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The aroma of a disreputable God.

I may be cursed.

I have tried to find an old gypsy woman to verify this, but have come out with snake eyes so far.

I usually live a life that is an interesting cross between golden-child kind of charmed and red-headed bastard son of a medieval lord.

Odd combination, but I usually come out on top.

Until today.

I have mentioned my sense of smell, or rather lack of, before?

For those who are new or not paying attention, I have had some unfortunate breaks of my nose that have ruined my sense of smell.

Among the many scents I cannot enjoy, body odor, affectionately known as BO, is one of them.

I also cannot smell most flowers. (This is almost a crime.)

But not being able to smell BO? I am ok with that. (It almost, but not quite, makes up for no flowers.)

Again, until today.

I am in a Starbucks I have never been in before. (Is that even possible?)

I set up my laptop, grab my coffee, cream and sugar to perfection and head back to my seat.

And then it hits me.

The smell.

I have never smelled a human like Crepitus before.

Crepitus has BO on the level of decomposition.

Check that fucker for a pulse, if you dare to get that close.

Crepitus, for those who don’t have time to research ridiculous crap like this, is the Roman God of Flatulence.

Might be the walking dead for all I know.

Good show, but who knows where the extras on that show go between seasons? (I can’t prove they are not using real zombies in that show.)

Anyway, the smell is an overwhelming thing, like a person unto itself.

A really obnoxious person.

With a personality (Smell) that is aggressive and in your face.

Like an olfactory version of a used car salesman.

They say that the course of human events changes because of the deeds of great men.

I disagree.

I think the course of human events changes because of the stench of random people.

Smell makes the world go around.

However, smell is currently making me lose interest in my coffee, its THAT bad.

There are those people in life that have such a narcissistic view of the world that they have no clue about how they affect the world around them.

No man is an island.

Bullshit.

I can name ten that are land-locked islands with no sense of the other islands on all sides.

And they are not going to change any time soon.

And then, as it always does, shit changes. (Do you see the irony here?)

Crepitus gets up, possibly shits himself, and leaves.

The door opens a few times, letting a little more fresh air in each time.

A woman sits at the next table that has what I would normally think of as too much perfume.

But not today.

Today, even shitty perfume in quantity is a delight.

Now that Crepitus is gone.

And I can get back to my coffee.

 

The books are out! Check them out here! The Caffeinated Humor Series

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Posted by on June 24, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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Where is the Baby, Roy?

Where’s the baby?

Good question.

But, it’s a question that Roy cannot answer.

For those who came in late, take your seats and I will catch you up.

Roy, not his real name, is more than a little crazy.

I would say it’s in the eyes, but Roy may not have any.

Eyes, that is.

8pm at night, and Roy is wearing the darkest sunglasses you can buy.

Those odd, pitch black wrap arounds that the eye doctor gives you when he dilates your eyes.

Also, Roy is pushing a baby carriage.

Actually, it is the metal frame of a baby carriage without any fabric or padding on it.

So it’s either not done being made or it’s in the process of being dismantled.

And Roy?

Roy appears to be in the same state of being dismantled.

He just mutters and rocks back and forth, even when he walks.

I cannot seem to get anything out of him other than a word that sounds like “Roy”.

I began trying to find out about Roy like any good zoologist, befriending him with food.

You never try to hand feed a strange animal. (Especially one who might have a violent chemical load going on.)

I am a scientist, but I am not stupid. (Jane Goodall never had to deal with silverback meth heads, there’s a difference.)

So, after feeding him a cookie, some string cheese, and a banana, I am no closer to figuring out Roy’s secret language than when he arrived at the front door of Starbucks and rammed his baby carriage into the front door. (The millenial that was standing at the door all but shit his skinny jeans in shock. A twenty-something having a heart attack is worth seeing, trust me.)

Roy has all the earmarks of a long time homeless.

The smell is a gimme, face is a grubby mess, but his hands are oddly clean.

The clothes are dirty, baggy and many layered.

He has USC hat. I am assuming that he is an alumni. (So many USC alum end up like Roy. Go Notre Dame!)

I am on the far left, Roy is at the next table, and there are 2 skittish teens on the other side of Roy, studying like good children.

The kids are eyeing the door and trying to figure out how fast they can pack up all their study books if all this goes to hell.

Long experience has my best time of packing up and getting the fuck out of Dodge down to 1.1 minutes.

Roy just belched, then farted so loud, I am shocked he didn’t shit himself.

The teens are officially spooked and packing up.

And, it seems that it is time to go.

Roy did shit himself. (Now I will never find out what happened to the baby.)

I set a new record by being out the door in 58 seconds flat.

Just as the door was closing, the miracle happened.

Roy raised his hand and mouthed the words “Thank you”.

I am a fucking saint.

 
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Posted by on June 7, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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I can be dumb, but I’m not stupid.

Someone texted me this week and said I should write a blog about the Vegas Massacre.

Are you out of your fucking mind?

As it is, I get around 100 hate emails a month from people that take exception to the crap I trowel  out on this blog.

That is down from its heyday when I used to post every weekday.

There are some subjects that you don’t fuck around with.

Because writing a hate email is one thing, but you stoke that fire high enough and people begin to seek you out for the purpose of getting a pound of flesh.

And I like my pounds where they are.

Mass tragedies are a dicy thing to spin humorously.

Same thing with pedophiles.

I once knew a stand up comic who’s comedy was based on his level of drunkeness.

I went to one of his shows, and he was supposed to go on at 10pm, so he was pacing his drinking appropriately.

But, at 9:45pm, the bar owner said some friends had come in and were going on ahead of him.

My friend didn’t go on until 1am.

He could barely make it up the stairs to the stage.

What followed was the most vile, upsetting 10 minute spew of truly obscene pedophile jokes I have ever heard.

At the end of his set, the entire room was silent, except for the sound of a woman crying softly in the back.

Half the bar wanted to hold his arms so the other half could beat him with both fists.

It was an ugly night.

And that is how I view Vegas.

Don’t touch it unless I am prepared to talk my way out of an angry room that wants to gang stomp me as part of some sort of cosmic penance for my sins.

 

That being said, HOLY SHIT!

Its Friday the 13th.

And that has its own circus side show of terrifying shit going along with it.

I like to board up the windows on on Friday the 13th just on principal, just on the off chance that some sort of random Purge event erupts around my house. (Roaming gangs out for government sanctioned blood. That sort of thing.)

I see nothing unmanly about cowering behind barred doors with piss dribbling down my leg.

The vile things that happen on Friday the 13th are well documented, so the facts are on my side.

The biggest event that I could care less about, but did happen on the 13th was the shooting of Tupac.

So there you go.

Add that to the homeless guy outside Starbucks with the sign saying he needs money because “Raped by Weinstein, need money for therapy” and you have a bit of a bitch’s brew of evil going on today. (I gave the homeless guy a buck, by the way, for originality and for keeping up on current events. I appreciate dedication to craft.)

There is just something about this day that sets me off on an instinctive level.

On a gut level, I am firmly convinced that the world is out to get me.

I am even giving my coffee the stink eye.

So you KNOW its bad.

 
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Posted by on October 13, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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You cannot prove it

I don’t think of myself as a heartless fuck of a human being, but when the homeless guy with the sign asking for help is sporting a fresh haircut, clean clothes, and nicer sneakers than me? I refuse to help him.

I have nothing but heart for the truly needy, but fuck that guy.

Before you send me email and Facebook messages telling me that I know nothing about him and he may need the help, save it.

There has to be someone out there that gives less of a shit than I, but they will be hard to find.

There is a really brutal answer as to why.

Its honest, but you aren’t going to like it.

And here it is.

I prefer my homeless a little more pathetic.

I am driven by the visual as a general rule.

If they don’t look like they desperately need my help, I don’t have the heart.

It is not my role to help someone going thru a little bit of a rough patch.

The only thing that gets a dollar out of my wallet is the thought that this dollar is the only thing keeping them from either committing an atrocity to get their drug fix or eating their own foot out of cannibalistic starvation.

That sounds cruel, but keep in mind, I am comfortable with cruel.

My test reader made the point that my last line may not be nice, but at least its honest.

Lucky accident, honesty was not my goal.

Karmically, there has to be a category for people who beg for change when they could totally hold down a job.

Or at least they look like they could.

Karma is normally a lazy shit that rarely carries it own weight.

But every now and then, karma steps up to the plate and knocks one out of the park.

So, that being said, what would karma do? What would satisfy the universe at large when faux beggars abound?

A disease would be sufficiently horrible, but raped in prison would also suffice. (Thats not from me, I just know how karma works.)

Ok, now it has been pointed out that I am somehow wishing for horrible things to handle this total stranger based solely on my fabricated scenario of his life.

Yeah, like that.

Why would I need to know anything about him other than what my mind has generated?

That last line has stuck in my head until I realized why it doesn’t bother me.

And there it is, the answer.

It doesn’t bother me because I suddenly realized that he may not be real.

We are now back to my popular theory that most people you see in life, mostly the homeless, do not really exist.

This is an off-shoot of the main theory of nothing on Facebook being real.

That whole line of reasoning makes ignoring this homeless guy that much easier.

I even had to talk myself out of running him over with my car, a Honda Civic that I know for a FACT actually exists.

In the end, I did not run him over, nor did I give him a dollar.

But I did feel a touch guilty on the drive home.

And then it happened.

Redemption.

I pulled up to a stoplight and saw him.

Walker.

Walker is a crazed homeless guy that walks, back and forth, non-stop.

I have never seen him standing still, sitting, or passed out on the ground.

He is a pure breed.

He doesn’t ask for money, doesn’t talk even if you ask him questions, doesn’t give a shit about those around him.

Almost like we don’t even exist.

Food for thought.

 
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Posted by on September 22, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Gentle versus a solid ass kicking.

Dylan Thomas was an English poet in the 50s.

Like all poets that means he was all about the pent up, whininess that permeated the overwhelming majority of poetry from that era. (Test reader is a poet, after reading that line I was told to go fuck myself. I think I am onto something here.)

However, in the realm of pent up emo angst, Thomas was a god and should have sacrifices made in his name. (There has to be perks for being the top of your field, even if its whiny.)

But, and this may be a valid question, why should morning coffee and Dylan Thomas go together?

Good question, let’s ponder that over a cup.

Heading into my favorite “Coffee and healthy sandwiches” place is difficult, there is a shopping cart blocking the door.

I tried to move it slightly, only to find that the back wheels are locked up. (This happens when you take a cart away from the boundaries of the supermarket.

Magnetic locks are cheap, easy and impossible to remove without disabling the cart.

Unless you are willing to pick up the back wheels and carry.

Like a wheelbarrow that is totally back heavy and unwheldy.

I take in the pile of garbage in the shopping cart and suddenly it hits me.

Homeless, and he parked his cart out front.

Like a homeless valet service was tipped an extra $20 and told to “Keep it up front.”

I went in.

Ordering was delightful.

The nervous young lady at the counter was splitting her time between me and the collection of people at the end of the counter.

  1. End of counter roll call:
  2. The manager.
  3. The assistant manager.
  4. A kitchen helper whose attendance might be just cuz.
  5. A large gentleman of Samoan descent whose button up, collared, untucked, white shirt says “Security”. (I wanted to call him Boagrius after a warrior from ancient Greece, but no one would get it. I hate being the only one who reads. Plus, Achilles killed him in glorious combat.)

“So what do you want?” Boagrius is big, but polite. (Fine it stays.)

“He needs to go. He is scaring people from using the bathroom.” (I am not sure this is a bad thing. Most men’s rooms look and smell suspiciously like an uncleaned monkey hut at the zoo.)

“Ok.” 

Good, I didn’t miss the opening scene. I hate that, it ruins the movie.

Boagrius saunters over to a table on the far side of the room.

It is pure serendipity that as I cream and sugar my coffee and then move to a table, that I have a perfect vantage point to watch.

The “Person of interest” is sitting at a table right next to the bathroom entry hall.

And interesting, he is.

Homeless is a gimme on the basis of BO alone. (If my busted nose can get a whiff more than 10 feet away, you need a serious delousing and a bubble bath. (And no toys, you are in there to get clean, mister.)

Older, natural aging or meth? (Both?)

There is a small cup of coffee on the table. (It has however, been torn up. This says meth to me, something I have seen them do. I don’t get it either.)

Along with 3 notebooks that I can see words and drawings on from 20 feet away. (This appears to be one of those homeless researchers. Usually, they focus on conspiracy theories. Chem trails are big with them for some reason.)

Bogrius is a big kid, Samoans are not a tiny people.

But he is polite and professional.

“Pardon me, sir?” (Leading with a polite “Sir” is a solid move, right up until it backfires.”

“WHAT?!?!” (Backfires)

As an opening line, that is a line drive home run.

The pure angst and whiny persecution in his voice immediately makes me name him Dylan. (And you thought I forgot about the Dylan Thomas shit at the beginning, didn’t you?)

“Sir, management would like you to leave.” (I like Boagrius because he stays on script, no deviation. A nice quality in a huge security guard.)

“But I bought a coffee!?!?” (Universally, this will be even the most unacceptable homeless guy at least an hour or two in the majority of coffee places. Like a low price ticket for admission.)

“Management called security, sir.” (Solid argument. Boagrius is not new to this.)

“What if I call security on you?!?!” (Plot twist, some of you saw that coming.)

“I am security.” (So who would you call?)

What happened next really bothers me.

Mainly because I didn’t hear it.

Boagrius leaned in and spoke very softly.

It couldn’t have been a threat, his body language was wrong. If anything, Boagrius and Dylan both relaxed halfway thru the comment, whatever it was.

And then Dylan got up, and gathered his notebooks.

He and Boagrius left together.

Dylan lifted the back end of his shopping cart and began to roll away.

He stopped.

Turning, he reached out and rapped on the window, pointing at the manager.

And flipped him off.

Defiant to the end.

“Do not go gentle into that good night”
“Old age should burn and rave at close of day”
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Dylan knew his shit, I wonder how he took his coffee? (The poet, I mean. The homeless guy is drug addled to the point of possibly not knowing anything of value anymore.)

 

 
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Posted by on August 4, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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My sensitive side.

Can I interest you in a Ghetto Latte with a shot of stank in it?

A homeless guy in line at a Starbucks is not a unique situation.

Caring, soft-headed individuals will give them gift cards to obtain high-priced coffee drinks and food. (The studies all show this is damaging, but people think they are helping rather than empowering and prolonging the homeless situation. Nobody reads anymore, so this will go on.)

But that is not the case this morning.

The gentleman wearing 3 layers of dirty clothes and a truly impressive aura of BO and urine does not have a card.

What he does have is an understanding of Starbucks courtesy policy.

“Venti hot water.” His voice is gravelly, feel free to speculate why. (METH!!!)

Starbucks will give hot water in their branded cups for free.

The reason is that they sell Via, an instant coffee product that I have an abusive relationship with.

I got my own hot water right after him and joined him at the cream and sugar kiosk.

On any C&S kiosk there is chocolate, vanilla, nutmeg and cinnamon powder, all with the idea of dressing up your coffee beverage. (As a people, we are a spoiled pathetic bunch.)

While I creamed and artificially sweetened my coffee, the homeless barista mixed all of the available powders, along with 8, count em 8, sugar packets, into this evil bitches brew.

His concentration was like a witch concocting a potion, allowing for the witch to smell like shit that somebody peed on…2 weeks ago.

Half of the previously full powder containers were empty by the time he was done.

I have to admit, I was really curious what the final product tasted like.

He sipped it every now and then, tasting the flavor.

I would have asked for a sip, but the urine smell was dampening my appetite.

Plus, since my immune system is not what it once was, I was iffy on my ability to shake off the plague, influenza or whatever was causing those lip sores.

Eventually, the homeless barista left, yet his stench remained.

It was a chilly morning, but the air conditioning suddenly came on.

I applauded the manager’s efforts to clear the air.

Perhaps another thing to include on the C&S kiosk would be Fabreeze.

It would be a great way to break the ice with a rancid smelling street dweller.

“Good morning! Would you mind if I Fabreezed you in an effort to cut down on that feeling of imminent vomiting and the crawling feeling on my skin?”

Tell me the truth, wouldn’t you have a different view of the homeless population at large if the stench of BO and urine was replaced with Ocean Breeze™ or the lingering scent of lilacs?

I know I would be more inclined to pony up some change and ease off on the taser-reflex.

I know there are those of you that, for reasons unknown that are probably rooted in childhood abuse, disagree with me.

Can’t help you.

BB King once said, “Some people, if they don’t know, you can’t tell them.”

He was right.

Because there is no Fabreeze for stupid, that stench lingers no matter how long the AC has been on.

 
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Posted by on March 24, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Little Orphan Meth-Head

“Its a hard luck ROCK, for us.

Its a hard luck rock, FOR US!”

 

“The pipe will come out, tomorrow.

Bet your bottom bitch that, tomorrow, there’ll be crack….”

 

This visual is killing me.

Out in front of the supermarket, is a folding table.

Taped to the front of it is a poorly xeroxed pictures of smiling kids.

A sign on the table asks for donations for foster kids.

The little honey behind the table, I assume to collect the donations as they roll in, is a human being that has lived a hard life.

Meth is not even in question, there has DEFINITELY been meth.

Missing teeth tell a story all their own.

But, and here is the kicker, this is all about her.

Meth will do that to you, make you the main character in every story.

And she is on the phone.

Angry.

Practically yelling.

“These fuckers want me to sit here like a retard, begging for change for minimum fucking wage!”

Wow.

Let that sink in.

Take a minute.

Got it?

Lets move on.

If we take our clues where we may find them, we have the tragic tale of Little Orphan Meth Head.

She is not homeless.

How do I know this?

She has a house arrest ankle bracelet, so she lives SOMEWHERE.

She is making minimum wage, but has not walked off the job, so, at some level, she gives a shit.

Lots to love, lots to hate.

Plus she has a potty mouth and doesn’t give a shit who hears it.

Sliding over into love here.

I am hiding just inside the automatic doors in the store, out of sight.

However, my presence is making the automatic door stay open.

When no one comes out but the door stays open, eventually she will notice and the jig will be up.

Next epic line.

“I don’t give a fuck where they put those little bastards!”

Big step to the hate.

Do what you want, but don’t fuck with the kids.

They have a hard life too, but they had no choices, unlike our orphan.

Run your whiny mouth all you like, addiction is still not a disease.

I contemplate for a few minutes what to do.

Do I get involved? Complain? Try to talk her down? Something?

Something it is.

I play wallet roulette.

I reach into my wallet and grab the first bill from the middle and pull it out.

I don’t organize my money, so today, it could be any one of 3 ones, 2 fives, a ten or 2 twenties. (I am really sweating the $20s. I am charitable, not rich.)

In the end, I folded the ten and stuffed it into her box while holding my finger over my lips.

Crazy bitch actually smiled at me.

I left before Annie attacked Daddy Warbucks.

It was a beautiful moment, but lets not try and fool ourselves.

The sun will come out……Tomorrow!

 
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Posted by on February 10, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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