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Me, my bitch and the drunken clown.

I am in love.

That pure, spring is in the air kind of love, not the hair-pulling, “spit in my mouth” type of lust you see in porn.

I’m talking innocent here.

Gracie is my bitch.

True, she belongs to someone else, but dats ma biotch!

She is also a dog.

Something about dogs this week.

I am in Starbucks and there is another dog in the store.

Gracie looks like a miniature doberman pinscher, but smaller that whats in your head right now.

And she is into me.

She has been licking my elbow for the last half hour.

In certain 3rd world countries, that is as binding as wedding vows. (Although it saves me the bridal price of 3 goats.)

But, as with any true and pure love, there are issues.

Gracie likes to fart.

Maybe like is the wrong word.

Must, must fits better.

Gracie must fart.

It is an odd ironic twist that my nose, broken several times over the years, has a wide collection of smells that are denied me.

With the exception of rectal potpourri, and especially that variety of canine eau de toilette they are so well known for.

Eh, I’ve dated worse.

She isn’t cheating, has a drug problem, crazy ex, or 10 kids without fathers. (I am assuming here, but she seems like a good dog.)

But there is someone trying to break us up.

Gracie’s owner.

No clue what her name is, but I want to call her “Hot mess”.

Except that the word Hot feels odd in this sentence.

She’s a heavy girl, not that that’s unattractive, but this is that unhealthy kind of heavy.

The makeup was done by a drunken clown on a meth binder with Hodgkins.

In a very old woman, iffy crazy makeup would be somewhat excuseable.

But the drunken clown appears to be an ill-kept 22.

There is a low level murmur that has been going on for awhile now.

Except when she suddenly becomes aware of Gracie and me.

“Gracie, NO!” and yanks her over beside her, then goes back to being oblivious as Gracie comes back to me, begins licking my elbow, and farting one more time.

It is my sincere hope that Gracie does not shit on the cushion beside me.

Who knows how long the drunk clown has had her in here?

I am interrupted from my musings by the fact that my coffee has cooled just enough to drink without blistering my mouth.

There is an almost orgasmic delight in that first sip of a properly done pour over with Ethiopian Yirgacheffe beans. (And this is with clothing on, go figure.)

Mmmmmmm… coffee.

Gracie seems to share my excitement and snuggles up.

It is a good moment to exist in.

Even the drunken clown minds her own for that moment.

Which is good.

Sometimes, you just need that moment.

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Posted by on August 27, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Till the service dog goes blind

There is something off-putting to other people when you lick your nuts in public.

Like a social faux-pas that is a little too blatant to ignore.

Before this goes much further, this is not about me.

I am not that flexible.

And if I was, I sure as hell would not have time to be writing a blog.

I would have “things” to do.

Doug, however, has no issues with licking himself in public, he’s been doing it since I got in line at Starbucks.

“Its obscene!”

The stage whisper ahead of me is from Gladys. (Google “Gladys Bewitched” and it makes sense.)

Gladys is all up in Doug’s shit.

Doug, by the way, is a service dog, a real one with a vest and everything.

And Doug has a serious thing going on with his nuts today.

Gladys is highly triggered by it, but can’t seem to look away.

The two stoners behind me are delighted.

Here is their first comments, verbatim:

“Dogs have all the luck.”

“What do you mean?”

“I wish I could do that.”

“Try petting him first.”

5 minutes of laughter followed that seemed to upset Gladys even more.

Doug didn’t seem to mind at all, he just continued licking his nut.

“Sir!”
Gladys has officially, “Had enough”.

Doug’s owner was texting and missed this whole deliciously uncomfortable scene.

“Huh?”

Raised eyebrows show no comprehension or acknowledgement of Gladys’ #MeToo ordeal.

“Can you do something about that?!?!”

Gladys wants SOMETHING done.

“Like what?”

The smirk on his face is not helping here. (Its a Service Dog, pretty much, he could kill someone and I think that is legal.)

“Do something about that!”

Gladys wildly gestures in the direction of Doug’s testicular garden party.

“Looks like he’s got it covered.” (Outright laughing only makes it worse, dude.)

“Make him stop!” (Gladys is hitting her peak of outrage. Worse seeing but a little sad, too.)

“I don’t like to interrupt him when he’s eating.”

And then goes back to texting with a chuckle.

In the silence that follows, the stoners lose it.

Gladys fumes and and crosses her arms defiantly.

But she will NOT stop watching.

Jealous?

Maybe she should pet him.

Damn, I need coffee.

 
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Posted by on August 24, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Can I have some more, please?

I have been accused of being uncaring.

I am not denying it, but I did have to ask for clarification about WHAT I am not giving a shit about. (I may be an asshole, but I am a specific asshole)

Turns out my rude critic was talking about the fact that I have not written a post in 2018, and THAT was why I was uncaring.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

I haven’t written anything BECAUSE I care.

I haven’t seen anything that has gotten my sarcastic muse wet in the panties.

The well has gone dry, I am burnt out, I may never write ag-

I was walking down the street and saw an old dog, laying on a porch, licking his balls, and then it hit me.

We are all here for a reason.

Time to get back on the horse.

So I went to Starbucks and looked for inspiration.

And it turns out that inspiration keeps a tight delivery schedule.

Sitting next to me was the coffee shop version of Job. (To those on you unlettered heathens, its pronounced “Jobe”. Job was the whipping boy of the scriptures. God let the Devil gang beat him like a ginger and he never lost his faith. Thank God it was him and not me, I don’t have that kind of fortitude. I get a papercut and I am questioning my existence.)

 

The story of Job.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…etc.

Blah, blah, blah, you know the rest, its the opening line from A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens.

Here’s the thing about Dickens.

He was an asshole when it came to life.

Everything being dark and sad and people living in such shitty conditions that the kids in the UNICEF commercials would be willing to take a break from waving the flies out of their mouths for a few minutes and pony up a couple of bucks.

So, if you ever want to ruin your day and shift into a “What’s the use? I may as well kill myself” type of mode, pick up a copy of anything written by Dickens.

Why the hate rant on Dickens?

Because the guy next to me has the saddest story I have ever heard and his name is Oliver. (Started out as Job, then morphed to Oliver. Its a reach, and I acknowledge that, but fuck you, its my blog, I am God here, and it is what we are going with.)

Oliver, it seems, has lost his job. (Pronounced “Job”, if you are a millennial, you are probably wondering what a job is. Ask your parents, if they will still acknowledge you in public.)

And, “Hanna” has left him for someone he knows. (Wife or girlfriend, I am not quite sure. But she is out there, legs in the air, doing shit that career fetish hookers charge high dollars for and its all pro-bono. (Pro-bono isn’t the right word there, but the hooker-bono linguistics are spot-on funny.)

And if that sore on his lip is an indicator, Oliver has a little herpes going on. (Either given to him by or he gave it to, the disloyal skank Hanna.)

Turns out Oliver is wearing those special ortho shoes that has one sole taller than the other, indicating that both of his legs are different lengths. (I almost left this one out, even I have a hard time believing that little detail.)

“But what is your biggest problem right this minute?” I hate getting involved, but someone has to ask the obvious question.

Oliver pondered, went to take a sip of coffee, stopped and shook the empty cup, laughing.

“I’m out of coffee.”

And then he hobbled his unlucky ass up to the counter for a refill and a scone.

At least he has his priorities straight.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on February 16, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Because Homicide is illegal.

Homicide is illegal.

I know this because the guy in the leather biker vest with the tattoos said so.

I remember it quite clearly. He had the guy in the suit backed up against the wall, not putting a hand on him, but asking the guy in the suit if he would like him to beat the shit out of him, because homicide is illegal.

And, while I am always on the side of law and order, I am in full agreement with the biker at this point.

I really do hope he beats the shit out of him.

Lets back it up for a moment.

See, I am not a cat person.

Everyone is free to get the pet they want and more power to them.

Cats however, are evil.

I think that is what happens when someone gets more than 2 cats.

They wait till you are asleep and then whisper things in your ear, vile things, atrocities that the mind can barely understand.

Maybe. I am not saying they do this FOR SURE.

I’m just saying maybe.

But this is not about cats.

Its about dogs.

I am a dog person. Dogs love you, care for you, worry about you and carry their own weight.

A dog once took a bite from a rattlesnake to save my brothers on a camping trip. My father drove across the desert in the middle of the night to save him. Awesome dog.

That, I think, is the one redeeming quality of modern society. That is what will pull us back from the abyss.

Apparently, the biker and I see eye to eye on this matter.

Enter the guy in the suit.

With his dog.

Its a cute little kickem dog, Pomeranian I think.

It doesn’t suit the guy in the suit, so I am going to assume it belongs to the wife/girlfriend, and he has brought the dog along while he gets his morning coffee at Starbucks.

But, its a shitty walk.

The guy in the suit seems to think that dogs can pee and shit while never breaking stride and inconveniencing him.

I followed him up the block from my parking space.

It was a block filled with cursing at the dog, yanking, hard, on the leash, and, at one point, dragging the dog.

He really is an asshole.

Even being 20 yards behind, I voiced an angry “HEY!” that only got me a dirty look as he turned the corner.

It was then I noticed the biker get off of his bike at the curb, right where the corner was, throw down his coffee and stomp around the corner after the suit and his dog.

Good, now we are all caught up.

I have not had my coffee yet, but this is worth waiting for.

Karma, it seems, has a whole new act and I must say, its about goddam time.

I realize there is a childish, school yard element to this, but what the hell?

Lets look at the biker as a surrogate for the dog.

He’s a little dog, and the suit is much larger than him.

Correspondingly, the biker is much larger than the suit.

In prison, that would make the suit his bitch.

That last line, although making me laugh, may have gone a bit to far.

Prison rape being a little much to witness before morning coffee, I am still rooting for the ass-whooping.

Alas, it was not to be.

The suit practically shit himself while spouting an extensive series of apologies and promises of proper dog care.

The biker let him go unharmed.

The suit left without heading in to get his coffee.

Hopefully, he remembers his promise to treat the dog better.

Maybe not.

But that ass-whooping would have been sweet to watch.

 
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Posted by on June 27, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Surrender, Dorothy.

All good things must come to an end.

Today is my last day working in Manhattan Beach, the sweet location by the beach.

Moving on, better things, all that.

The blog will continue, so don’t worry about that.

I am moving work digs to just down the road.

And there is a Starbucks nearby, what do you know?

I lead a charmed life.

I am walking up the hill, the reverse walk to my car from the office.

Sun is shining, birds are chirping, there are a few ladies wandering around in bikini’s.

And there is a homeless guy that resembles a scarecrow standing in front of Starbucks, shouting at people.

Now, I am a people person, we all know this.

I like to talk to people, all sorts of people, usually homeless people.

Because nothing says funny like crazy.

And, like striking gold when you are digging for worms, I find something special.

There is something special about the variety of homeless guy that chemically peaks into that shouting zone.

People react to that in such an interesting fashion.

By pretending he is not only not there, but by obviously pretending he is not there.

Putting your hand next to your face to supposedly keep from seeing the guy is just plan rude.

I like to view this as a street performance.

And his act? Its a classic.

He has the usual homeless appearance, complete with wild hair and scraggly “Unibomber” beard.

I cannot seem to shake the image of the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.

In a twist, Scarecrow appears to be a gypsy homeless, despite the fact that most scarecrows are rooted in place. He has a bicycle with a child trailer containing a non-smiling german shepherd. (Never a good thing when they don’t smile. But, given the circumstances, would you?)

“Don’t go in there! Bad fucking news in there! They could give fuck all about y’all!” This is being shouted at the top of his lungs.

Eye contact seems to be in short supply, so when I stop and look right at him, he takes the bait and focuses on me.

“Stay outta there!” Complete with an angry finger jab in my direction.

“Why?”

Just from his enthusiastic reaction to a simple question, I might be the first person not wearing a badge or high on meth that has talked to him in months.

After a second of orientation, he continued.

“You can’t be homeless in Starbucks!” The shouting really makes it a little difficult to chat.

That seems harsh. Starbucks as a corporation, would have a hard time defending that policy in the media. Best to dig deeper.

“Are you sure?”

Ok, that pissed him off. It cranked the agitation level up a few notches. I am safely out of lunging distance. Hunter S. Thompson said that you can turn your back on a man, but not on a drug.

Fine, no turning my back.

“FUCKIN’ A, I’M SURE!” The dog growled.

“Hey guys.” A very mellow voice came up behind me.

Ah, the police.

The rest of the conversation was not something I was invited to, so I left.

The police always prefer private conversations, they are picky like that.

 

I will miss this Starbucks as my daily stomping grounds.

I have written close to 500 blog posts sitting mainly at these little tables.

In life, the only thing that is a constant, is change.

So, I will move on, and remember all the scenes and people that I have witnessed here.

And I will miss you most of all, Scarecrow.

 
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Posted by on January 31, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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