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What the mob wants.

This is appropriate.

When reading a particularly suspenseful passage in a book, to worry the nail on your finger.

When bored, put your elbow on the table and prop your chin on your palm.

Neither one of these are weird.

This is weird.

When sitting in a Starbucks reading a book, (Get a Kindle you freak!) and running your hand across your OWN face as if you are caressing the face of a lover.

For 20 fucking minutes!

There is a creep factor here that is off the charts.

It creates something in the casual observer much akin to swampass, but with a karmic filth to it that only jailed pedophiles and Ned Beatty truly understand.

My morning is ruined.

I would have left 20 minutes ago, but I opted for a sumatran roast and it really is spectacular.

Excellent coffee is the one thing that can make me put up with unacceptable shit.

And unacceptable it is.

This is not like a moment’s discomfort, go about your day, act like it never happened.

This is like, go home and burn your clothes, cry naked in the shower, join a support group type of deal.

In a another era, we would have chased him thru the streets, naked and bleeding.

Him, not us, just in case that wasn’t clear.

I didn’t ask for my morning to go like this.

I came here with the intention of writing a sweet blog about St. Patrick and Ireland and a cute legend about snakes, and maybe end the post with a prayer.

And then this happened.

Pedophiles and lynch mobs.

Set against a background of rich Sumatran coffee.

Think about something twisted for more than 5 minutes and the Japanese will have dozen websites up within minutes, charging a monthly fee to watch a clammy-palmed gang of creepy motherfuckers, all fondling their faces a reading moth eaten romance novels with Fabio on the cover.

He is the type of guy that is heavily into Pinterest. (If you don’t see whats wrong with that, I cannot help you.)

He’s no stranger to police lineups.

I swear, at some point in his life, he has been standing in a police line up dressed as Santa Clause.

“Number 4, please step forward, drop your pants and say HO HO HO.”

If my coffee were not so hot and just now becoming drinkable, I would not put up with this shit.

Oh shit!

He’s on the move, no doubt saw a helpless victim across the room that he wants to drag into his raised 70’s van.

He goes to the counter.

I am staring at him thru the steam coming out of my cup.

“Can I get a refill of the Sumatran?”

Oh.

We are drinking the same thing.

I hate to be shallow about this, but it really is a good cup of coffee.

And besides, my mother likes old school romance novels.

And he does know his coffee.

Eh.

Ok, so he’s not all that bad.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Little Orphan Meth-Head

“Its a hard luck ROCK, for us.

Its a hard luck rock, FOR US!”

 

“The pipe will come out, tomorrow.

Bet your bottom bitch that, tomorrow, there’ll be crack….”

 

This visual is killing me.

Out in front of the supermarket, is a folding table.

Taped to the front of it is a poorly xeroxed pictures of smiling kids.

A sign on the table asks for donations for foster kids.

The little honey behind the table, I assume to collect the donations as they roll in, is a human being that has lived a hard life.

Meth is not even in question, there has DEFINITELY been meth.

Missing teeth tell a story all their own.

But, and here is the kicker, this is all about her.

Meth will do that to you, make you the main character in every story.

And she is on the phone.

Angry.

Practically yelling.

“These fuckers want me to sit here like a retard, begging for change for minimum fucking wage!”

Wow.

Let that sink in.

Take a minute.

Got it?

Lets move on.

If we take our clues where we may find them, we have the tragic tale of Little Orphan Meth Head.

She is not homeless.

How do I know this?

She has a house arrest ankle bracelet, so she lives SOMEWHERE.

She is making minimum wage, but has not walked off the job, so, at some level, she gives a shit.

Lots to love, lots to hate.

Plus she has a potty mouth and doesn’t give a shit who hears it.

Sliding over into love here.

I am hiding just inside the automatic doors in the store, out of sight.

However, my presence is making the automatic door stay open.

When no one comes out but the door stays open, eventually she will notice and the jig will be up.

Next epic line.

“I don’t give a fuck where they put those little bastards!”

Big step to the hate.

Do what you want, but don’t fuck with the kids.

They have a hard life too, but they had no choices, unlike our orphan.

Run your whiny mouth all you like, addiction is still not a disease.

I contemplate for a few minutes what to do.

Do I get involved? Complain? Try to talk her down? Something?

Something it is.

I play wallet roulette.

I reach into my wallet and grab the first bill from the middle and pull it out.

I don’t organize my money, so today, it could be any one of 3 ones, 2 fives, a ten or 2 twenties. (I am really sweating the $20s. I am charitable, not rich.)

In the end, I folded the ten and stuffed it into her box while holding my finger over my lips.

Crazy bitch actually smiled at me.

I left before Annie attacked Daddy Warbucks.

It was a beautiful moment, but lets not try and fool ourselves.

The sun will come out……Tomorrow!

 
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Posted by on February 10, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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The tell tale smell of fear and urine.

I’m not being a pussy.

There is a fine line between being superstitious about a date on the calendar and living in abject, shit yourself stark terror at the thought of a particular date on a calendar.

You wake up on Friday the 13th and realize that you are laying in a puddle of your own urine.

And it only goes downhill from there.

Someone tried to tell me that “It’s just another day, its no big deal”.

If this was a horror film, they would be the one that decides to investigate the abandoned boat house by themself.

In other words, they will be the first to die horribly.

Fear is a funny thing.

Not funny ha ha, but funny like scared and you turn and run into a pole funny.

I lost my keys on the last Friday the 13th.

That may not sound like much, but if I fell into a wood chipper trying to find them, you would feel differently, wouldn’t you?

See what I mean?

“But you didn’t fall into a wood chipper.”

Thank God!

I got lucky that Friday the 13 decided to find a victim elsewhere that day.

There are only 2 Friday the 13ths this year.

At least that spreads out the horror instead of it being just 1 day.

When its just 1 day, 1 Friday the 13th in a year, that is some powerful mojo.

That is like Y2K, planes falling from the sky, MASS HYSTERIA kind of day.

2 in a year is more of your, cheesy slasher film kind of horror.

That I can deal with.

All I need is coffee and to hear that click on the door of my panic room.

Then I can just sit there naked and drink my coffee and wait for the inevitable.

Why am I naked?

Why are you clothed? (Let’s not get bogged down with a lot of questions.)

Side note. A dog barked next door and I just about pissed myself. Shut that beast up, some of us are trying to quiver in fear, for God’s sake!

The sad part is, I have to go to work.

I showered and narrowly escaped slipping and cracking my head open.

I shaved and almost cut my throat open when my razor broke.

The drive to work was like a Mission Impossible car chase.

I am sitting at my desk, waiting for a disgruntled co worker to go on a rampage.

So I realize I am on borrowed time here.

Tell my kids I love them.

At some point, I am sure a Syrian refugee will commit an act of some sort in my vicinity with dire consequences.

Its kind of a “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and it will probably kill you.” type of thing.

So, if I survive the day and I am not in a medically induced coma, (Might be the only way to save me) I will write about my survival next week.

Until then, keep your head down, drink your coffee, and for God’s sake, put some pants on.

 

 
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Posted by on January 13, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Before the ball drops…

You know I have to get the last word.

I couldn’t let the year end without running at the mouth one last time.

New Year’s Eve is coming and it is time to lie like a politician to the one person we should never lie to.

Ourselves.

New Years is the time that we trot out our completely unrealistic resolutions and parade them around like a temporary trophy wife for all to see.

And they last as long as the trophy wife does and will desert you every bit as fast as if she found out you got no money.

At least you won’t have a lingering STD when the resolution is gone.

At least physically.

Mentally?

Anybody’s guess.

I have seen people pillory themselves like one of the Marquis de Sade’s regulars over not losing that 10 pounds from the holidays.

In reality, the only people that truly give a crap how much you weigh will be your pallbearers, everything else is just in your head.

At my Great Uncle Jack’s funeral, one of my cousins was struggling to hold up his end.

In frustration, he looked down at the casket.

“Jesus Christ, Jack!”

Hilarious.

First time I had ever witnessed someone berating a corpse.

I try to keep my resolutions either ridiculously easy to pull off, or impossible to the point that no one thinks its serious at all.

Here are my easy resolutions:

  1. Don’t get arrested New Years Eve. (Much easier since I quit power drinking.)
  2. Go to the gym. (I am going to the gym now, so I win by doing the norm.)
  3. Be nicer to the family. (Nicer is so hard to put a definition to, I can do what I want.)

And here are my impossibles, (Or perhaps Deplorables)

  1. Not be mean to people. (Not breathing would be easier. I am not a real fan of people.)
  2. Get taller. (If I knew how to pull this one off it would have happened decades ago.
  3. Masturbate less. (Don’t look at me, you’ll ruin the mood.)

I have finally come to this.

I hope next year doesn’t suck.

For those that claim that this year sucked, consider the alternative.

It could have really sucked.

Some people are pissed because a celebrity they liked died, or a politician they didn’t like won, or blah blah blah.

In reality, not a goddam thing actually went wrong with your year.

Happiness is a perception.

So if you are not happy with how this year was?

Get off your ass and get in the game.

Make next year a better one, by your definition.

And for fucks sake! Stop posting shit on Facebook, it makes you look like a douche.

Happy New Year.

Bite me.

 

 
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Posted by on December 30, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Because Christmas, asshole.

There is a point during the year that the holidays basically shit themselves.

There is the dread and tension leading into Thanksgiving.

Very few households are Ozzie and Harriet. (And very few people understand that quote. That may be a good thing.)

And then you survive Thanksgiving thru a combination of wine, verbal sparring and diligent use of Israeli Krav Maga for the nastier moments.

But its over, and the very next day, all hell breaks loose.

Black Friday.

The one day named after a color that is never called racist.

The holidays are touted by everyone who chooses to open their pie hole as that time of the year that we are supposed be better people.

So what better day to start the season than getting up in the middle of the night and going to stand in the cold, waiting for the doors of some place I would not shop at usually but the promise of door busters turns me into a miserable whore.

And then the doors open and the Hunger Games begin.

You would think that, with the advent of the internet and online shopping growing like it is, that Black Friday would be on the decline.

Take a moment and Google “Black Friday Walmart fight” and you would be stunned at the hundreds of videos that pop up. (The 500lbs woman from Queens fighting with the gang of skinny women was a classic.)

Nothing better to start off the season than putting the boot to people in the name of capitalism. (Don’t think I am smacking Capitalism, it is the only thing that will save us.)

Getting 40% off of something for the holidays is tempting but its not going to get me out in the cold for more than an hour, much less camping out for days.

True doorbusters are rare, but if fighting to the death with a 500lbs woman from Queens is the only way you can get a 60” LCD tv for your rent controlled apartment then maybe you shouldn’t have it.

You’re goddam right I said it.

If you are living on the government dole, living the good life is being kind of greedy.

(Wow, this took a nasty turn)

How about this?

If you do have a holiday that you value at some time during the year, try not to be a rotten shit in the period right before it.

Elf on the shelf made his bones on the guilt of people who act like assholes during the Xmas season.

Its a damn shame that we don’t have a mental Elf on the Shelf that could live in our heads.

Not to frighten small children, but to frighten the adult children.

A little mental baba yaga that threatens to rat us out to whoever is in control of your holiday.

That would have several effects.

Road rage would lessen, not go away entirely, but lessen. (You can’t get rid of human nature, just dampen it for short periods of time.)

Facebook wars would slow down. (Grow up)

Revenge sex would be oddly untouched. (Go figure)

The rolling of eyes and weary sighs would be on the decline. (Anyone under the age of 25)

And people could get back to the one thing that is really bringing us together this holiday season.

Bitching about Trump. (Whining fucking maggots.)

Merry Xmas

Bite me.

 
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Posted by on December 2, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Shhhh, nobody cares

There are times I love Facebook and times I hate it.

I tend to use it as a playground, treating everyone on it like playthings.

I see how much shit I can stir up on a regular basis.

And if you think there is no shit to stir, you are the shit.

Some people I go after their reaction like I am fishing for trout.

My high point was my fake account for the largest high school in Des Moines, Iowa.

There was a study that said this was the most average place in the USA.

So I created a profile, loaded a bunch of group pics, never a single person pic and choose a name that was similar to all the names on the largest high school alumni page in Des Moines.

I commented a lot on the Alumni page and then began sending out friend requests.

Within a month, I had over 200 friends, several people that say they remembered me and one girl that claims I made out with her at a party.

There was a vile part of me that really enjoyed slapping around these cyber mice like a digital cat, and a noticeable lack of remorse.

Evidently I have no shame.

Or if I do, I also have some sort of emotional disconnect that keeps it from influencing my actions.

I am good with that.

Everyone should have a hobby. (Fucking with people.)

And then there is times I hate Facebook for what it does to people.

It seems to bring out the therapy dependent tendencies in some.

These tendencies manifest in two different ways.

The first is a need for reassurance.

It starts with a passive aggressive statement about eliminating people unless there is some sort of response.

The immediate reaction is a reply of “Please don’t unfriend me.”

I immediately ask to be unfriended.

They usually think I am kidding.

Sad thing is, I am not kidding.

Who has time for this drama?

I deliberately use the word drama because there are those that constantly mention trying to avoid drama.

And they are the ones that are always hip deep in it.

The second tendency comes in the form of continually posting self help posters about how a real man/friend will treat you.

Its exhausting.

I stop being nice at this point.

I don’t have that kind of time.

There will never be a time that I make any demands of anyone on Facebook other than to try to force you to stand up to me.
I am a bully of sorts.

Usually I will push the various buttons of those that present themselves as Alpha types.

You want to play with the big dogs, learn to show your teeth.

Plus, in a sick way, its a lot of fun.

The biggest key that NO ONE seems to get is that none of this should be taken seriously.

Somebody said its like high school.

Not even that grown up in my eyes.

More like a sandbox of children all armed with smart phones.

So, if I happen to throw a little sand your way, wipe your eyes, pull up your big kid pants and throw some back.

Remember, nobody like a crybaby.

Child or adult.

A test reader just asked me why I sound like an ass.

Good, I am hitting the right tone.

So if one more person asks me to answer an obviously cut and pasted posted with a single word about how we met then repost, my answer will be “FISTING” and I don’t care how many coworkers and elder relatives they are Facebook friends with.

Just saying.

 
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Posted by on October 21, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Got something to say?

For God’s sake, wash your ass!

I don’t think I am asking for too much here.

I cannot name a time that Starbucks ever had a stank like this going on.

And the sad part is, it’s a self inflicted wound.

Starbucks did it to itself.

It all has to do with free electricity and lax policies concerning the homeless.

Every table is wired in a starbucks.

They do that so people like me will stay awhile.

The longer I stay, the more I will buy.

But here is the flaw in the plan.

The homeless will spend a dollar and stay all fucking day.

The government gives away cell phones with chargers and free cell plans.

The one thing the government does not give away is charging stations with free electricity.

So here is the one flaw in Starbuck’s plan.

I am positive that I am the customer they planned on with the whole setup.

As opposed to a $1.50 sale to someone who will then sleep in a massive BO stupor for 10 hours.

I can guarantee that little scenario is not on any business plan at the corporate office.  

I broke my nose years ago playing hockey, so I don’t smell much these days.

But the stench of the unwashed ass of the homeless guy at the next table is killing me.

“How can you be so cruel? You don’t know what his life has been like. Walk a mile in his shoes…blah, blah, fucking blah.”

Cry pussy, cry your eyes out.

All actions in life have consequences.

A dozen minor decisions pile up into 1 major issue.

Ignorance of the laws of life is no excuse.

“But thats not fair!”

Right, its not.

Doesn’t mean thats not how it is.

Sorry to get real on you, but that little rant I found balled up in the back of my head, so I dusted it off and put it out there.

Shit in my head has a shelf life.

I keep nothing past the due date.

That little philosophy will not win you a lot of friends and it will lose you a few, but at least you know that the ones that are left have a little backbone to them.

Excellent sign of people who I will piss off is that they use the phrase “There is nothing funny about ___”

Censoring yourself is like an addiction, it seems harmless at first and then you realize one day that it effects everything you do.

Trust me on this one, you don’t wake up one day with this type of literary tourettes.

Its a place you end up, not a place you begin at.

There is a scene in the epic tale Cyrano De Bergerac where Cyrano talks about being his own man:

“But, to sing, to laugh, to dream,

to walk in my own way,

free with an eye to see things as they are,

a voice that means manhood.

To cock my hat where I choose.

Not a word, a yes, a no?

To fight, or write.

But never to make a line I have not heard in my own heart.”

Edmond Rostand was the shit.

I wonder how he took his coffee?

 
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Posted by on October 14, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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