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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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Open Seseme…

Oscar the grouch.

Represent, bitches.

Oscar was a grumpy shit way back when. Back when you were young enough to get in trouble for being in a bad mood.

I think it had to do with living in a trash can and being the unspoken homeless guy on the show.

Bert and Ernie had a house and they didn’t seem to have jobs at all. They were either mediocre kids, living without parents or retarded adults who might be gay.

Take your pick.

Back to Oscar.

I seem to end up dealing with the homeless a lot on this blog and I can’t figure out if it is an obsession or just good choices on writing content.

I saw a new Muppet Movie is coming out and it got me thinking about Oscar.

Oscar came at us during a time in our life when we were being bombarded with vanilla, black and white views of life. The cartoons reflected either a good guy or a bad guy. The good guys were always good and the bad guys were always bad.

And then there was Oscar.

Oscar was a good guy that bitched about everything. but everyone seemed to like, and he was just kind of made fun of, but he spoke his mind and was more or less accepted by the majority.

All without getting a time out.

I am seeing scary similarities between myself and Oscar.

And, in a way, I kind of like that.

Oscar pretty much demanded that you accept him and his shitty attitude at face value. He taught us to be pushy and outspoken way before that was allowed by school or our parents.

And never once did he get the recognition.

Hell, some of us have personalities based on it.

Willy the grouch.

Has a nice little ring to it, ay?

When my kids were growing up, I started watching Sesame Street again. I was a little twisted up by it at first.

The Muppets were puppets and never aged, so all my old friends were still vibrant and funny.

But the people changed.

They were older and what was once friendly and helpful was now kind of creepy and moist? and made me afraid to leave my kids alone in the same room with them.

But I got over it and sat with my daughter and clapped and sang. Daddy stuff.

And then your kids grow up and, at least mentally, you put the Muppets on the shelf again.

Until the grand kids show up. Then you can watch again.

And I will still be creeped out by the overly sugary-sweet delivery of the cast of humans then, too.

But the Muppets will still be there.

And, fuzzy pound for fuzzy pound, Kermit the Frog is the elder statesman of childrens television. He kicks the shit out of Spongebob with one thin furry arm held behind his back with a little black stick.

And he will bitch slap Hello Kitty without working up a sweat.

Although, Hello Kitty has a Japanese following that is fanatical and well monied, so maybe that’s a bad comparison.

Getting back to Oscar the Grouch, I like to think he was a roll model for some, if not all of us.

He catered to the inner asshole.

Thank you Oscar.

I would follow you into Muppet hell, you magnificent fuzzy bastard.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Sorry to bother you…

Every now and then, I meet a total stranger that just pisses me off without warning.

And I think that the parents out there will be joining me in the pissed off realm.

By the way, I am a father of two.

I ride my bicycle to work some days, mainly because its southern California and you kind of feel like you have to.

Manhattan Beach is a beautiful place. There are times that it catches you off guard and throws you for a loop. It mostly has to do with money and the people who have too damn much of it.

There is a little side street off of the main drag in downtown Manhattan. It is a one way and has a parking garage on one side and restaurants on the other.

I come rolling around the corner and see something a little odd.

There is a baby in the middle of the street.

Take a second and let that one sink in.

There is a baby in the middle of the street.

This is not the set of boys in the hood, with a crack baby in the middle of the street.

This is Manhattan beach. It would take about five minutes to ride far enough to find a house worth less than a million dollars.

A car is stopped a half block away, rolling an inch at a time, the driver reluctant to come further.

I start flying towards the kid.

I all but screech to a stop, putting my bike between the kid and the car, who has come to a complete stop.

There is a woman walking slowly up the walk pushing a stroller.

She is on her cell phone. I have a cell phone too, but at that age, my daughter was either at home, in her stroller, or had her hand in mine, without exception.

“HEY MOM!”

In retrospect, I think I yelled a little too loud, or maybe not, after all….

THERE WAS A FUCKING BABY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET!

The woman turned around startled. She keeps talking on the phone and begins to saunter back towards me.

As she gets close, I give her a WTF? look.

She blows it off, glaring at me and picks up the baby.

As she walks off, a snatch of her cell phone conversation drifts back.

“-some guy being an asshole.”

Right.

I am pissed and confused and angry and hurt and about five other things, and for the first time in a god damned looooooong time, I am speechless.

I want to rip her a new one, but I really am pretty stunned by what just happened.

I roll out of the way and let the car roll by.

The passenger side window rolls down as the car goes by.

“YOU STUPID BITCH!”

And he drives off.

Here, here.

I cannot agree with you more.

Perhaps not with profanity, but with a stern voice, I could have talked to her and …..no. That would not have worked.

I should have called her a stupid bitch. That is what is really bugging me. For those that hang up on that word, sorry, but it really does fit.

Because then, god forbid something happen due to her lack of common sense, maybe she would get it. She would agree in the back of her head.

She is a stupid bitch.

 
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Posted by on September 13, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Time to pay the fiddler…

I am sitting in my favorite Starbucks, in the middle of Blondie and her study group. The Penguins want to play cards, and have yet to say anything because, while they may be able to bully Blondie and the girls, I think they hesitate at hassling a grown man with a goatee and mustache who tends to look angry when concentrating. So it is an uncomfortable stalemate with everyone just glaring at me.

Its good to be back.

For those who were not aware, I have been gone for the last week. The blogs have been scheduled. I spent a week with my kids in Portland, (While managing to blog several times.). Then I made the trek to the Nevada desert for Burning Man. (More on that later.)

Normally I would not give up my asshole seat for anything. There is a certain delight in pissing of several groups of people at once with just my presence. (Check the archives till you find the story about me taking Garrett the six and a half foot tall homeless guy to Noah’s Bagels and having morning bagels out front with the regulars. It was nice visit with an interesting guy and a beautiful shit storm of discomfort for the regulars.)

But Ronaldo just came in.

For those behind the curve, (Read the fucking blog) Ronaldo has an interesting situation. He bought a house 50 years ago in a prime location in Manhattan Beach. 20 years ago, he remodeled and made it a mansion that he rents out to wealthy families as an income property. His son manages the property.

Well, he did until recently.

It turns out that the son was renting the house to himself under an assumed name, not paying rent, making underage porn films, possibly dabbling in the sex slave trade, running a meth lab and embezzling money from his own father. Its an amazing bit of cruel shit to pull on your parents. It caused Ronaldo to have chest pains for several days.

We have to talk.

I slide sideways from the big table into one of the little rounds and wait. When Ronaldo gets his tea, I wave him over.

Ronaldo is one of those old guys from that generation that will relax and commiserate over his troubles with a friend over a drink.

Now days, our drink is coffee, which is not made to relax you. The good news is, Ronaldo views me as familiar enough to tell me his troubles.

And they’re some pretty fucked up troubles.

Turns out that only 2 of the girls were underage, the ones making the porn films? Somehow, this is viewed as better, I am not sure how, but whatever.

They were all illegal, which is bad, and it is still being debated about whether they forced to do drugs and make porn films. Half the girls are saying they were forced and half were doing it because they have to pay off the “Sneak me into the country and ruin my life” fee. That is still coercion,

Ronaldo is sure they are lying and his son will be cleared.

A father’s love is golden.

Personally, I would really appreciate it if Karma would get off of its ass for once and bring down some vicious biblical justice in this case. Ronaldo’s son is the closest thing to Manson I have seen in this generation.

And yet, we are so jaded by this sort of thing that we say “Oh, how terrible!” and move on. I have yet to see anything on this in the news. In other words, they ran the original story and no follow ups.

How sad.

According to Ronaldo, his son’s friends were running the Meth lab and he didn’t know.

This entire situation is hard to fathom.

Ronaldo seems like a fine man, says the right things you expect to hear from a solid guy from that generation.

And yet, his son, based on reports, is a fucking monster who deserves to be put down like a rabid dog.

With any luck, that will happen in prison.  I think in my last Ronaldo blog, I called for the hopeful prison rape of both Ronaldo’s son and Karma.

I do tend to rant, don’t I.

Why the hell not?

They only thing you hear from our politicians is ranting about other politicians. It is never anyones fault, its always someone elses.

he economy, taxes, jobs, war, drugs, fiscal responsibility. There is a lot of bad shit rolling right now.

Me? I have decided to blame it all on Ronaldo’s son. Kind of a “Sacrificial Lamb” of the new millennium.

Because someone has to pay the fiddler.

 
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Posted by on September 6, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Old School Evil Couple.

This is an early argument that a friend reminder me of, that I had all but forgot.

And it involves my favorite couple.

The Evil Couple.

For those new to the blog, the Evil Couple are simply a couple that comes into Starbucks near my office andhas the most uncomfortable arguments where Mrs, Evil treats Mr. Evil (And everyone else around) like shit she found on her shoe. My favorite description is that she treats you like a moron and she is sick of your shit. That little statement is as accurate now as when I first wrote it.

As a visual, Mr. Evil is a doctor (Always wearing scrubs), he has a local practice in Manhattan Beach. He is mid 40’s to 50’s, good looking, and you would trust your health to him.

Mrs. Evil is a conundrum that confuses and delights me, excites and shames me.

She is mid to late 30’s. She wears thick gray sweats, the kind that muscle guys in the 70’s wore, an over sized t-shirt without a bra. Watching her for a few seconds tells you this. When she turns to the side and her breasts (Impressive DD’s) take a second to catch up, you know something is up. Her hair would be long and blond, however, it is never styled and is worn in kind of a low rise blond afro.

This was the only way I have ever seen her dress.

Until recently. Apparently, she is in real estate, and when she is dressed up for work, I have not seen a woman this stunning for a long time.

When she rips into her husband or anyone around her, the entire encounter is made that much more evil by the fact that she has a Russian accent. It shouldn’t, but it does make a difference.

Enough background, on with the shit.

They were waiting for me when I got to Starbucks. The gods smiled and the table next to them was open.

Good. I hate trying to listen in from a few tables away.

Rude? Yes. Fascinating? Absolutely.

Anyway, the argument was just warming up when I got there.

The twins, it seems, were just starting a new school and the question was, “Should they be in the same class?”

“They will be picked on if they are apart, you know this.” Mrs. Evil has a way of ending her sentance that seems to imply that you are simply confused.

“They need to learn to rely on themselves, not on each other.” He is the calm cool voice of reason.

And she could care less.

“Why is it so important to you that they be unhappy?” He voice can drip sarcasm like no other.

“I don’t want them to be unhappy. Miss Cormack said-”

“She was a whore of a teacher, she spent so much time trying to show you her tits. She was a pig.” She finished with a definitive sip of her latte.

Mr. Evil says nothing. What do you say, really? The argument has shifted from arguing about the classroom assignments of the kids, to whether or not their old teacher (?) was a whore. I am a little shocked she hasn’t accused him of sleeping with her.

“I never noticed that sort of behavior.” Mr. Evil’s voice takes on the tone of someone that knows he is fucked, no matter where it goes from here.

“You loved it, go lie to someone else.”

I spoke too soon. I need to be more patient.

His phone chirps like a boon from the gods. The tension seems to breaks a bit.

They begin texting for a few minutes as if they are not in the middle of an argument.

And maybe they aren’t.

Maybe this is the way they interact on the day to day. A friend of mine once gave the opinion that she does this to drive their sex life, and that she must go with him to work and have make up sex either in the elevator or in his office.

At first, I dismissed such a twisted scenario. Maybe there is more to it than I saw then. Maybe twisted is how you have to view it. You have to twist yourself up or it makes no sense.

To quote Mr. Spock, “In an insane society, a sane man must be viewed as insane.”

God, I miss Star Trek.

 
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Posted by on September 2, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Love, Honor and Cherish

An interesting diorama unfolded in the food court in the Washington Square Mall in Tigard Oregon.

Everyone got that?

A man in his 80’s or so was arguing with his wife. That doesn’t seem so out of place. However, his wife, who appears to be older, has an oxygen tank and some Kung Pao chicken that she does not want to share and evidently it is driving to old guy insane.

Add to the mix a young man that would have to be a grandson since I am positive that A) the old guy is not capable of fathering a child. Viagra can get it up, but it can’t make the gun fire without real bullets. B) The old woman appears to be too old to conceive and live thru the delivery. I am fairly certain her ovaries started their retirement years ago.

The boy may even be a great grandson, but I could easily be wrong.

The really fun part is this.

The old man and woman are having their little argument in a whisper, totally in keeping with their generations hard-fast rule of “Don’t make a scene in public.” Of course, this was also the generation that had the rule “Don’t beat her in public”. A lot of shit went down behind closed doors back when.

The boy has on ear buds and is listening to an Ipod and looking around at various things. Girls, food, shiny lights. He is a teenager and easily distracted. (Not sure what my issue is, I am not a teenager and I have the attention span of a horny gnat around rotten fruit.)

But, every now and then, the boy chimes in on the conversation. But, because he apparently has his Ipod cranked up, he is all but shouting. He has done it 5 times in as many minutes. Everytime he erupts with a comment, it scares the old woman half to death.

Nothing makes a young man happier than some dysfunctional time with the grandparents.

On the nice side, my children are fantastically well behaved. I am kind of an arrogant dick about it. I found out a long time ago that I have no patience for other peoples kids. Mine are brilliant and beautiful, everyone elses are slugs. Got that?

Things seemed to be reaching a peak when the old guy reached out and just pulled her plate over to his side of the table. It was a phenomenally shitty move that you have to know someone for decades before you can attempt that kind of crap. The look on the old guys face seemed to echo shock at his own action. Kind of an, “I can’t believe I just did that.”

The old lady just stared straight ahead like nothing happened.

The old guy tried to say something.

The old lady did not move.

The next few moments were an odd transfer of power. The old guy lost the advantage and he knew it. The old woman was beating the living shit out of him by not even acknowledging his existence.
In the end, he just sheepishly slid the plate slowly back across the table.

Pussy.

In the long run, it was probably the smart move. He has to sleep sometime. And after you have been married for a few decades, that is where the real animosity can build up.

And that’s when someones gets his penis cut off in his sleep.

And we know this.

 
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Posted by on August 30, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Of all the Gin joints in all the world…

There is a Starbucks in Hawthorne that always has their AC running when I go there.

I call it the Freezer.

Thank god they serve hot coffee there, because at 59 degrees, hypothermia can set in with iced coffee before you can finish your blueberry scone.

I got in line behind two people and when I finally stood in front of the cashier, my nipples were like little rocks, no lie.

I got my cup of addiction and had a seat.

Its not a Starbucks I go to that often, mainly because I gave my parka to Goodwill when I moved back to LA from Portland Oregon.

Just as I was setting up my laptop, I saw her come in.

Wow.

Every now and then you see someone with the beautiful gene and the intelligence to present it.

Stunning woman. Average height, maybe mid-thirties. Business suit cut well enough to accentuate an incredible build without being slutty. (Harder than you think.) Just beyond shoulder-length blond hair styled very feathery without going near “Jersey Hair.” Mirrored sun glasses hid what had to be blue eyes, and a flawless, perfect mouth.

I had this feeling that I knew her, My mind kept telling me that was impossible, she had the type of looks you remember seeing.

With her was a younger man in a business suit. He had that look of being just a step above car salesman.

Real estate agent.

I usually do my best not to stare, but I step over into rude often enough that I may just retire there and get it over with.

They got their coffee and sat down at a table just behind me.

Miss Gorgeous sat less than a foot behind me.

“A few good prospects today, the Asian lady kept telling her husband they would love living there. This should sell quickly.” The young guy had a salesman’s voice, suave and assured.

“She smelled like dead fish, I hated them.” The woman’s voice drifted back, cultured and European.

Oh shit…..I felt a chill make its way up my spine and raise every hair on the back of my neck.

I know that voice. I have written several thousand words about this woman.

My ass went into full clinch with recognition.

Mrs. Evil. Couple.

It was one of those moments where, to quote one of my favorite comics, “The left half and the right half of the brain come to a screeching halt. The left says to the right, Its dark in here, and we may die.”

This evil, rotten…..the only word that comes to mind is bitch, but it doesn’t carry enough venom. I would use the C word, but it isn’t broad enough in scope.

To suddenly have the image of an incredibly beautiful woman mixed in with memories of personally witnessing her absolute disdain for everyone and everything around her was almost too much to take.

Her voice pulled my tortured mind back to the present.

“Why did you keep talking about your sister? You kept going on and on, it was very uncomfortable. I doubt we will get any offers because of it.”

“What?” The young guy seemed confused, suddenly slammed. “We were talking about family and siblings. I didn’t think it seemed out of place.” There was doubt in his voice.

She pounced on it. “It was creepy, I thought she was an ex lover until you said she was your sister.”

That got him. “I really think that’s uncalled for.” He was indignant and rightfully so.

Not that it would help. He went for an end to the subject. “We’ll just agree to disagree.”

Take that disagree and cram it, buddy. You have no clue who you are messing with.

“You remind me of my cousin.” She changed the subject without warning.

“Huh, what cousin?” The young guy was off balance.

“He is young, a drug addict, he sucks old men for money. He would agree with you, you seem very similar.“

It was a football punt to the nut sack that the kid never saw coming. It was insulting on several levels at once.

He sputtered for a few moments, then just got up and left without saying a word.

I looked at the front counter. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her watching him go.

She made a noise that sounded like she was chuckling.

I wanted to turn around so badly, but I reminded myself that Mr. and Mrs. Evil Couple had no idea that they occupied such a prominent place in my life. Mainly as entertainment, but still.

When she spoke, I thought at first she was talking either out loud or to me. Then I realized she was on her phone.

“I don’t want to work with Henry again, he ruined the open house.” Sounded like the boss on the phone.

“I think he was high today, he hit on the wives, and a few of the husbands, I think.”

The buzz on the phone was someone outraged.

“Don’t worry, I have an offer to submit, one of my clients texted me on the way to Starbucks.”

The conversation must have changed, I couldn’t hear anything else on the phone, but I knew real estate people.

The broker she worked for may or may not believe her, but in real estate, or just sales in general, you go with the hot hand. If she was selling big, the young guy would be thrown under the bus without hesitation.

I love this woman.

There is something just old school menacing about her. Like the evil queen in the Disney version of Snow White, but with a better ass. The fact that she cleaned up into a stunner only served to make it all hotter and more shameful at the same time. It was one of those situations that was exhilarating, and at the same time, you just felt dirty.

She might be the antichrist.

Before anyone goes off on that comment, I didn’t say she was, I said she might be. All I know is that she is married to a doctor, lives in the tree section of Manhattan Beach, and gave birth to twins about ten years ago.

Absolutely nothing to connect her to most of Revelations.

Unless of course the twins are named Famine and Pestilence.

 
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Posted by on August 23, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Rearing its ugly head…Some heads are uglier than others

There is a brisk little business going on at Starbucks, and it ain’t coffee.

There is a husky little blonde running a full scale SAT cram group. Let’s call her Blondie.

There are 5 of them, usually at the big table if its available. They are there from 7 to 8.

Blondie runs a tight ship. She barks her orders and the girls march in lock step.

I have no idea what she charges, but if she can whip these dipshits into high SAT scores, she deserves a frickin medal. There are a few girls that I honestly wonder if they attended, much less graduated from, high school.
You always hope girls this dumb either marry well or lose their looks young. Otherwise, they are just a few months away from swinging on a pole for a living.

Pretty good rule of thumb is that is that if your job involves baby oil and glitter, you’ve made a pretty serious vocational error somewhere.

Not to bash strippers. Any girl who is willing to dance for a living, just to pay for college of course, should be commended for their work ethic.

Plus its hard for a man to criticize a woman in a G-string. Its an instinct thing.

But most women hate strippers. I have never been able to understand that, and in a weird way, I don’t really want to know why.

Back to Blondie.

You have to admire the entrepreneurial spirit.

But how does it stack up against old and bitchie?

Let me explain.

The big table at a Starbucks is the only area of the store that customers often have an agenda for sitting there. Business people, students, and those that feel the need to spread out.

And then there’s the Penguins.

The Penguins are a trio of little old ladies who come in every other morning to play cards. They order their tea, bitch unmercifully about the price, and play a card game that looks suspiciously like gin rummy, but I am not sure, because they cover their cards like high stakes poker players.

They look like they are from the old country. Not my old country, but somebodies old country.

I call them Penquins they always dress in dark colors, are kind of thin in the shoulders and broad in the hip.

I first noticed them one morning while walking to work. As I have mentioned previously, I park about a quarter mile from my office and walk down. As we are the last office building before the beach, parking sucks like no place else.

I noticed the three old ladies walking in front of me. They waddled along in a line. As an obstacle got in their way, they would waddle around it, still playing follow the leader.

And then it hit me. Penguins. I would have called them Lemmings, but I was unsure about getting them to walk over a cliff.

Some people have no sense of humor.

They went right into Starbucks. By this time, I was following along, having been unable to get around them without resorting to old school hockey checking.

They got their tea and complained in their little old biddie fashion, and then sat down to play their cards.

That is when the bitching began.

What was amazing was that it almost seemed that they were having 3 separate conversations, each one complaining about different people.

It was like a bitchie support group.

Enough background.

Blondie was mid chastise with one of the girls about her lack of understand of basic algebra, when the Penguins came in.

Blondie didn’t notice, but the Penguins immediately saw that their usual spot was occupied.

The Penguins waited in line, casting ugly looks at the main table.

It was developing nicely, but I think I was the only one that was getting the situation.

I love this.

The Penguins waited until they all got their tea, properly creamed and sugared them, then marched, I say marched damn it, over to the main table.

“You can’t have the whole table.” The head Penguin’s voice was a combination of shrill and crackly. It was an perfect combo of menace and wicked old, like a witch, maybe.

“We were here first.” Blondie didn’t even look up. She was a business woman and I respect that.

“We want to play cards.” The head Penguin tossed her cards onto the table like she was throwing down a gauntlet.

Blondie looked up. “What is it you want me to do about that? We were here, and we’re not done.” She stared for a few seconds more, then looked down at her book.

The girls, the students, were looking back and forth like anxious little animals, just about to bolt at the first sign that this gets out of hand. Its the smart move. Survival, more than algebra, seems to be their skill.

The Penguins were outraged. There are several things that I can see happening.

They might trade blows. I said might, I didn’t say it was the most probable, just might. And it would be the funnest to watch.

The Penguins should leave. They could go to Coffee Bean. Besides, the crowd at Coffee Bean was much closer to their age. Hell, they may even pick up a few more players.

And then, they did the unexpected.

Without saying a word, the Penguins moved as one to an empty small round table right behind Blondie. The little round tables were way too small to play cards on.

But they had no intention of playing cards.

They started complaining.

All three of the Penguins began chastising Blondie, discussing her lack of manners, rudeness in general.

And then it got ugly.

The Penguins got nowhere attacking Blondie’s behavior. The opening salvo was harsh.

“And not a pretty girl.”

5 words was all it took. Blondie kept staring down at her book, but I could see her eyes well up.

In that moment, they broke her.

It was over.

“We’re done for today.” Blondie closed her book, gathered her stuff and got up.

I thought she was going to head straight out, but she hesitated.

Blondie took one quick step and bent, her head about 6 inches from the ear of the head Penguin.

I have no idea what she said. Whatever it was, it was quick. She straightened, then walked out.

The head Penguin sat there for several minutes, saying nothing.

And then they played cards.

But the head Penguin never lost the haunted look.

Blondie’s parting shot messed with her for awhile.

Good.

 
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Posted by on August 21, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Its a dirty subject.

I have a friend who is recently divorced and said she was shocked at how guys are just a bunch of horny dicks now.

Now?

I am shocked to find out we were something else back when. Or maybe that was just me.

She was at a local watering hole and met a guy, made an innocent comment that he took in the worst way and proceeded to stalk her for the rest of the night.

And?

I had to take a long moment to understand, or at least try.

And in the end, I had to agree with her, even though it took me a little while longer to get there.

I’m sorry, throw anything resembling dirty or a go ahead at me in a bar when I have a drink in me, and I become a vicious combination of a drink-buying Daddy Warbucks and a horny dog that will follow your around and hump your leg all night.

Just saying.

I think it all breaks down to this.

Its the same sentence for both of us.

Women love sex.

Only to men, it looks like this
Women love SEX

Women, however, see it like this:
Women LOVE sex.

AND WE HAVE NO CLUE.

And its not like we take things out of context or wrong on purpose, we take it wrong because we have no choice.

Its a difference of perspective.

Lets call it the Penis Perspective.

Having a penis is like having a best friend that your parents hate. He gets you in trouble, leaves you hanging sometimes, but every now and then, he comes up with something really cool.

But we can talk about masturbation later.

When a guy is in an environment where he thinks he might have a shot at getting laid, which pretty much means that he is awake and in the vicinity of a woman, his penis begins filtering everything he hears and understands.

Its like being drunk on a liquor called horny.

Yes, its that sad and primitive.

So taking things the wrong way is not a choice, its the only option.

The only one we have.

Guys are the epitome of what your mom use to say.

“If they didn’t care, they wouldn’t say anything.”

That’s true, but care means “Viewed as fuckable” (For the record, I wanted to leave Fuckable out. However, the friend in question loved it and declared it “Word of the Day” So it stays.)

Her other comment was that she was in a place right now that she only wanted some “Me attention”. But, all she seemed to be getting was the “Fuckable attention”.

Its about fifty-fifty in that half the men out there are capable of both types of attention. Unfortunately, the other half can only achieve the “Fuckable attention”.

And theres no way to tell ahead of time.

But, if you are hetero, it is the only game in town.

The only alternative would be to get a gay male friend for the “Me attention” and a high end marital aid with attachments in order to get your “Fuckable” on.

My advice usually sucks, so I normally keep it to myself, but I advised her to go out and play the game her way.

Because dangling the “Fuckable” carrot can get a lot of “Me attention.”

In the Texas Hold-Em game of sex, being a woman is like always having a pair of pocket aces.

For a man to have sex, he just needs to find a woman to say yes. A woman just needs to say yes.

I heard two women in Starbucks the other day, whispering.

Whispering means dirty, and I know this, so I do the discrete adjusting for better listening.

One of the women was complaining that, since her break up, she hadn’t had sex in months and missed it.

WTF?

That amazes me. All she has to do is walk up to a guy, pretty much any guy in a bar, and ask him to go home for some “No strings attached” play time.

And for those reading this that are saying “My man would never do that”. Yes he would and lets not lie to each other here.

I’m just trying to help.

A woman could walk up to 5 different men in a bar and ask them to go have sex and most likely 5 out of 5 would green light it.

However, a man could walk up to 5 different women and ask the same.

Mace is usually involved at this point.

Not that I have ever done this, but when one of the 5 does say yes?

Its like magic.

 
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Posted by on August 19, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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