she got it. Evidently, you can buy the same product in two different locations, and one will be better than the other because of the location. “I bought my Iphone at the Mac Store in Brentwood. Jim got his at some place near the airport, and he has had nothing but problems.”

Steve Jobs was a great guy, visionary and all, (RIP Steve) but he would have loved to wing a spare Iphone at snooty bitch.

3. Where something is made. There is a pretty interesting denial streak running thru her, and she fancies herself as something of a patriot. “You know me, I only buy American.” She says this into her made in China Iphone, after having driven here in her made in Germany Mercedes. Having known her only a few minutes, and also knowing almost nothing about fashion, I am still willing to bet cash money that her bag is Made in France Prada. (It could be a knock off, but those are made in Thailand.)

Finally, it is her turn to order.

But she won’t stop talking. She is having two conversations at once, or maybe just one. The conversation in the phone takes priority over placing her order.

“I would like a venti Caramel- did Jim mention were are going to Barbados for Thanksgiving? A caramel moci- no, he likes the water there.”

At this point she begins flapping her hand like the girl is just being difficult with her. Finally, she yanks the phone away from her head with an exasperated sigh, speaking with the cashier like she is a slow child.

“A venti caramel mocchiatto with extra caramel.” She gives the UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLY patient cashier a snotty smile.

“Was that so hard?”

She didn’t!

She did!

She is not a ginger, but I am just on the virge of putting my foot to this rotten snooty bitch’s ass.

The cardinal rule in any food establishment is you never shit on the help.

Most chain stores try to regulate it, but there is an excellent chance that someone behind the counter is going to spit in her caramel mocchiato with extra caramel.

And I hope she spills it in her Mercedes, right on her Iphone.

 
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Posted by on October 7, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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A homeless coffee break

My new homeless guy, Juan Carlos, is on a break. He is sitting quietly on his corner with a blanket pulled over his head.

For those who have no idea who that is, Juan Carlos is the new crazy homeless guy on the block.

He just kind of showed up a few days after my previous favorite homeless guy, Garrett, died.

RIP Garrett.

He is still learning the crazy homeless game. He doesn’t put of a cup for change most days.

He also has the odd habit of singing loud Portuguese fishing songs.

It scares the mothers walking by with their kids.

Bad for business.

My deceased friend Garrett knew the game. His move was to argue with himself about corporate environmental policy all day long, but he always stopped to say thank you when people put money in his cup.

They should have some sort of homeless bootcamp for new homeless. Just something to show them the ropes. Kind of a “How to maximize your profits” workshop for the crazy and unemployed.

Like anything, its a business.

I could never make it as a homeless person. I have a thing about showering and especially about my hands being dirty.

I would be one of those starving homeless that no one would give any money two because my sign would suck. I would get too sarcastic.

Real quick, top 5 homeless signs in recent memory.

5. “Natalie Portman is pregnant and I need money for a nice gift.”
This one I find hard to swallow. Natalie is a bit of a bohemian, but she did go to Harvard and when you roll with that crowd, the stick up your ass is not optional. So the thought of her having a homeless friend to the baby shower is slim.

4. “I slept with Lindsay Lohan last week. Please help.”
Entirely possible, that girl turns into a half naked, hot mess when she gets shit-faced. The homeless guy’s sign is more likely true than not true.

3. “Why lie? I need money for a cold beer.”
I will not give money to this, but at least its honest. The question is, does honesty pay? Historical evidence says that it does not. You get no cold beer from me.

2. “Bet you can’t hit me with a quarter.”
I actually did this. He didn’t even move, so I threw another one.

And now for number one, drum-roll please.

1. “Ninja’s killed my family, need money for kung fu lessons.”
This guy got an entire dollar out of me for shear originality. I walked passed him, saw the sign and lost it. The guy just put his hand out and I paid. He had me and he knew it.

I have an old school mate who posted the following on Facebook. “I am shocked that people are so accepting of the homeless problem. The homeless is a modern problem.”

Thats so cute. Actually, the social voices of every generation back into the dark ages make comments like that. These voices always live comfortably and are always outraged, but not to the point of giving up their own comforts.

I usually slap down that kind of ridiculous comment whenever possible, however, she is hot, and I am just an evil sexist at heart, so I will continue to be nice, but essentially treat her like hot useless furniture that you might get to sleep with if you bide your time.

Some of you are now laughing, some of you are just pissed. But, ask yourself this.

Are you laughing/angry because its bullshit, or because its true?

Me, I am laughing because I find the whole thing amusing.

But that’s just me.

The long and the short of it is, I started putting a cup out for Juan Carlos the other day, starting it off with a dollar of my own. It has stayed out since, and the money disappears.

See, I am not heartless.

I’m just an asshole.

 
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Posted by on October 5, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Hella is not a word, people!

The first thing she said was:

“Babe? I need something hella good for breakfast.”

It was such an odd little phrase that I looked up from what I was reading as I walked along.

It was a young Asian girl, early twenties or so. She was hanging on the arm of the gangly boy walking next to her. It was that type of clingy type of arm holding like she was afraid he would float away like a balloon.

As we walked the last half block to Starbucks, she proceeded to call him Babe 31 more times, I counted. She used the word hella a lot less, but it was more annoying.

First of all, hella is not even a word.

It was like listening to Marine Corp recruits begin and their sentences with a specific word.

Sir, yes Sir!

When they turned in at Starbucks, I was both elated and bummed. Elated because I am always on the lookout for odd personalities and bummed that this vacuous dip shit was ahead of me in line.

My need for caffeine in the morning can be an ugly thing sometimes. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want my coffee.

There were 3 people ahead of us in line.

Lizzie, the girl, as referred to by her boyfriend, was like a hyper child in a toy store.

“Oh babe, the coffee cake looks hella good!”
“Babe, did you want the donut? We could split it and a coffee cake.”

My teeth began to itch.

If she were 5 with these communication skills, this would be cute. But, god damn it, this is a woman in her early twenties, and it was more like looking at a caricature of the most annoying woman the artist could think of.

Live and in person.

Shit.

I counted 26 more “Babes” in line.

Pace yourself, dear.

I took a seat right next to them and set up my laptop. I would rather get a root canal, but I am willing to take one for the blog.

The perfect opportunity to be a dick came when Lizzy told “Babe” that she had to pee “hella” bad.

I waited for her to hit the bathroom then caught “Babe”’s eye.

“Morning Babe.” I said this with as straight a face as possible, then sipped my coffee to hide the smiled.

He flinched and had the good grace to act both annoyed and embarrassed.

“My name is Mike.”

Spitting coffee is never a great way to start a conversation, but I could not contain it.

Whatever else I was going to try to say was lost in the laughter that came over me.

I lost it.

I fought for control for about five minutes.

Babe just sat there looking a little pissed, but going further down the road of being really embarrassed.

Lizzy came out of the bathroom and found Babe standing, waiting for her.

Before she could ask anything, he turned and walked out clutching both coffees and the baggie with the pastries.

There are times I need that as much as the coffee.

I think we all do, but have been told over and over that its rude.

Fuck it, I feel really good today.

 
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Posted by on September 22, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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