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This message will self destruct in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

A non-descript black town car will pull up in front of your house at precisely 5pm.

You MUST be wearing a black dress with red heels.

If you wear anything else the driver will leave.

The driver will stand by the back door.

Nod at him as you approach, and gesture at the door ONLY with your left hand.

He will open the door and close it once you are in.

Place your hands in your lap and look down.

Do NOT make eye contact.

The driver will ask you 3 times, “Where are we going?”

Do NOT answer.

If you answer, he will pull over and remove you from the vehicle.

After the third time, he will head to the freeway.

You will arrive at a sake/sushi bar in Hollywood called “Kino”.

Walk THRU the restaurant to the bar.

Tell the batender with the RED bowtie that you want the “Twilight Special”.

He will push a napkin across the bar to you with a 5 of spades playing card under it.

Take the card and walk thru the kitchen to the black door at the back with the large Japanese man in a tuxedo in front of it.

He will say nothing.

Tilt your head to the LEFT side and say “What is the frequency, Kenneth?”

When he opens the door, walk thru the casino inside and out into the alley.

There is a limo waiting, get into the backseat and tell the driver that you are late.

He will drive you to the Bonaventure Hotel in LA.

Once you arrive, walk to the front desk and approach the clerk with the blue pen tucked behind his LEFT ear.

Shake his hand and palm him the playing card.

He will immediately hand you a large yellow envelope.

Go to the elevator and take it to the 23rd floor.

Open the envelope and inside there is a room key that has “2315” printed on it.

Use it to open room #2356.

In the closet of that room is a wall safe.

Input “2315#” and open the safe.

Inside, there is a cell phone.

Go out on the balcony and dial #6 on the speed dial menu.

When the call is answered, ask for help with your “Rodent” problem.

Hang up and leave the phone on the balcony in the black lounge chair.

Immediately take the elevator to the lobby and walk briskly to the Yellow cab waiting for you.

Tell the driver you are the “VIP” customer.

He will say nothing and drive.

Ignore the urine smell.

You will soon arrive at the Days Inn in Compton.

Go to the front desk and ask for Tran.

Tell Tran that the exterminator is delayed.

He will hand you a card key for room #22.

Head across the parking lot to room #22.

Put the card key in the slot, then turn to face the parking lot.

I will be in the yellow 1979 AMC Pacer with no pants on.

Get in and perform oral sex.

I’ll take you home, maybe we can get some Taco Bell.

 
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Posted by on June 9, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Before the ball drops…

You know I have to get the last word.

I couldn’t let the year end without running at the mouth one last time.

New Year’s Eve is coming and it is time to lie like a politician to the one person we should never lie to.

Ourselves.

New Years is the time that we trot out our completely unrealistic resolutions and parade them around like a temporary trophy wife for all to see.

And they last as long as the trophy wife does and will desert you every bit as fast as if she found out you got no money.

At least you won’t have a lingering STD when the resolution is gone.

At least physically.

Mentally?

Anybody’s guess.

I have seen people pillory themselves like one of the Marquis de Sade’s regulars over not losing that 10 pounds from the holidays.

In reality, the only people that truly give a crap how much you weigh will be your pallbearers, everything else is just in your head.

At my Great Uncle Jack’s funeral, one of my cousins was struggling to hold up his end.

In frustration, he looked down at the casket.

“Jesus Christ, Jack!”

Hilarious.

First time I had ever witnessed someone berating a corpse.

I try to keep my resolutions either ridiculously easy to pull off, or impossible to the point that no one thinks its serious at all.

Here are my easy resolutions:

  1. Don’t get arrested New Years Eve. (Much easier since I quit power drinking.)
  2. Go to the gym. (I am going to the gym now, so I win by doing the norm.)
  3. Be nicer to the family. (Nicer is so hard to put a definition to, I can do what I want.)

And here are my impossibles, (Or perhaps Deplorables)

  1. Not be mean to people. (Not breathing would be easier. I am not a real fan of people.)
  2. Get taller. (If I knew how to pull this one off it would have happened decades ago.
  3. Masturbate less. (Don’t look at me, you’ll ruin the mood.)

I have finally come to this.

I hope next year doesn’t suck.

For those that claim that this year sucked, consider the alternative.

It could have really sucked.

Some people are pissed because a celebrity they liked died, or a politician they didn’t like won, or blah blah blah.

In reality, not a goddam thing actually went wrong with your year.

Happiness is a perception.

So if you are not happy with how this year was?

Get off your ass and get in the game.

Make next year a better one, by your definition.

And for fucks sake! Stop posting shit on Facebook, it makes you look like a douche.

Happy New Year.

Bite me.

 

 
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Posted by on December 30, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Sitting on Santa’s lap.

Christmas is coming, the geese is getting fat.

Holiday shit has gone South with the geese.

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

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

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

Maybe not.

Moving on.

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

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

Its called baking.

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

The much sainted ex could bake like a fiend.

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

Moving on.

There are only a few more shopping days till Christmas.

So get off your ass.

And get online to Amazon.

I don’t even leave the house anymore.

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

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

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

You bust your ass to make it happen.

And then, they grow up.

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

Like you finally caught your breath.

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

Bacon, eggs, toast, hashbrowns and waffles.

A solid vegetarian offering.

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

And some that don’t.

Very few have no opinion.

Its a lot like pissing in the shower.

You either do or you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Secret drinking and hating your relatives.

That sounds like a one off funny line.

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

The holidays are like a bar pick up.

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

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

And that is the true gift of the holidays.

Survival.

Merry Christmas.

 

 
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Posted by on December 23, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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At least wear a condom

There is something to be said for old school making out.

There is also something slightly uncomfortable about not being one of the makeout participants.

But there is something evil in the delight washing over me as I watch other non-participants being REALLY uncomfortable about the aforementioned making out.

There is a thirty-something couple that is sitting on the cushion seats at Starbucks, making out like they are cheating on someone.

There is no inappropriate touching going on, everyone is fully clothed, but I am beginning to suspect that either their lips are stitched together or he is performing some sort of dentistry on her with his tongue.

Table to their right is inhabited by every disapproving old lady you have ever met.

Old ladies come in pairs as a general rule.

Its a lot like a buddy system, one to talk trash, the other to nod their head.

And, from the looks of it, these two old biddies are just about to shit themselves.

On the other side of our amorous couple is the Creeps.

The Creeps are just staring.

Creep #1, we will call him Peeper, he likes to descretely peep out of the corner of his eye and pretend no one sees him looking.

Creep #2, we will call him Alpha Creep, doesn’t give a shit, he is just blatantly staring.

Alpha Creep has enough of a pervy creep vibe to him that he may start masturbating at any moment, and it would not shock me.

Getting back to our carnal customers.

We could call them Romeo and Juliet, but that seems a little too easy and over done.

So, Fred and Ginger are going at it like he is leaving for the war tomorrow.

I would say get a room, but they have two untouched cups of something in front of them, so they have technically paid the rent on the 2 spots on the cushions they currently inhabit.

I mean, if a homeless guy can buy a small coffee and sleep in a chair, then two fully clothed patrons who DON’T stink can dry hump on the table.

Plus, its kind of sweet.

I mean, making out as an art form seems to have been on the decline for the last decade.

And I don’t understand why?

I mean, done right, making out is one of the more erotic things two people can share.

And we all seem to forget that in pursuit of the infamous “Hook Up”.

Evidently, hook ups are happening left and right.

By the way, they still don’t have cures for STDs, but they are all on the rise.

Which is why the hook up is not something I can do.

Remember the movie Jaws?
I stopped going in the ocean because of that movie.

I am sure that I will become that rare statistic that will be eaten by a shark.

Same thing with STDs.

It would be just my luck to catch something and my shwantz would fall off and scurry away like a frightened snake.

Who needs that type of stress?

But, I am liking Fred and Ginger.

To be perfectly honest, they aren’t boring, they smell nice and I am not worried that they might attack in a drug fueled rage.

So I say, let them stay.

 
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Posted by on November 4, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Shhhh, nobody cares

There are times I love Facebook and times I hate it.

I tend to use it as a playground, treating everyone on it like playthings.

I see how much shit I can stir up on a regular basis.

And if you think there is no shit to stir, you are the shit.

Some people I go after their reaction like I am fishing for trout.

My high point was my fake account for the largest high school in Des Moines, Iowa.

There was a study that said this was the most average place in the USA.

So I created a profile, loaded a bunch of group pics, never a single person pic and choose a name that was similar to all the names on the largest high school alumni page in Des Moines.

I commented a lot on the Alumni page and then began sending out friend requests.

Within a month, I had over 200 friends, several people that say they remembered me and one girl that claims I made out with her at a party.

There was a vile part of me that really enjoyed slapping around these cyber mice like a digital cat, and a noticeable lack of remorse.

Evidently I have no shame.

Or if I do, I also have some sort of emotional disconnect that keeps it from influencing my actions.

I am good with that.

Everyone should have a hobby. (Fucking with people.)

And then there is times I hate Facebook for what it does to people.

It seems to bring out the therapy dependent tendencies in some.

These tendencies manifest in two different ways.

The first is a need for reassurance.

It starts with a passive aggressive statement about eliminating people unless there is some sort of response.

The immediate reaction is a reply of “Please don’t unfriend me.”

I immediately ask to be unfriended.

They usually think I am kidding.

Sad thing is, I am not kidding.

Who has time for this drama?

I deliberately use the word drama because there are those that constantly mention trying to avoid drama.

And they are the ones that are always hip deep in it.

The second tendency comes in the form of continually posting self help posters about how a real man/friend will treat you.

Its exhausting.

I stop being nice at this point.

I don’t have that kind of time.

There will never be a time that I make any demands of anyone on Facebook other than to try to force you to stand up to me.
I am a bully of sorts.

Usually I will push the various buttons of those that present themselves as Alpha types.

You want to play with the big dogs, learn to show your teeth.

Plus, in a sick way, its a lot of fun.

The biggest key that NO ONE seems to get is that none of this should be taken seriously.

Somebody said its like high school.

Not even that grown up in my eyes.

More like a sandbox of children all armed with smart phones.

So, if I happen to throw a little sand your way, wipe your eyes, pull up your big kid pants and throw some back.

Remember, nobody like a crybaby.

Child or adult.

A test reader just asked me why I sound like an ass.

Good, I am hitting the right tone.

So if one more person asks me to answer an obviously cut and pasted posted with a single word about how we met then repost, my answer will be “FISTING” and I don’t care how many coworkers and elder relatives they are Facebook friends with.

Just saying.

 
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Posted by on October 21, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Your unsightly unmentionables

There is an ad on an internet site for Scrotox, botox for the testicles.

I have no idea what I was going write about prior to reading that.

Gone, all that is left is Scrotox.

Its disturbing, and nasty and has a tangible feeling of ewww to it.

The gist of the ad, once you click on it, is that there are men who feel bad or embarrassed by their wrinkly testicles.

Go back and read that last sentence again, I will wait here.

I am staring at my screen and shaking my head.

I’m not sure where to go from here.

Is this a thing?

I have never looked at my scroti in terms of their attractiveness.

What is worse, wrinkles or the sparse pubic hair?

If I get Scrotox, and I am not saying I will, will I need to get them waxed?

I mean, if they are going to be smooth, they should be hairless.

It makes for a better photo.

Pubic hair, no matter how much conditioner you use, will never behave.

Now, if you are going to take your scroti to the salon and to use the English term, “Smack your bitch up”, you should definitely have some head shots taken.

So off to the mall for some tacky head shots, maybe even with a big hair wig like your balls are a backup dancer in a White Snake video.

The alternative to waxing would be a comb-over, and that would be worse.

Anyone who saw your scroti with a comb over would see that as desperate, trying too hard.

It would be obvious that your balls are past their prime, no longer able to just roll out of bed, run your hand thru your hair and out the door.

You would have to buy “Product” for your hair, and that is a whole other thing.

I would recommend taking your nuts to a high end salon for a consultation.
Don’t fuck around here, get a professional consultation about testicular grooming products.

Just saying.

But, you ask, how do I know if my “Orbs” pass muster?

How can I tell if my “Makers” lack that “Come hither look” that the “Bits” of male models possess?

Its not like you can just wipe the out at happy hour and begin asking random strangers what they think.

That sounds like a recipe for getting gang tackled and held for observation.

Besides, what does your average Jane and Joe know about truly good looking “Bait”?

But who do you go to for that expert appraisal?

If you are 50 or older, I should think that Antique Road Show might be of help.

But you might have to be a little vague about things until you are sitting across from the expert and the cameras are rolling. (Also may end up in a gang tackle by the production staff.)

There is one suggestion that none of the ads seems to even allude to, and it seems to be so obvious.

Just keep in in your pants, no one wants to see that shit.

Seriously.

No BS.

Don’t.

No.

Just don’t.

We good?

 
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Posted by on September 23, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Katy, take a bow.

It turns out I am 13 years old.

I must be, that is the only thing that explains it.

I bowed to peer pressure.

I wrote a one-off blog last week.

One and done, my favorite kind.

A single turd, cast into the river of the internet and pulled away by the current, never to be seen again.

I got two complaints almost immediately.

One from someone I consider to a moron.

He could have been blowing bubbles and shitting himself and I would have taken him more serious.

But the second one was from someone that gets me, understands the humor.

Plus they texted me, that means they are trusted, I restrict who can text, most I just ignore, if I respond, that is a level above the rest. (I am like an onion, many layers and peeling them will make you cry.)

And they said one simple thing.

“That can’t be it, the story isn’t over.”

So I looked at it.

And dammit if they were not right.

So here we are, like retarded migratory birds, flying by instinct back to this literary Capistrano.

Why? Good question.

Because the story isn’t over.

I thought it was, but I am half a tard MOST of the time, so what do I know.

So, without further adieu, here it is.

The Saga of Katy – part 2

Places everyone!

Action!

And……

I got nothing.

I really should take better notes.

But the overwhelming majority of these are put stream of consciousness.

Like a fart in a high wind, makes an ugly statement, but just as fast, its gone.

So, when in doubt, start at the beginning.

And where is the beginning.

Simple.

Coffee.

A free cup of coffee, given to me by the manager, along with a cookie for being out on the patio when the Sheriffs and Children’s Services arrived to deal with the most out of control baby factory I have ever seen. (The manager must be new. Most managers will apologize profusely for bad happenings, but as a general rule, they will NEVER give you free product.)

Half naked, filthy, ill-mannered brood, the lot of them.

Everyone likes to say, babies and children are all beautiful.

To this, I ask:

Why is your head up your ass? Is it for the warmth? Then put on a coat, AND PULL YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS.”

Katy is a shitty mother with ugly kids.

You’re goddam right I said it.

Some kids are fugly and Katy’s kids have a dose of fugly that matches their mother’s attitude.

Speaking of attitude, thru the glass, I see that Katy has given up berating the Children’s Services agent, and gone after the larger of the two sheriffs. (The Children’s Services is like an emotional duck, letting all that shit slide off of her back.)

She is up in his face, in a manner of speaking. (She would have to be a foot and a half taller to actually be in his face, they are both terrifying specimens of Homo-Sapian. The smaller one is 6’4 or so.)

Sheriffs are an amazing bunch.

They are quite often the most gentle of the law enforcement officers you will run into.

Right up until you touch them.

Which Katy just decided was appropriate.

Balling up her long nails into a fist, she pulled back her hand and swung it at the upper chest of a man wearing a bullet proof vest that is rated for heavy caliber.

What she hit, was the top of his palm as his fingers closed around her wrist.

It was so smoothly done that it was like they had practiced it.

Whatever Katy officially did to get them here is now a secondary charge.

Attempted assault of a sheriff is dumb in and of itself.

But then it hit me.

Katy was dealing with possibly the only authority figure she has ever dealt with.

Because you can tell from her demeanor and bearing that she definitely had no respect for the shitbag that raised this little honey.

I was just finishing my cookie when they were feeding Katy into the back of the Sheriff’s cruiser.

Another sheriff and a nondescript woman in a cheap suit that screamed “CHILDREN’S SERVICES M-FER” pulled up in a large SUV.

In short order, they fed Katy-brood into the back of the SUV.

The kids did not even appear to be upset, like they were used to it.

And thus ends the Saga of Katy, or maybe its just the beginning.

So thats the end of my viewing of the Saga of Katy.

The cookie is gone, Katy and the kids are gone, and the coffee is cold.

And coffee, unlike vengeance, is never enjoyable when its cold.

 
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Posted by on September 2, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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