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Sitting on Santa’s lap.

Christmas is coming, the geese is getting fat.

Holiday shit has gone South with the geese.

It certainly does not help that geese, prepared right, is kind of delicious.

Same goes for Dolphin. (I know, bad human. It is what it is and half of you are outraged.)

However, since its that time of the year that everybody is a little more prone to forgiveness, I have a shot at an existential kitchen pass on this one.

Maybe not.

Moving on.

There is a serious magic that goes on during this time of year.

I will give you a hint, it is not that holiday spirit, milk of human kindness or any of that shit.

Its called baking.

Holiday baking is a vanishing art that is a lot like magic, everyone claims they can do it, very few can and the rest is inedible crap.

The much sainted ex could bake like a fiend.

I should have argued for bakery visitation in the divorce, but I was drinking a lot.

Moving on.

There are only a few more shopping days till Christmas.

So get off your ass.

And get online to Amazon.

I don’t even leave the house anymore.

Amazon has made shopping too easy and God knows how lazy I can get.

Doesn’t matter what it is, you can find it at Amazon.

When your kids are little, the whole year revolves around Christmas.

You bust your ass to make it happen.

And then, they grow up.

Priorities shift and you find yourself getting more into the family side of it.

Like you finally caught your breath.

My big thing now is that I like to cook breakfast for the family.

Bacon, eggs, toast, hashbrowns and waffles.

A solid vegetarian offering.

There are a lot of folks who get into the holidays in a big way.

And some that don’t.

Very few have no opinion.

Its a lot like pissing in the shower.

You either do or you don’t.

And nobody is in between. (Except for a high school party where I stood outside the bathtub and peed into it. 3 people were already peeing in the toilet and there was no room.)

For those that don’t, go ahead and keep pissing and moaning about how annoying it all is.

The holidays are a lot like a steamroller, there is no stopping it, and if you stand in the way, it will just roll right over you.

The one holiday tradition that still bothers me is the Elf on the shelf.

Its a newer tradition and the reason it bothers me is that it is unnecessary.

Santa knows if you have been naughty or nice, the elf supposedly reports to Santa like a good behavior narc.

I am secretly holding out hope that, like all narcs, Elf on the shelf has a life-threatening boot stomping coming to him.

But alas, the best I can hope for is the occasional out of control 5 year old tearing him apart when mom is not looking. (5 year olds are a lot like socially acceptable velociraptors, blood-thirsty and terrible.)

But, once your shopping is over, you can concentrate on the important stuff.

Secret drinking and hating your relatives.

That sounds like a one off funny line.

More truth there the more you look, so don’t look too closely.

The holidays are like a bar pick up.

Its the setting and the alcohol that makes it attractive, just don’t look too closely.

If you are lucky, the holidays will not boil your blood pressure too much, and the gifts will not force you into bankruptcy.

And that is the true gift of the holidays.

Survival.

Merry Christmas.

 

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Posted by on December 23, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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The little asshole that could.

There is a fine art to procrastination.

Much like sleeping in, its awesome, right up until everything goes South and the situation turns on you like prison rape, uncomfortable leaving a lingering awkwardness.

And that brings us to this morning.

The blog, when I am being diligent and writing it ahead of time, is usually scheduled to post at 0500 Pacific time every Friday.

Unless I have Friday off, then I write it on the fly while at my favorite breakfast spot.

So what happened today?

Me, is what happened today.

I am not seated in my favorite breakfast spot, I am at work, just barely 15 minutes early, desperately pounding out words for you ungrateful bastards.

Speak of the devil and he appears, my phone just buzzed with a text from one of the blog devoted.

“No blog today? You lazy fuck.”

Not to turn this into an angry backlash, but when was the last time any of you whiny bitches scribbled anything other than a complaint for me?

And lets get one thing straight, I do not work for you.

You did not pay for this.

I did not take your sister to prom and do barnyard shit to her. (Although I probably know who did.)

And while people only value what they pay for, they piss and moan like old women about free stuff.

The sick sadistic side of this is that there is an evil side of me that does enjoy making people upset.

I have crawled around on the inside of my own head long enough to know that I am at peace with my inner asshole, that it really doesn’t spill out into the rest of my life in a detrimental way, and therefore I like to encourage the little guy.

Now, true, he is a little spoiled, my inner asshole is, and tends to be disruptive, but he is mine, therefore, I am of the opinion that he is brilliant and beautiful.

A lot of people don’t get it because they don’t have one of their own.

As a society, we have been systematically beating down our own asshole urges to the point that it only comes out under extreme stress or is alcohol induced.

And that is never pretty.

The repressed asshole is an over the top diva, that once she makes her entrance, all hell breaks loose.

Bar fights, pregnancies, STD’s, lost jobs, and family feuds, all are possible when dealing with the repressed asshole.

So take a tip from me, I started taking my IA (Inner Asshole) out for some quality time, just the two of us, back when I first started this blog.

Liberating is a word that comes to mind, so does indulgent, but cathartic is there also.

Free your mind, and your asshole will follow.

 
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Posted by on April 15, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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She chose the thug life, it didn’t chose her.

A day of loss.

Every now and then, I turn around and suddenly have an “Oh Shit!” moment.

They are usually due to my own stupidity and the last 24 hours have been no exception to that rule.

The first Oh Shit happened last night at about 5:30pm.

I had finished the bicycle commute and just showered.

I was happy hour bound.
A cocktail at the end of my work week to take the edge off.. (Thursday is the end of my week. Odd story there.)

Put my pants on, and went to put my wallet in my pocket. (No pockets in my bike shorts.)

Oh Shit!

Left my wallet at work.

Made a call and got some coworkers involved in my little personal scavenger hunt.

Luckily, I keep spare cash at the house, so happy hour would be where I would await word of if I was only inconvenienced or truly screwed.

I was halfway thru my first libation when I got the text, life goes on, financially. My wallet was secured and waiting for me.

Suddenly, the drink tasted that much better.

Before I left, I decided to get some dinner to go.

As I was standing at the bar, waiting for my food, and surprise, having another drink, I met Betty.

Betty is the puzzle, in the conundrum, in the enigma.

Because there are parts that fit.

And parts that don’t.

Her hair is done in a “Gladys Kravis” mini boof hairdo from the 50’s.

Little old lady specs rest at the tip of her nose.

Her dress is a fashionable flower print moomoo, possibly a size 20.

Maybe in her mid to late 60’s.

I talked with her as I waited.

I was having a Dos Equis, one of my favorites.

Betty is having a vodka gimlet.

So you have the whole picture in your head of Betty, right?

Did I mention she has to full sleeves of tattoos?

Fresh.

It seems that Betty got a wild hair up her ass a few months ago when her granddaughter turned 18 and got a tattoo.

Betty loved it.

So, she turned on the new fangled “COM PEW TOR” that her son got her, and looked at tattoos on the internet.

And something happened to Betty.

I am not against tattoos, hell I have two good sized ones on my shoulders.

But Betty got an idea in her little squishy head and went on down to the local tattoo parlor.

And she told the tattoo artist to tattoo her arms with something that reflected life.

Those were her total instructions.

So the artist free-handed two sleeves in several sittings, giving Betty what she asked for.

Tattoos that reflected life.

The thug life.

To his credit, the tattoo artist definitely had some talent.

But, if I had to call it, the artist had a good amount of old school cholo and modern gangbanger.

The only other place I have seen tattoos this harsh was on convicts.

The “Laugh now, Cry later” theater masks are prominent on her left arm as it leaves the sleeve, with a picture of a beautiful topless young Latina beneath it. An evil clown with a joint sticking out of his lips has a gun to his head and just blew his brains out all over an 8-ball and a set of dice.

I was mesmerized at how wildly over the top this little sweet old lady’s tattoos went. On her right wrist was an angry pitbull being mounted by a larger pitbull.

Nobody went to the tattoo parlor with Betty to ask her what the fuck she was thinking that morning.

I am not against tattoos, but they should reflect your life.

Your thug life.

All of a sudden, my Oh Shit moment doesn’t seem like much.

 
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Posted by on June 26, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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