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The art of mean.

Being mean is not something you set out to be, its a place you end up.

Like closing a bar and going to Denny’s, you didn’t start your night with that destination in mind, you just ended up there.

But, if you stay open-minded, you can enjoy being mean just as much as being kind.

You just don’t get that karmic after-taste of satisfaction that being kind leaves you with.

That cosmic pat on the back and a celestial “Atta-boy!”.

And why am I mentioning it?

Because I am being mean.

And I am loving it.

Here’s why.

There is a Family with a baby at the next table at my favorite breakfast spot.

And it is not a young family, these are mid-40 parents.

And here is my problem with that.

When a teen or 20-something has a kid, that kid is their whole life.

Both parents focus on that kid like its the only thing keeping them alive, and it just might be.

But, and this is not all 40-somethings, I happen to know a 40-something single mom who is a great mother. (As well as being breathtakingly hot.), but the overwhelming majority of 40-something parents have too much shit going on to make the child their sole focus.

Here is the cast of characters at the next table:

Baby- Pretty much had a low level crying fit going the whole time he was there. I have seen this before. Not a good looking kid. Seriously. Some people win the genetic lottery, and those Irish among us know what I mean, but some people really just rolled snake-eyes on that one. This kid has a life-time of disappointment ahead of him.

Dad- His name is Don. I know this because it was the only clear word I could make out from Mom. Don took the lion’s share of the blame for many things from the moment they walked thru the door. He lived in his cell phone.

Mom- Not sure what her name was, not sure she needed one. She had the unbelievably annoying habit of whispering everything except her husband’s name. Instinctively, I don’t like her. Can I use the word bitch here without being sexist?

And here is what I am doing.

I am annoying Mom.

Dad is sitting with his back to me, Mom is facing me and Baby is in a high chair at the end of the table.

Early on, Baby hit is vocal peak for a second and I looked up and rolled my eyes.

And locked eyes with Mom.

The glare was epic.

She was at that point in her life that the baby is a reflection of her.

And total approval is what she demands of the world at large.

And it made me laugh.

I stayed poker face, but it was close.

I love to annoy women like this.

Over the course of the next 10 minutes, I rolled my eyes, sighed, hell, I even thru up my hands at every little squeek that came out of that kid.

And it was driving Mom fucking berzerk.

About 5 minutes in, Mom started whispering to Don, because obviously, this was his fault.

It took a whole 5 more minutes before she hassled him into doing something.

Finally, after I sighed a little too loud, Don put down his phone and turned around.

“Do you mind?” It was said almost politely. Dammit Don, if you are going to confront, be an asshole about it.

And here is the completely childish response from me.

I have a lazy left eye that drifts off if I am not concentrating.

So I let the eye drift off, badly. Right eye is looking at Don, left eye is looking at the wall.

It disturbs people for some reason.

I pulled my headphones out of my ears. They aren’t on, but if they were, I would not be able to hear what they were saying, would I?

I slurred my voice. “I’m sorry, am I bothering you? Sorry, sir, sorry.”

The whole thing together was a confusing thing to deal with.

I could see it in his eyes.

“Oh, uh, no no, its ok.” And Don turned around and got in a whisper fight with Mom.

And it really did not help that Mom caught me smiling and looking at her with both eyes straight.

Please understand that I am not exactly proud of this little episode, but I am not ashamed either.

But it was funny at the time.

 

 
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Posted by on August 28, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Cracking the Ginger

The Ginger is not an easy nut to crack, but at least I know this going in. I am fairly sure she hates me like poison, but I am not sure why.

I learned not to ask on that one long ago.

I once had a coworker that began trying to get the boss to fire me on my second day. I hadn’t even spoken to the girl.

When she took another job two years later, she said bye to the two owners, ignored me and left.

Immediately, one of the owners turned to me and said he had been waiting two years to ask me what the hell I did to that girl to generate that kind of hatred.

Still, no clue.

Could be that whole asshole thing, once again. I swear, its like some sort of Karmic herpes that I can’t seem to shake.

It would figure that I am the one guy karma is going to hold to a standard.

Anyway, we were talking about the Ginger.

The reason I need her to talk to me is that she is the twenty something sort-of girlfriend of an older gentleman named Ronaldo who’s son committed a whole bunch of crimes. Right in the middle of the son trying to negotiate a plea bargain, Ronaldo moved to Chicago to be with an old friend of his deceased wife that he has fallen for.

And on the day that he left, I found out that there was a rather unexplained relationship with the Ginger.

Do you see where this is going?

The Ginger knows the updates on Ronaldo’s son. She also is the only one who can shed any light on whether or not she was sleeping with a man old enough to be her grandfather?

I am that kind of rotten that I want to pry into someone elses REALLY personal business.

So it all comes down to her.

I am sitting at the table closest to the the Cream and Sugar kiosk.

I am on a stake out.

I have been strategically sitting here whenever possible, ever since Ronaldo left.

And today it paid off.

At first I hadn’t even realized that she was there. The folks at Starbucks scurry around at high speed at all times and the Ginger is rarely the one out front. She plays cashier and Barrista mostly.

But there she was, changing the garbage.

I held my breath, like a doe had entered the meadow and I didn’t want to frighten her.

How to talk to her was a serious thing. I needed to break her dislike of me and possibly give in to some info dispersing.

Well, she doesn’t like me, but she seemed to care for Ronaldo.

Start there.

“Have you heard anything from Ronaldo?”

I pitched my voice soft and gentle. I didn’t want her to think I was asking about her relationship.

I do sneaky well.

She turned and I almost waited for her eyes to turn hard.

They softened.

She smiled a bit.

“He’s good.” She brushed a strand of red hair out of her face. “He’s getting settled into his place.”

I decided to play my hole card. I went all in.

“I miss him…we were kind of friends.”

She tilted her head to the side.

She smiled at me. I am not kidding.

“Me too.”

I went for broke.

I leaned in. It was one of those moves that forces the other person to reciprocate. Its like yawning.

I lowered my voice.

“What’s the word with his son?”

She looked around out of reflex. She leaned in.

I am in a full ass clench in anticipation.

“Ronaldo said-”

AND THE GODDAM MANAGER ASKED HER TO CHECK SOMETHING IN THE BACK.

She nodded at me and took off.

Are you kidding me?

 
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Posted by on October 19, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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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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10 years of remembrance

And a lot of whining and bitching.

Its 9/11 and I am thinking about water boarding.

On the day we watched people die, there was a rolling wave of outrage that rippled through out the land.

Think what you want about President Bush now, but he was awesome during that time.

We chased that rotten shit head Ben Ladin all thru the mountains and couldn’t catch him.

And then the whining began.

Waterboarding was screamed at in the news as being torture.

Except that it wasn’t.

The reporter from CNN had it done to him on camera by an ex CIA agent. Within 30 seconds of being waterboarded, he was back on camera, microphone in hand.

WTF?

How is something so terrible that the media screams that we are hideously torturing people if it leaves no damage and is being done by reporters to make a good story.

John McCain can tell you about some torture.

Broken knee, broken shoulder. Stabbed in the ankle and the groin. Cracked ribs, broken teeth.

That is torture.

Waterboarding is tough, to be sure, not something you want to do, unless you can benefit from it. But it is not torture.

Put an Ohio state shirt on the waterboardee, pour beer on them and have them sing the Ohio State fight song?

Its a hazing prank.

The big argument is that torture doesn’t work.

Then explain why every society since the dawn of time has used it. Because it doesn’t work?

Morally, they don’t want it to work. They hate that there was actually terror plots blocked because of info gained by waterboarding.

The argument should be, should we use torture.

The answer is no.

But waterboarding is not torture.

Let me say that one again. Waterboarding is not torture.

There is no permanent damage. It scares people. Scaring people is not torture.

If so, zombie films are torture. They scare the shit out of me.

How dare you violate my civil rights like that.

I think that one of the saddest things about the anniversary of 9/11 is that it has been a decade of whining and accusations. Should we have done this? Should we have invaded there? With a war on, we have had people who disagree with the president calling childish names and definitely giving the impression that they can change our minds with violence and threats.

These are the same people that piss and moan when you question Obama.

Usually, they call you a racist for disagreeing with him.

Here are the basic facts. Due to what they claim are valid reasons, terrorists hijacked a total of 3 planes. They ran 2 of them into the Twin Towers. The towers fell.

2996 dead.

Another plane crashed, after the passengers tried to overpower the hijackers.

127 dead.

Al Qaeda hailed it as a victory. And, I guess if you think you were in a war at the time, it was.

So how can they bitch when we begin scouring the planet to ferret them out like vermin.

Fuck em. I am tired of caring what anyone outside of this country thinks.

The one thing I would like more than anything is to get the opinions of people I have never met.

The ones that died on 9/11.

However, they aren’t talking.

And I hope that silence is never forgotten like it has been for the last 10 years.

God Bless.

 
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Posted by on September 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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To rebut is human……to forgive is not.

I am a little angry today.

So what else is new?

I have received a second email from an anonymous source about the “Ronaldo’s Son” blogs. The first was a simple admonishment about being harsh.

Fine, I sent back a “Sorry you feel that way” email and asked them to post on the blog page. I prefer to make a public scene.

The second was more, and I take it personal.

Despite my request that I would rather you comment on the blog on the actual blog page, Ms. X has elected to continue emailing.

Fine.

Then I will rebut all the lines of your email here.

First of all, eat me.

I have never read anything this pathetic in my life. Every soft-headed platitude in the book or books is there.

“An addict is not responsible for his actions.”
Two things. First, Ronaldo never said his son was an addict, I never said his son was an addict. Second? Bull! We are all responsible for our actions. An addict always has the option of getting help.

“Walk a mile in his shoes before you judge him.”
I could be in the Battan Death March in his Nikes before I would shit on my father to the degree this piece of garbage has.

“Judge not lest ye be judged.” Ah, biblical. Mathew. Sermon on the mount. It was part of a sermon on ostentation and not meant to be a “get out of jail free” sinners card.

The really interesting thing is that, for all of these dark and dour crimes, you assume he is an addict and auto forgive all of his actions.

What about me?

How do you know this isn’t my 11th out of 12 steps or something? Where is the automatic assumption that I too, am an addict. Where the hell is my auto-forgiveness?
(According to MyAddiction.com Caffeine is a really serious one too. All of my behavior is now golden. Yah!)

Back on subject.

I know a little something about addiction. I have family that is in the rehab biz and the general consensus is that taking responsibility for your actions is in there somewhere. It is also one of the twelve steps.

But lets look at all the people you have turned your back on in favor of the Demon Son.

Ronaldo. The meth lab on the premises gets his retirement-funding house seized. It also is a huge betrayal of his parent. (This is a biblical issue too, or did you miss that?)

The girls. Smuggled into this country and forced to do drugs and make porn films. A sizeable portion of their life is ruined. I hope they get some peace down the road on this one. I see them as victims.

The parents of the girls. They will most likely find out at some point. Could be the biggest nightmare a parent could face.

Anyone in the film distribution chain that is simply trying to make a living. They have been given films that contain illegal actors. I assume the economy sucks all over and they can’t afford hits to their bottom line either.

Because actions speak louder than words, I have a challenge for you. When Ronaldo’s son gets out of jail, take him and Charles Manson as room mates.

Let me know how that goes.

You may as well go fishing with Fredo, because you are dead to me.

So, to sum up, take your excuses, your platitudes, your obvious self-issues, your blind eye forgiveness to any crime that does not directly affect you…..

And stick them. In the biblical sense.

Have a nice day…………..ass.

 
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Posted by on September 8, 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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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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