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My whore complex.

There is something horrific about a woman in her 70’s that likes to chase men half her age.

For the record, I am not a whore.

But, this is what happened.

I was driving a long distance thing recently.

4-5 hours in a crappy rental car is enough to make anyone a little punchy.

I can drive that far only if I have adequate amounts of caffeine.

Which explains why I am in a Starbucks in a major tourist city.

And that was when I met Betty.

Betty is 70 years old.

I know this because Betty told me.

Would you like to know what else Betty told me in the span of 3.5 minutes in line?

1. Betty’s husband, Herman, sleeps 12 hours a day and has not had sex with her for over 25 years.

2. Betty loves men in their 40’s. (This was said after she asked me my age.)

3. Betty has the cutest condo, just down the street, and I should come see it.

And then she bought me Coffee and a scone.

Let me paint you a picture.

The grand mother of ancient whores is prowling tourist spots and attempting to buy souls for coffee and shitty English pastry.

And the worst part is, she is cheap and has low standards.

You might think I am smacking myself here, I’m really not.

I am a realist.

I am five feet nothing with a gut, a bad attitude and tend to scowl when thinking about things.

This is not the usual demographic of a gigolo.

I have had friends over the years that were the type of good-looking that men, women, and couples would hit on them.

I am not that guy, and I came to peace with that long ago.

There is a solid reason I developed this vengeful nasty attitude.

But, this is not about me, this is about Betty.

Betty is a realist too.

Betty is not searching for Mr. Right.

Betty is looking for Mr. Right Now.

Someone who would be more than willing to drop whatever they were going to do on a Tuesday at 11am at a tourist stop, and give up the goods back at her retiree, ben gay smelling condo, all for the price of a coffee and pastry.

I should be insulted, but I find the whole thing kind of desperately charming.

Betty is not from a generation that does this.

So my mind immediately goes to what road led Betty here.

She let me quiz her for the better part of 10 minutes before she finally figured out I was not a team player and just turned and walked off, getting back into line behind a mid thirties redneck wearing an Earnhardt tee shirt.

I watched the whole thing unfold as I ate my cranberry-orange scone.

Jethro, for lack of a better name, listened as Betty laid it all out to him. He then got his coffee, took a bite of the cookie she bought him, and headed out the door with a delighted Betty.

You have to wonder how it all turned out.

Did she enjoy herself? Probably. I mean this is evidently her whole thing. God knows how many times a day Betty is making the Starbucks run.

Did he enjoy himself? Probably. Women that old usually know their game well. Also, it may have been quite a while since Jethro got anything other than chafing marks from his right hand. Its called lotion people. Look into it.

Did Herman wake up and realize his wife is banging countless strangers in the guest bedroom? For all we know, Herman is dead and his memory is now being served up as part of Betty’s “Mercy fuck” pitch

Did I miss out? Probably not. I am in my own head often enough to know that this twisted little scenario is tailor made for nightmares and indigestion and being even more of a disappointment in the sack.

So, all in all, Betty actually gave me a better gift than some wrinkled ass and crying in the shower.

A somewhat lurid blog, which I always love, and an interesting half hour during a boring drive.

Plus, the coffee was good. (And I do enjoy a good scone.)

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Welcome to hell.

There are times I enjoy flying and times that I am in the 9th circle of hell, thinly disguised as United airlines.

And the reason is, there is an excellent chance that, at any given moment, you could be fucked with by the airlines, the government or other people, often without warning.

It begins subtly, you almost don’t notice it.

The car in front of you at the airport parking garage stalls as they are getting their ticket to raise the gate.

That takes  minutes.

While this is going on, the next lane over admits 15+ vehicles and you don’t have the option of backing up.

You have just had your first slice of “Being fucked with” pie.

Save room, there’s more.

The airport is all about lines. The line at the elevator is more of a mob.

And if you have not been trapped in a metal box on a hot summer day, you are missing out.

Would it KILL people to bath and use some deodorant?

And someone either farted or shit themselves somewhere between the s2nd and 3rd floor.

I remember because it was right after the Chinese woman got on at the 3rd floor with what smelled like dead fish in her bag.

Finally, the doors opened and we began shuffling out.

And we are so conditioned to being contained and shuttled thru shoots, its a lot like being human cattle.

If the English ever invade and start rounding up the Irish to put into prison colonies, they can pull it off if they involve elevators. (And this is their vile plan, according to my great grandma. She told me after her nurse left the room. I was 5, still makes sense today.)

And then we get to the crosswalk.

The crosswalk is being manned by the most heavily armed crossing guard I have ever seen.

Here is the weird part.

The airport has its own police.

That makes perfect sense, we live in a dangerous world, and terrorists seem to have a hard on for The USA and airplanes.

But, and this is where my head stops in place, why would your entire police force be old fat guys?

I did a quick study on the hiring requirements to become an airport cop.

Its the same as regular cops.

Huh.

Anyway, I was waved across the street by a morbidly obese man with a gun and a belly the size of a yoga workout ball.

Inside the terminal, the fun and games continue.

The cattle lines are longer, the tempers are shorter and the base intelligence scores are dropping fast. Its a grim room here, people.

The woman in front of me is losing her fucking mind.

Evidently, her flight leaves in ten minutes.

She is on the phone, complaining to someone who gives a shit. (I know its not me)

Here is the situation:

It seems that she was going to leave for the airport an hour ahead of time. (The airport recommends getting here 2 hours ahead of time. )

But, the cats were being so playful. (Personally, I hate cats)

And traffic sucked. (This is Los Angeles, there isn’t a time when traffic DOESN’T suck.)

And there is a line. (This is an airport, you tard. Of course there is a line.)

Now, by my figuring, and I realize that my not having a degree in physics or higher math I could be wrong, but with 10 people in front of her, there is no way this chick is going to make her flight.

And evidently, this is my problem.

“This is ridiculous, right?” She has pulled the phone away from her head and is talking to me.

“I hate cats.” You may think that is a shitty thing for me to say. It is, but when she realized that I am not who she wants to look for agreement with, she turned her back and continued her phone conversation.

The really shitty thing to say was to stare at her back and, in a creepy monotone voice, tell the story of how I accidentally ate cat once in Mexico and ended up chasing a lying burrito vendor thru the alleys of Tiajuana with a couple of friends, trying to kick his ass for selling us cat.

The moral of the story is that cat is fairly delicious.

I know, it fucks with me too and its been 25 years.

Anyway, of the 3 agents at the counter, cat lady is at agent #1.

Agent #2 has an Asian couple in their 50’s that are pissed and have been there since I came thru the door.

And their problem is bags.

They have a lot of them.

United Airlines  has a baggage policy that was written by either the Bavarian Illuminatus or expatriot Nazi’s.

!st checked bag ? $25. 2nd bag? $35. 3rd and on? $125 a piece.

Thats not a typo. $125

And the couple has a total of 14 bags.

And this is not an International flight, they are going to Portland.

Here is the cost breakdown.

They each get 1 $25 bag and 1 $35 bag. $120 spent and 4 bags down.
The remaining 10? $1250.

And I happen to know that round trip tickets to Portland are around $200.

And the couple’s logic is that if they keep yelling, eventually the airline will cave and ship their luggage for free.

Which will never happen, by the way.

The airlines will do everything but give away money.

They are just like us.

Mercenaries.

Nobody, with the exception of Mother Theresa, does what they do for a living out of love.

You do it for money or recognition.

I get that and have embraced it more than most.

I moved on from Mercenary to whore a long time ago.

Anything else that went on with the Asian couple was lost as I left agent #3 and headed to my gate.

I am early. Perhaps a beverage at yon tavern.

 
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Posted by on September 19, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Karma is now my personal hitman.

High school reunions are always a dicey thing, at best.

However, and this comes from crashing several high school reunions for years that I did not graduate in, but there may be a reason why some of us never stayed in touch.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some people I really enjoyed seeing. People that only life and circumstance has kept from hanging out with.

And then there are some that, 10 seconds after you start talking to them, you realize why you last saw or thought about them was in high school itself.

As a last minute thing, I recently went to a reunion for a year I did not graduate in.

Here is why it was last minute. Although I clicked on the “Going” button on Facebook, I was not planning on going, I was just tired of it sitting in the Invites section, staring at me.

It was in a beach city bar that I once got wildly drunk in and almost beaten to death. Call me superstitious but I am a big believer in bad vibes.

However, I found myself walking thru the front door.

And it was fine, I ran into a few people that totally reminded me of why that was one of the best periods of my life.

I also ran into a few that make me sooooo happy we were not closer back then.

A bitch rarely ages well, and there is a special brand of fugly that happens to the “Uber” bitches of our youth.

 Before you go all feminist on me, the primary bitch in my mind is a guy.

Several others were, in fact, women. That being said, I am kind of blind, sexism wise, on the subject of dislike.

Here are my top 5 reasons for dislike overheard at the reunion:

1. “She and I have hated each other since high school. She’s a slut”. (Translation- My boyfriend back then slept with her because I was holding out. I am incapable of blaming him.)

2. “She has hated me since high school, I don’t know why.” (Translation- I knowingly slept with her boyfriend back in school and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

3. “That chick is crazy.” (Translation- I cheated on my girlfriend with her in highschool and I am incapable of blaming myself.)

(Side note: Are you beginning to pick up on the Peyton Place/Jerry Springer drama here?)

4. “I hated you in high school.” (Translation- During the most insecure time in my life, you scarred me for life.)

5. “You were hysterical in high school.” (Translation- I took a lot of voyeristic pleasure in watching you torment others.)

And the only one I regret not hanging out with is the one I tormented. Its for the better, I was a rotten friend back then.

Now, here is the section of the blog were I get into the exciting part.

Just about every woman I went to high school with are at an intoxicating peak of hotness.

Its incredible what happens to a woman after she is done being a scared kid.

There is a level of confidence that only time can give but under the right circumstances, it can hit like a sensual meth for the libido.

Like a kid in a candy store.

But everybody, man or woman alike, breaks up into 3 catagories.

The first category is those friends who hit nirvana at some point, either married or not. They are worth a fortune, don’t talk about their money and seem genuinely happy.

Fuck em. I distrust these people on an instinctive level.

The second group is those who have kind of gone a different route. They have fucked up a lot since high school, but this seems to be the age that they get it together. They are innocent, like children, without that negative connotation.  They are warriors, fighting for every inch to regain ground they lost. More power to them.

The third group are my people. The functionally damaged. We are married or divorced and not wildly happy about one. If the career is high end, the relationship reads like a horror movie. If the career has had some rough turns, the relationship usually sucked in the past and they are on a better road. But the baggage is there, and the stories are better.

These are people who need to unwind.

And, sometimes, you find a little peace in the chaos. A little ray of sunshine among the dark. Some woman age well and then there are the ones that kill it. Always an odd thing to suddenly be overwhelmed by the earthy sensuality of a woman who is empowered and knows what she wants.

Enough said.

In all, I am glad I went, ran into some old friends, saw some old trash I once knew, and met one or two new friends.

And who doesn’t need some new friends?

In all, everyone seemed to have a good time, some more than others. Some, like the poor unfortunate that was being fed into the back of the police car as I was leaving.

Turns out she was the one who hated me, way back when.

I hate you too, sweetie. (And yes, I did laugh)

 
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Posted by on September 5, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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You can’t sue me for being lazy.

I am not sure I can get much lazy-er and still be considered living.

I have a nephew that entered the military a few weeks back.

Much to my shame, I just sent the first letter today.

I was in the Army years ago and basic training sucked.

I come from such a close family that the culture shocked was huge.

While the nephew in question comes from every bit the close family situation, he seems a hell of a lot tougher than I was at that age.

But basic training eats away at your old comfort spots, replacing them with new ones in the long run, but for the short term, you are kind of screwed.

But I loved getting mail.

Here is where I hit new highs of laziness.

I didn’t physically write a letter, at least, not in the conventional sense.

I found a website, cut and pasted content, paid just under $2 and they are mailing out my letter for me.

I used this site only because I could not find one to write the letter for me as well.

But the shame factor is hard to get by. (The being raised both Irish and Catholic only ratchets up the guilt factor.)

The results are, a letter was definitely sent. Maybe by a surrogate, but it still went.

By my standards, I am golden, the ultimate uncle.

I have been reminded that I am not the boy’s uncle.

Technically, he is my first cousin’s son, but I come from a large immigrant family, there are literally dozens of cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and everything else in between.

Dealing with a crowd that large is tough unless you streamline the process.

Here is how it works. Anyone within about 5 years of my age up or down is a cousin, anyone younger than that is a niece or nephew, and anyone older is an aunt or uncle.

Within the family, everyone gets it. Outside the family? You get nothing but stares and confusion.

But, and I understand this one better than most, there is a fine line between being totally clueless and completely getting it.

Perspective is everything.

Perspective is caused by experience.

If you ever want marriage advice, avoid counsellors like the plague.

Seek out a couple that has been married for more than 40 years.

These are two people who raised kids, grew up, grew apart, grew back together, and managed to keep all the plates spinning for decades.

This is who you want advice from.

Counsellors, as a general rule, are single or have been married less than a decade, usually without kids.

And if you take your car to a mechanic who doesn’t drive, you will pay for an overhaul you don’t need.

Marriage, as well as most things in life, require that you work your ass off or they will stagnate and die off.

Trust me on this one, I have lived thru that one.

Enough said.

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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I’m hip, man.

It’s the 60’s.

The beat generation, cynical and critically dumb.

Smoking their cigarettes backwards, snapping their fingers in lieu of clapping, reading REALLY bad homespun angst-filled poetry, out loud mind you, to like minded dipshits that think its brilliant.

There is a poetry group meeting on the over-sized stone patio at the LAX Starbucks.

Its a pretty grim bunch.

This would have been a motley crew in their 20’s, now imagine that same unwashed image you have in your head as being in their 50’s. (AND NOT AGING WELL.)

The poetry is some of the most self-indulgent mental swill I have ever heard.

It gives new meaning to the term “Narcissistic”.

Kind of a mental grassy knoll to take aim at your intellect.

But they are not acting alone.

You have to wonder how these 10 people found each other in a world this large.

It’s like AIDS and E-Coli go to a bar and meet up with Spanish Flu and decide to start a band.

“The eternal me is but a leaf, stuck in a cosmic sewer.” (Direct quote)

I wish the line above was an exaggeration made by yours truly.

However, that self indulgent verbal puke was real, and uttered by a mid 50’s guy with a mullet, bowling shirt, khaki shorts, black knee socks and sandals.

Black socks with shorts? Who says theres no crime at the beach?

Think of Billy Ray Cyrus mixed with a homeless guy. Some of that Miley-style crazy.

I have been told that I am too judgemental, too harsh without provocation.

Fuck it, this dude is all kinds of crazy stank, rolled in self indulgent polyester.

And it has not bathed recently. (True, the wind shifted and I got a whiff.)

So now my nose is being gang raped along with my ears and my intellect.

Overly dramatic, maybe. But the line between an overly dramatic douchebag and an accuracy driven asshole is a thin one at times, and the same thing the rest of the time.

And yes, I get it, I should not make fun of the shitty poets. Their look, their style of dress, and certainly not their SHITTY FUCKING POETRY!

Two things. So be it. And bite me.

And before we start that whole “Why did you go there?” thing, lets just understand that I AM THERE, and I rarely go elsewhere.

I am glad I got that off my chest.

On to better things.

Long story, but I have the day off of work.

Not working is a good thing for most people.

Except me.

One of my more neurotic issues is the fact that while I don’t love work, I feel awkward when I am not there.

I like to think of think of it as my immigrant ancestry showing.

And not immigrant sneaking across the border, I mean coming thru Ellis Island immigrant. (At least my great grandfather did.)

There is no real joke here, just the one on us when everyone realizes that the several million welcomed illegals that are streaming across the border are going to have to have someone pay their tab.

There, got my little rant in. I feel better, like my mental/emotional colen just started a cleanse and a sizable quantity of “Shit” just passed.

Thinking about it, that would make this blog a toilet.

I am ok with that. The imagery is a little nasty, but the analogy is solid.

One of the unwashed beatnik’s just said the word “Profit” 10 times in a row, smacking his chest the whole time.

Thise is beginning to take on a whole new level of fucking horrible that I have never seen before.

This might be a spoiler alert from a horror film. The killer kidnaps someone, chains them to the wall in some filthy tiled bathroom, and trots out the beatniks to perform.

And the hostage chews thru his own neck it get away.

I could definitely see that.

It would be worth it.

 
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Posted by on July 11, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Don’t take this personal, but I hate your kids.

I hate your kids, you know who I mean.

And just a tip? If I am in line at Panera Bakery, trying to think of something to write about, don’t show your ass with your rotten little progeny right in front of me.

I think it was when the 5 year old shouted “NO!” and slapped mom across the face the first time that I began paying attention.

The little girl has wild hair to the middle of her back and a set of lungs when she wants them.

Screaming and beating on the bakery case window is what got mom to drop to one knee and begin talking low to the child.

And thats when little missy decided she’d had enough of mom’s shit.

Whack! Take that bitch!

And here is the interesting part, mom was not shocked.

Let me roll that one past you again, MOM. WAS. NOT. SHOCKED.

All told, mom got smacked a total of 3 times.

Twice in line and once at the table.

I have a lot wrong with this.

First of all is the fact that mom is a fucking moron and should never have allowed that chubby little hand to land.

It sets a precedent and somewhat empowers the little monster to do it again when she gets the chance.

Plus the fact that dodging a hit from a 5 year old doesn’t require cat-like reflexes.

Had I tried that kind of mini assault on my mother growing up, she would have torn that arm from my torso and beaten me half to death with it.

And I would have had it coming.

In this instance, mom has it coming.

I am not really going out on a limb here when I suppose that this rotten little beast has no boundaries at home.

So, if the first time she has any sort of a leash put on her is when she is in school or a restaurant, we are all subjected to the thoroughly ineffective parenting of Mr. And Mrs. Dipshit foisted upon us in the form of Little Miss Dipshit.

Lucky us.

I have always been of the opinion that my children (And a select few others) are basically the only pretty and intelligent kids out there, and this dysfunctional group is only proving my point.

My son and daughter set the loose cannon bar as kids, (Nowhere near as bad as me) but I would never hesitate to take them anywhere.

Because they had boundaries.

Boundaries are the negative buzzword among what passes for the modern day, “Dr. Spock” parents.

Don’t tell your child no, avoid anything unpleasant as a result of their behavior, and GOD FORBID you smack that rotten little bitch on her backside for giving mommy a little tune up on the side of her face.

Someone needs to take mom aside, smack her hand, hard, tell her “No!” and when she opens her mouth to protest, take two fingers that tap her on the lips. “Shut your mouth! Go to your room!”

Sometimes modern thought and theories suck huge balls and old school is not only wise, its effective.

Applesauce, bitch.

 
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Posted by on January 6, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Ain’t that a bitch.

I received an email on Saturday accusing me of half-assing Friday’s blog, that it was weak and rushed.

You got me.

I am more than willing to fess up to that.

Friday was an unfinished blog that I just kind of threw up there at the last minute.

But let me explain why.

Here is the sheep-snarl that was my Friday.

1. Starting Thrusday night, my cell phone, (MY NEW ONE!!!) went down. I could access the internet and text, but not send or receive calls.

2. I went to an early morning jiu jitsu class at the gym. This is not a bad thing, but it made time really tight.

3. Tech support took a total of 2 hours. While not located in India, my two tech support agents were women, (No judgement here) and there names, no lie, were Tanqual and Shinesse. (Little racist judgement here)

4. After 2 hour, when nothing worked, I was told that the problem was obviously the phone at fault.

5. 15 minutes after hanging up, I got a phone call. The phone has been fine since.

So, it was after all of this frantic, frustrating nonsense, that I had to more or less run from my car down the hill to work, with no time to stop at Starbucks and finish todays blog.

After I got to work, I took what I had so far, slapped a quick ending on it and posted.

It is an odd thing that it is almost harder to put out a blog that is now 2 days a week than it was when I wrote 5 days a week.

I have contemplated going back to 5 days a week and then I get dizzy and the contemplative moment moves on.

For those that have never written something on a regular basis, its a bitch.

And not one of those “Hot at first” bitches like you meet at a club, but one of those “20 years in a bad marriage” type bitches that suck the life out of you.

And don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against bitches.

I think of the word with almost a fondness.

There is a strain of bitches that competent woman are a part of.

And, as I have said before, I absolutely adore competent women.

The only thing that sucks is when their fire is directed at you.

Then it sucks.

Can’t have it all.

I have observed that the people I know who have those “Never a cross word” relationships also involve two people that have really bland personalities.

You want the passion and the excitement of a strong woman? Deal with the wrath on occasion.

But a strong woman is not to be confused with a crazy one.

That is a bitch of a different type.

And when that genie gets out of the bottle, GOOD LUCK getting her back in.

And you don’t get any wishes with this genie.

Unless of course one of your wishes is to be attacked with a 9 iron in your sleep.

(Actually happened to a friend of mine. True story.)

 

 
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Posted by on November 4, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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