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Welcome to the Freakshow

When did the airport become Walmart?

There are a number of videos on Youtube that show people making poor clothing and life choices in Walmart. 

And it is a flat out freakshow. 

But when did the freakshow take their weird act to the airport?

Here is where we’re at so far. 

It started slow. 

In line at the TSA checkpoint, I saw a guy that looked like a basketball in a polo shirt. (Let that visual sink in for a second.)

Nothing seemed out of place until he bent over to untie his shoes. (TSA checkpoint, remember?)

And then I saw it.

A whale tail.

You heard me right.

M-ER F-ING Whale tail.

This is something I can never unsee. 

Like a 1 second Vietnam War, this may affect me for the rest of my life.

I staggered along thru the checkpoint in a stupor, even the excessive pat down barely registered. (Someone fondling my testes usually gets my attention.)

While putting my shoes on at the bench after my #MeToo moment, while trying desperately not to see the whale tail again, the attractive business woman sitting next to me farted. 

Not a lady-like toot followed by an embarrassed “Oh my! Excuse me!”, but a full barreled flatulent ground zero moment followed by locking eyes with me and glaring like I was the one at fault.

She made a beeline for the bathroom right after she got her shoes on. (Possibly shit herself. If it was me, I would want to check after a blast like that too.)

There is a horizontal escalator that moves you along faster to the far off gates.

It was here that I wondered if you could get crabs in the butt crack?

I only ask because the guy in the skinny jeans ahead of me is raking his fingernails up and down his as with the fervor of a man who’s ass might be on fire. 

The scent of patchouli oil drifts back to my nostrils. (This does not help my already poor opinion of bohemian types. A smelly ass hippy with an itchy taint is still a smelly ass hippy. Plus, Ear gauges, need I say more?)

I get to my gate and figure all is well, just bide my time and I will soon be on the plane.

Life, it seems, has other plans. 

Airport security shows up and yanks some guy to his feet at a nearby gate. 

It seems a young mother has lodged a complaint. (As they frog-march him away, it occurs to me that if you are going to wear pajamas like regular pants, either sew up the bathroom slit in the front or wear underwear. I would be ok with airport security walking him down a few flights of steps so he could “Accidentally” fall down the steps and learn a deeper meaning of “Common courtesy”.)

And finally, I am on the plane.

But we are not done.

As I was boarding, Whale-tail is arguing with an attendant about the full size suitcase he claims is a carry on. 

I made the mistake of booking an aisle seat. 

This means that I spend all of boarding leaning to the right so that EVERY guy walking by doesn’t rub his ass on my shoulder. 

Look, I know how whiny and pitiful all of this sounds and I would be the first one to shout PUSSY at anyone else with the same bitch-list.

But, this is my world, and you are just a squirrel, trying to get a blog-nut.

The fact that the stewardess on the loudspeaker giving the safety speech has a decent harelip doesn’t even phase me. 

But the guy across the aisle picking his nose so deeply that it looks like he is up to the second knuckle is starting to freak me out.

A young mother with a cute little daughter sit down next to me.

With mom watching, the little girl rummages under the seat in front of her and digs out a piece of gum someone put there.

Immediately puts it in her mouth and begins chewing.

Mom says nothing. 

Gonna be a long flight.

 
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Posted by on December 15, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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What the mob wants.

This is appropriate.

When reading a particularly suspenseful passage in a book, to worry the nail on your finger.

When bored, put your elbow on the table and prop your chin on your palm.

Neither one of these are weird.

This is weird.

When sitting in a Starbucks reading a book, (Get a Kindle you freak!) and running your hand across your OWN face as if you are caressing the face of a lover.

For 20 fucking minutes!

There is a creep factor here that is off the charts.

It creates something in the casual observer much akin to swampass, but with a karmic filth to it that only jailed pedophiles and Ned Beatty truly understand.

My morning is ruined.

I would have left 20 minutes ago, but I opted for a sumatran roast and it really is spectacular.

Excellent coffee is the one thing that can make me put up with unacceptable shit.

And unacceptable it is.

This is not like a moment’s discomfort, go about your day, act like it never happened.

This is like, go home and burn your clothes, cry naked in the shower, join a support group type of deal.

In a another era, we would have chased him thru the streets, naked and bleeding.

Him, not us, just in case that wasn’t clear.

I didn’t ask for my morning to go like this.

I came here with the intention of writing a sweet blog about St. Patrick and Ireland and a cute legend about snakes, and maybe end the post with a prayer.

And then this happened.

Pedophiles and lynch mobs.

Set against a background of rich Sumatran coffee.

Think about something twisted for more than 5 minutes and the Japanese will have dozen websites up within minutes, charging a monthly fee to watch a clammy-palmed gang of creepy motherfuckers, all fondling their faces a reading moth eaten romance novels with Fabio on the cover.

He is the type of guy that is heavily into Pinterest. (If you don’t see whats wrong with that, I cannot help you.)

He’s no stranger to police lineups.

I swear, at some point in his life, he has been standing in a police line up dressed as Santa Clause.

“Number 4, please step forward, drop your pants and say HO HO HO.”

If my coffee were not so hot and just now becoming drinkable, I would not put up with this shit.

Oh shit!

He’s on the move, no doubt saw a helpless victim across the room that he wants to drag into his raised 70’s van.

He goes to the counter.

I am staring at him thru the steam coming out of my cup.

“Can I get a refill of the Sumatran?”

Oh.

We are drinking the same thing.

I hate to be shallow about this, but it really is a good cup of coffee.

And besides, my mother likes old school romance novels.

And he does know his coffee.

Eh.

Ok, so he’s not all that bad.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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You wanna go out?

I am in one of my favorite breakfast places.

The coffee is hot, the hotcakes are good and they don’t mind me being there for a few hours.

And there is a couple on a date in the next booth.

It a “Meet and Greet” date.

They met on a dating site.

He is here to try and get things going.

She is here to make sure he is not a serial rapist.

That’s a date that starts with the phrase “Hey, does this rag smell like chloroform?”

Its an odd thing to see two people in their mid 30’s being this polite and nervous.

From the sound of my RUDE listening in, they have been IM-ing all week.

You would think they would be a little more comfortable.

Or maybe that is why they are nervous, because they know a little something about each other.

There’s a little skin in the game now.

It would be easier on the nerves if they had met in a singles bar.

Emotionally, there is no skin in the game there, just skin.

Singles bars used to be called meat markets and for good reason.

Nowadays, we are much more civilized.

And the meat market is now online.

And its a hundred times worse.

It used to just be that there was one or two guys that would get sloppy drunk and use the obscene pick up lines.

The bouncers would get wind of it and Mr. Rude would get tossed.

And all was right with the world.

Now however, due to the anonymous safety of the internet, guys aren’t even getting sloppy drunk before they break out the truly vile pick up lines.

And out of pure survival instinct, the ladies have mentally circled the wagons.

Three quarters of all women’s profiles on the dating sites say, at a minimum, “No hook ups”.

And that is the mildest defense.

The ladies that have truly had a hard time has some disclaimers that, at first glance, you would think was a joke.

One truly stunning Asian woman had a disclaimer, all in caps, at the end of her carefully written profile.

“I will not  blow you on the first date and I am not into anal.”

Here are my thoughts.

That is not the sort of thing you write because 1 or 2 random guys asked her these things.

There had to have been enough requests that she felt it necessary to include, not in the first private communication, but in the profile, right off the bat.

This is like dealing with a battered wife.

Or maybe it is dealing with a battered wife, without the hassle of the wedding.

Which leaves the rest of us to deal with a bunch of hypersensitive women that have been mind-banged by the internet.

Thanks guys, on behalf of all of us trying to date in the modern age, thanks a bunch.

Now, there has to be one woman, some complete skank that this has worked on for this many assholes to get the idea that it will work.

So she deserves a big thanks from the rest of us.

The internet is more to blame than anything else.

Because now the freaks have an easier time cranking their freak flags to even more disgusting heights.

As we all know, the weirdest porn comes from Japan.

So, no matter what you are into, there is a website dedicated to that.

Before this becomes a post about internet porn, let me pull my attention back to the dating couple.

They have both calmed down and there is some decent conversation going on.

And there is no chloroform in site.

I wish them luck.

 

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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She is woman, hear her roar.

I hate it when anything interrupts my morning coffee.

I take my addiction to caffeine very seriously, and it better be important enough to warrant my attention.

“The shape of his penis is disturbing.”

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

I put my coffee down and begin typing notes into my laptop.

There is a very petite woman at the next table, talking with either a friend or a coworker, I can’t figure which.

Her choice of morning conversation, along with the fact that she is making no attempt to lower her voice, is the beautiful marriage of oblivious and confident as hell.

She is mid twenties, maybe, a tiny woman. A fairly tight black dress with heels. There are some curves going on in that dress. I want to call her French, but that might be because of her hair being pulled up with just a few wispy strands hanging down.

The effect is very attractive without being slutty.

There is a bit of shock at her statement being made to a man. You would expect her to talk that way to a close girlfriend.

Normally, that would throw my suspicion at him as being her gay friend and its safe to talk to him this way.

Except that he is not gay.

How do I know? I mean, I have pure shit for gaydar, but while this guy isn’t exactly a brutish clod, you can’t help but think that he would dress and accessorize better if he were a homosexual.

There is a definite hetero mismatch to his clothing and color choices.

Like I should talk. My fiancee has outright banned a few of my clothing choices, mainly for colors.

“And you should see the joy in his eyes when he knows its too big to be comfortable.”

This is a subtle little phrase that I jotted down and moved on. When I cam back to it later, I was mesmerized by several things.

First off, this girl is a freak. She is currently dating some sort of sadistic porn star with elephantitis of the penis. He likes pain, and apparently, so does she.

Second off, as tiny as she is, it just seems so out of place. She is sitting, but standing, she can’t be more than 4’11 at most, and 80 lbs dripping wet.

Third off, she likes it rough. This is not necessarily a minus here, unless you aren’t packing the angry bulldog of cocks in your pants.

In other words, the rest of us.

Her coworker has yet to say a word. Just a lot of head nodding and “mmmm.”’s in agreement.

I believe she was halfway thru her description of her weekend with “Tono” (What the hell kind of a name is that?) and describing the restraints he liked to use, when I first realized that I was in love.

Not that I am into rough sex, I’m not. But I love that free attitude that you can sit in a Starbucks, surrounded by business people, yoga enthusiasts, parents with their kids, and of course, me, and feel comfortable enough to talk about the absolute BD/SM porn film that your life is.

Incredible.

She is woman hear her roar.

(Just make sure you wear a condom.)

 

 
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Posted by on November 4, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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