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Judgement Day

Don’t judge.

In my own judgmental way, I try not to. 

It’s like that phrase, “Don’t hate.”

This is always said by people who judge and hate so much that, as a person, it defines them. 

These are the same people who also claim they can’t stand “Drama”.

This is because they exist in a hip deep pile of drama and drag that shit along with them.

And if you just thought “That’s not me”.

Yes it is, quit being a pussy and at least be honest with yourself, even if you can’t with everyone else.

And if you still can’t agree that this is how you live, what you need is what alcoholics call a “Moment of clarity”.

Here is the bonus for you.

Addicts need to hit rock bottom before they find their clarity. 

Emotional rock bottom is less messy on the outside and easier to hit. 

Inside you are a mess, but on the outside? You didn’t shit yourself, got yourself in a bar fight you really should have known better and (most of?) your relatives are still talking to you. (So you still get an invite to Thanksgiving.)

But how do you recognize if you are a broken train wreck.

Here is a HUGE indicator.

If someone has ever told you “That’s rude.” in response to something you just said, and your response is, “Truth hurts”.

Then you’re a bitch.

And that is not directed at any particular gender. (Guys have the capability to be much bigger bitches than the ladies.)

But there is hope. 

The silver lining in all of this is that salvation is just a short distance away.

Stop being a bitch. 

Simple phrase, complex concept, especially if you have been existing in a bubble of negativity for a decade or more. (Most have and its a pretty wretched place to be without realizing it.)

I can hear your denial from here.

And your accusations.

What about you?

Are you familiar with the phrase “Water off a duck’s back”?

It takes not caring to another level.

Take this test. 

Have you ever had someone tell you that you are an asshole?

How did that make you feel?

If you answered the question at all, you have no choice but to stop being a bitch.

It’s the difference between viewing it as judgement or observation/identification.

Like asking a frog his opinion of the water.

So here is the recipe for Shakubuku. (Buddhist term for the path of a happier nature.)

Shut the fuck up. 

That simple.

And while you are shutting up, start listening.

Not to words, those spew out of most people’s mouths at a rate consistent with the flow of a large sewage pipe.

But what do they mean?

This isn’t Avatar, but you need to make the bond. 

Phrasing, body posture, eyes respiration, all the basic skills of an FBI profiler go into truly listening to other people.

And only then, do you realize the truth.

Most of them don’t have anything to say.

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Posted by on December 1, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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The coming of Bridezilla

Bridezilla is a real thing.

You see that word and you envision a reality show, some over-indulged, moderately privileged bride snapping at people as she plans her wedding.

And then you are in Starbucks right now and you realize that the most over the top episode of Bridezilla is a best case scenario. 

Because she is here.

The bride to be.

Amber.

The name conjures a Britney Spears image. 

A pretty blonde with good teeth in suggestive clothing.

The suggestive clothing is there, and that is all.

In your head, replace Britney Spears with a chunkier Roseanne Barr with bad hair and a serious overbite.

Take a second and let that sink in. 

If a shudder just went down your back, understand that its just being described to you, I am actually here.

And her entry is epic and befitting the name Bridezilla.

The front door of Starbucks opens with a little too much force and in she comes, talking on her phone to Lorraine. (How do we know her name?)

“Because I’m the fucking bride, Lorraine!” 

The phone being an inch from her mouth did not stop her from yelling. Loud.

Is the situation made better or worse that Amber is about 6 months pregnant?

That is a rhetorical question.

And the argument could be made that it doesn’t make it worse, but it does add to the comedic value of the entire situation.

Also, call me old fashioned, but the soon to be mama should go easy on the caffeine.

A soy latte with a triple shot seems excessive. 

But she is drinking for two. 

To each his or her own.

Sure you risk low birth weight, but have you HAD a triple shot soy latte?

It’s divine.

Lets check the obscenity board while we have a moment.

Things Lorraine (Maid of Honor) has been called in the 2 minutes since Bridezilla came into our lives. 

Cunt 3 times. (To be specific, 1 cunt, 1 dumb cunt and 1 response of cunt when responding to what I believe was Lorraine objecting to being called a dumb cunt.)

The list will end here. It seemed like a great idea, and then it got entirely too sad when viewed as a societal comment of millennials in general. (Plus, Bridezilla is sitting next to me and I am in fear for my life that she will lean over and read this.)

So, after the longest 10 minutes of my recent life, during which a triple soy latte was guzzled, 6 petite vanilla bean scones and 1 Gogurt from her purse, Bridezilla got up and stomped her way out of our lives. 

I was going to make a joke about missing her already, but its a little late in the game to start lying to each other.

In parting, let me throw some wisdom your way. 

Call your mom, if you are married to the mother of your kids, kiss her, send a text if she is your ex-

And thank her, from the bottom of your heart.

For not being Bridezilla. 

(Unless she is, then you are just fucked, my friend.)

(And if she is Lorraine, dim the lights, get her a glass of wine and rub her feet. You’re fucked too, but in a different way. And if you can get me an invite to the wedding, I would consider it a solid. Thanks bro.)

 

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Posted by on November 24, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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My how you’ve changed, Tiny Tim

(Tiny Tim was kind of a main-stream side show freak that played the ukulele and sang in a high enough soprano made dogs howl. The importance of this will be apparent soon.)

The one thing you never want to do when out clubbing in Vegas is cross a line.

Let me set the scene for you.

Ceasar’s is one of the higher end casinos in Vegas.

The crappiest bar there is still better than 80% of bars elsewhere.

The pretty people are out in droves.

Some of the dresses cost as much as a bottle of high end wine.

The drinks are amazing, but cost a bloody fortune.

The breasts that are on display are expensive, not common work at all. (I am not saying I have extensively studied this subject on numerous websites, but it is important to have a hobby.)

So the last thing you want to see….. is Tiny Tim.

If I had to make a guess, I would say that Tiny Tim is the manager of tech support at a Best Buy is Walloby City, Kansas. (Walloby City is technically not the middle of nowhere, but you can Uber there for under $5 even during prime time.)

The best thing you can say about Tiny Tim is that he has plenty of confidence and he is thoroughly convinced that he is a “Hot Piece of Ass”.

The worst thing you can say is that he has never been, is not and will never be a “Hot Piece of Ass”.

The casino is high 60’s, on the comfortable side of chilly. 

But Tiny Tim had a good sheen of sweat going on when he walked into the bar.

And once he started dancing, flop sweat is the term that came immediately to mind.

Knowing that you are prone to flop sweat, you would thing Tiny Tim would avoid bright cottony t-shirts. 

Bright red cotton shirts darken if you sweat even a little bit. 

But they create dish plate sized sweat stains around your armpits the second you use the phrase “Flop sweat”.

The second worst thing you can say about Tiny Tim is his dancing is a visual affront to the senses.

That is why this next line is going to come off as fat-shaming.

Its not, but let me explain.

If you are just under 6 feet tall, your weight could be an average of 160lbs to 220lbs, depending on what kind of build you have.

So Tiny Tim’s bowling ball like shape puts a weight at over 300, but not more than 400lbs puts an idea of exactly what type of dancing you are expecting from him. 

White guy shuffle, right?

WRONG!

Tiny Tim loves to twerk it seems. 

Yeah. Let that sink in.

If you suddenly feel an urge to shower and scrub your skin raw, resist it. 

No amount of soap will make you feel clean after this. 

There is a group of guys on the edge of the small dance floor.

They look like mid-level managers for a manufacturing company. 

One guy looks like a beefy Ichabod Crane. (Sleepy Hollow? No? Fine, tall and geeky looking)

Ichabod is standing in place, bopping to the music, but is not noticing Tiny Tim’s ass, moving closer with each twerk.

And then it happens.

Tiny Tim’s ass makes contact.

To say that Ichabod flinched is to ignore the definition of the word. 

Ichabod’s entire body torqued and he shot back about 3 feet.

“WHAT THE…!?!?!?”

Tiny Tim knew what happened, judging by the little smirk, it was his intention.

Ichabod has several emotions going on at once. 

First, he’s pissed. (Somebody touched him on his naughty bits without asking for permission to come about.

He never expected his trip to Vegas to include his own personal #MeToo moment.)

Second, he seems like he wants to be confused, maybe praying that he is reading the situation wrong.

(Keep praying, sluggo. Tiny Tim rubbed his ass on your junk. In certain cultures, your are now engaged.)

Third, he seems……disappointed? (Was he perhaps thinking that he deserved a hotter dude? Your dress shirt and jeans look is really not that studly.)

The interesting thing is, Tiny Tim has not stopped dancing. In fact, he has turned away from Ichabod.

Ichabod has been used and cast aside like a cheap one night stand. 

And he didn’t even get breakfast.

Poor guy. 

I hate it when relationships don’t work out.

I am a romantic at heart. 

 
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Posted by on November 2, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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The podcast is live!!!!

The Caffeinated Humor Podcast is Live!!!

Read and listen! The blog that does it ALL for you!

https://anchor.fm/caffeinatedhumor

 
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Posted by on October 28, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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The Turd Burglar

Usually, I get to Starbucks and then things happen.

But today, everything started without me. 

When I got to Starbucks, the police had been there for awhile. 

Nobody got hurt, but it was an odd little shit show for a brief period.

Now, I am not one to judge…..

Ok, even I can’t bullshit that one, I am nothing but judgement. 

I think I would be happier if I could add jury and executioner to the list. 

But let me continue. 

In my completely unbiased opinion, the tweaker piece of shit in the back of the patrol car was not a good looking guy before he discovered his deep and abiding love of meth.

Let’s call him El Diablo.

The broken table I am still trying to figure out.

The urine on the sidewalk is also a mystery. 

According to several people who responded to my inquiry of – “What the hell was that?”

  • El Diablo was briefly in line at the cashier and was “Gacking bad”. (Still Googling that one, no clue.)
  • El Diablo may or may not have had his dick hanging out. (The couple that told me this are split on this. She says no, he says yes. My opinion? Why is he checking out El Diablo’s package?)
  • El Diablo (Let’s jump the gun and just call him The Suspect, shall we?) anyway, the Suspect then knocked  over a display of expensive coffee beans, then began screaming and cursing until the police arrived. (Actually, it was just a display of coffee beans, they are all expensive. When was the last time someone said “I can’t believe how cheap coffee is these days.?”)
  • The Suspect, when officers were taking him to the car, stopped in one spot on the sidewalk, refused to move, then pissed himself. (This is one of the greatest protest moves ever. Kind of like a karmic “You can’t fire me, I quit!”)

Police officers are notoriously closed mouthed about what goes on when they are investigating something.

However, you catch the right cops on the right day…

I walked by two cops laughing quietly off to the side. 

“So I told him that if he has any drugs on him, its a felony to take them into the station. He immediately ponies up that he has a baggy up his ass. I ask why, and he says – I always keep my drugs in my ass, then I can’t be robbed!” (This sentence is just wrong. I keep looking at it to see if there is spelling or grammar issues. There are none, my mind is just balking at the content.)

Then the other cop’s reply made my day.

“Except by the turd burglar!” 

Oh my God.

I almost pissed the sidewalk myself.

Take him away boys.

 
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Posted by on October 14, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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Book #4 is out!!!

The 4th book of the Caffeinated Humor series!!!

All the content you love, packaged together for your entertainment.

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Click this link! ——>It’s the Coffee Talking: Caffeinated Humor 4

 
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Posted by on July 18, 2019 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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