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Merry frickin Christmas.

Christmas always has the potential of being epic, one way or the other.

I mean that, good or bad.

It can be that twisted, screwed up kind of day that gives all involved baggage to tote around for the rest of their lives.

Or, it can be the kind of day that reminds you what Christmas can be, like when you were a kid type of good.

And that was today.

I have a few requirements to make the holidays good.

Since I could not have the #1 requirements, being with my kids, my second requirement is that the whole family gets together.

Done.

Third on that list is that I get to cook breakfast for everyone.

Done.

The unspoken is that a touch too much bacon is available for cooking and sampling by all throughout the cooking, also, coffee is involved, but I figure we all know that one. Kind of a gimme, really.

I was also given the perfect gift today.

Its a travel mug from Starbucks that has a special feature for the caffeine addicted.

Free refills for the month of January. I shit you not.

Its like a meth lab handing out unlimited free samples.

Its like Krispy Kremes handing out.. ok, bad example.

I may not make it thru the month of January. My heart may not hold out.

Just saying.

As far as gifts go, its incredibly inciteful and somewhat brutal.

Christmas as an adult is much different than when you are a kid.

When you are a child, you are told what you will be doing on Christmas.

And there is nothing that you really have to do.

When you are an adult, you balance what you want to do with what you have to do.

And there are a lot of have to’s as an adult.

And the one thing you can’t ask Santa for is to take over your responsibilities.

He will not pay your rent or make a car payment.

He will not explain your internet browser history to your wife.

He will not not even pay for the gifts you put under the tree with his name on them.

Sounds a lot like old saint Nicky is getting a butt-load of free advertising from all of us.

But, to quote Janet Jackson… (Jeez, how desperate am I?)

What have you done for me lately?

Nope, growing up means that, except in rare occasions, nobody covers your shit but you.

So, by default, this ends up being the time of the year that we are all forced to untwist our big boy (Or girl) pants and get our shit in some semblance of together.

Which is good as a general rule.

Being a kid means that you believe in stuff that is not real.

Being an adult means you have to believe in stuff that is brutally real.

The secret to keeping your shit together and still be able to laugh.

 
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Posted by on December 26, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Your dirty, sexy mouth.

Picture this in your head.

Picture the woman that says the following phrase.

“Finish your coffee, I’m gonna go push out a gang of tootsie rolls and then we’ll roll.”

What is the image in your head?

More specifically, what does the trailer park she lives in look like?

Is Walmart involved?

Now, here is the reality.

Mid-40’s, attractive brunette.

High end business suit, hair styled by someone that probably costs a fortune.

Mercedes smart key on the keychain.

iPhone 6 sitting on the table.

This is a high end business woman.

With the communication skills of a foul mouthed teenager before curse words come into play.

It really ruins the overall desirability of the rather expensively hot look she has put together.

For the mind, that is.

The penis could care less if she shit herself, he is still up for play time.

Very one track mind, the penis.

The woman disturbed me for a few minutes mainly because she didn’t fit the niche I had carved out for her in my head.

In my head, she was a sophisticated, flirty, wholly desirable business woman in an age range that is totally at her peak, physically and sexually.

And then, my mind made the correction and put her in the niche she belongs in, and all was better.

Salesman.

And now her phrasing made sense.

Salesman have a relationship with the spoken word much like a john with a Bangkok hooker.

Use it to do things you should be ashamed of, for money.

Sales is the type of profession that kind of removes your filters when you are not speaking to a client.

You have to be very controlled in not only what you say to a client, but also, how you say it.

When that is no longer required, the kid gloves come off.

I was a salesman for about 10 years, and this blog reminds me a lot of my mouth during that period.

Not a lot of filtering going on.

But back to the situation at hand.

My disappointment is huge.

I hate having my semi ruined mid-lust. (Anyone but me get this one?)

Eventually the hot, potty mouthed business woman returns from her presumed tootsie roll dropping, and they leave.

And the whole thing has left me slightly twisted.

I spend a lot of my time slightly twisted as it is, so when I hit something that shoves me further down that road against my will, it ruins my equilibrium.

Even coffee is not helping.

That alone tells you how disconcerting this is, because coffee usually fixes EVERYTHING.

I was so upset, I got another vente house drip.

And if you follow the news, you know that Starbucks house drip has the highest caffeine content of any national coffee house.

A vente cup has roughly 415mg of caffeine.

I have had 2 in the span of an hour.

There is a legal limit of 250mg of caffeine per hour in the state of California. (I could be wrong)

So, having ingested 830mg puts me over 3 times the legal limit.

Which explains my attraction to the hot, yet dirty, businesswoman.

I no longer question what goes on when I am under the influence.

This comes from years of morning after examinations.

At least with caffeine, you will never wake up with indelible marker writing on your face.

And sadly, with caffeine, you will never wake up after a black out evening to find yourself in bed with a hot businesswoman, dirty mouth or not.

 
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Posted by on December 12, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Thanksgiving – No holds barred.

Thanksgiving was yesterday, so lets figure out what we are thankful for.

But first, a small rant presented as bullet point.

  • A grand jury could not find enough evidence to even go to trial.
  • The disinfrachized used the opportunity to loot and cause mayhem.
  • The professional protestors furthered their private agendas and caused mayhem.
  • The handful of actually outraged protesters found their public statements swallowed by the lawlessness of others.
  • In the end, nothing was served, certainly not justice, one side or the other.

Now, lets get to the thankful.

  • A little new life joined my clan. Yay for us.
  • The broken nose from Judo appears to be back to normal. I had a little cartilage bump in my left nostril that is still there.
  • Went back to Judo. After a week off for the nose, a week travelling, and then getting a cold/bronchitis, I finally got back to class. 3 weeks off at my age is not doing me any favors. Began to feel like the shadow of my ass weighed 20 lbs.
  • The wonder kids of mine are doing well. Their genetics are superior, so this does not shock me.
  • The Chromebook I bought for writing may become my home computer. Still incredibly fast and hooks into the 21” monitor without an issue.
  • My penis is doing well.(Not sure why I included this, but it is nice to see an old friend aging well.)

Thanksgiving with my extended family, at least the ones that still show up, as opposed to the smart ones that have figured out somewhere else to go, is always trying at best.

Think about my sarcastic, cynical mind, and then think about the kind of people and environment that would have to be in place to create that kind of cerebral vile and you begin to see why I dread these holidays.

Its a lot like boxing.

Keep your hands up and protect yourself at all times.

And if you step into the ring, you are going to get hit.

Here are three of the best comments overheard at Thanksgiving in recent years:

  • Thats your fourth glass of wine, good to see you are cutting back.
  • I think its great that you have decided not to drive yourself crazy with all of that dieting nonsense, and just be happy. Good for you. (Same conversation as the wine comment.)
  • The last one is not a comment, but a conversation that I caught the tail end of. I had brought a friend to Thanksgiving and went to get us some pumpkin pie. I got back to the table and just caught the end of my Alzheimer’s ridden great uncle, describing in graphic detail, what appeared to be anal sex, complete with hand gestures. She took it well.

In the end, Thanksgiving with the family is a lot like being mauled by a bear.

Survival is all you are shooting for.

 

 
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Posted by on November 28, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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30 year-old jailbait

There is just something syrupy sickening about a grown woman who insists on baby talk in public.

And not just for one quick phrase.

There is what appears to be a 30+ year old woman who has been talking like a baby since she walked in the door just ahead of me 10 minutes ago.

It was cute for the first 20 seconds.

Past that and my brain began to whimper and wonder what it had done wrong.

It makes me wonder what is wrong with her and what is wrong with the poor asshole she walked in with.

She doesn’t talk to anyone else but him.

She is not a stunning woman, in fact, I would have to call her looks/body very average.

There is not an earthy sexuality that makes up for it.

Nothing.

The only reason I can think of that would make this mid-30’s half-a-tard bitch acceptable is that a choir of angels must sing when she spreads her legs. (Crude line, but it so fits this situation. You aren’t here, don’t judge.)

And before you say anything, I AM being nice.

What kind of twisted baggage would you need to have to retreat into a child-like persona?

Boggles the mind.

Much like the various stages of grief, I am working thru the various stages of annoyance.

I have moved on from gritting my teeth in annoyance and begun to actively hate her.

Hopefully they will leave before I move on plotting her death.

Google has ponied up a number of websites on the subject of assassination, but none are particularly helpful.

One site that seems promising will not load.

This lop-headed dumbass owes her life to Starbucks and their crappy wifi.

The wifi I have at the house has not gone down once in the last 5 years.

Starbucks? 50% of the time, you may as well use two tin cans connected with string for all the good it will do you.

Maybe its a metaphor.

Disfunctional wifi, disfunctional bitch. (The word bitch is being used liberally this week as a tribute to the trio of feminists that keep emailing me to complain. You girls need to find some men, have some babies, and quit worrying about man-talk so much. And if that doesn’t piss them off, then they must be trying to connect to the blog over Starbucks wifi.)

This is the kind of woman that her first boyfriend in her teens told her babytalk was cute and she has adopted it as her lifestyle.

Without a doubt, there is a Hello Kitty stuffed animal at her house and maybe a tote bag.

Her toothpaste is bubblegum flavored and her toothbrush is in the shape of the little mermaid.

Her purse is clear plastic and has a “My pretty pony” graphic on it.

Her coffee drink follows the same teen logic.

Its an overly sweet melted sundae complete with whipped cream and drizzled caramel. No doubt hiding in there is a faint coffee flavor.

The slack look on her face will take on a serious boo boo face when this guy comes to his senses and breaks up with her.

You can only sleep with someone that acts like a little girl for so long before it begins to get creepy.

And creepy sex is no fun.

 
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Posted by on November 21, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Being sick in a foreign land.

There is a serious skill to travelling while sick that I just do not have.

Like, at all.

I flew up to the snowy North to see my adult kidlets

I was healthy when I got there.

And then my immune system turned on me like a pitbull in a roomfull of toddlers.

(I weighed the amount of whining and bitching I KNOW I will receive due to that line. But it made me laugh. Bite me.)

I spent a portion of the trip playing nursemaid to my kidlets.

And then I tried to leave.

I first noticed the sore throat at noon.

I had a little bit of a barking cough all of a sudden.

I got to the airport and felt like crap.

I hate airports as a general rule, unless I am being sarcastic and make fun of people in my head. (You have your hobbies, I have mine.)

But, when I don’t feel well, I go farther down that narcissistic road.

So I was in line at the security checkpoint, grumbling to myself but trying not to call attention to myself. (I do not need to be put on the “No fly”list due to a TSA misunderstanding. (They are a twitchy bunch, prone to erring on the side of scorched earth travel rules. Much like that same edgy pitbull, its best not to mess with them unnecessarily.)

The last thing a monster wants is recognition.

And the lady in front of me recognized me.

Not me, but my condition.

The one thing about old women is that they tend to travel with a pharmacy in their purse, and this woman is no different.

So, in short order, I had some cold medicine, a cough drop and a small bottle of water to wash it down. (She would have had to toss it at the metal detector anyway, but it was still the good Samaritan move.)

If I could have just sat for an hour in the airport before getting on the plane, the cold medicine could have been in full swing when I got on the plane.

Not to be, I got thru the security checkpoint and walked right onto the plane.

Any other time, this would rock, but not when the last thing you need is a cramped airline sear and throbbing sinuses.

But, life goes on.

I soon forgot about my sinuses. In fact, I was almost wishing for some more severely stuffed sinuses.

Because the Armenian guy sitting next to me was 200lbs overweight, had on WAY too much cologne, and judging by the BO, had not bathed in the last 48 hours.

And that takes a LOT away from the whole travel experience.

 
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Posted by on November 14, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Talking a little crazy here.

I sometimes have a hard time coming up with an idea for a blog post.

After writing 500+ of these in the last 3 years, everything has kind of been done.

So sometimes, I just look for a hook, something that stirs my imagination when I hear/see it, and your imagination when you read it.

The post you are reading, I am writing the day before its due.

I got nothing.

Or, at least, I had nothing.

But as I was crossing the street to head into the Coffee Bean, 2 homeless people began loudly arguing on the corner.

And the hook fell, like manna from heaven.

Out of the mouth of babes, or in this case, a 400lbs homeless woman.

“YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE!”

I found myself repeating that phrase as I waited in line to get my caffeine fix.

And I came to a conclusion.

I don’t know her life.

However, I could probably make some pretty accurate guesses. (And I am ridiculously accurate when I am just guessing.

1. Odds are, we are not dealing with a graduate from a master’s degree program.

2. Perhaps the exact mix of the cocktail is questionable, but I am willing to go out on a limb here and say that perhaps drugs played a big role. (I have a whole slew of friends that will piss and moan and make all sorts of claims about the harmlessness of drugs. Sorry, my blog, my rules, and you get to gag on my opinion like a first timer in the big house.)

3. Whatever happened to old school crazy? Everyone wants to pony up excuses, well crazy is making a comeback. Whether its naturally occurring or chemically induced, there does come a level of fucked up that you just don’t come back from.

I can almost see the excuse fanatics lining up on this one.

“Judge not lest ye be judged.” Don’t go biblical with me, you’ll lose. That passage was not a biblical get out of jail free card. Its meaning was don’t judge cheaply or with bias, or you’ll be judged that way. Fine, use my own measuring stick against me and see how unsatisfying it is.

“Its not her fault, society/Dems/GOP/whoever is to blame.” No, they’re not. Ultimately, fault lies with her. Some situations have you seriously behind the 8-ball, but that is where the tenacity of the human spirit comes in.

“You don’t know what an addiction is like.” Yeah, I do.

“You are a racist/bigot/misogynist/cat-hater.” Entirely possible. Bias, preference and dislike are human traits. There are exceptions to every rules and there are examples that prove the rule. Case by case is how I take it. I have yet to meet anyone on this planet that loved everyone with the exception of the soon to be sainted Mother Theresa. (Rumor had it she hated the Italians.)

In the end, the secret to getting the crazy lady calmed down and away from flowing traffic was to buy her a cranberry orange scone.

Even crazy loves a scone.

 
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Posted by on October 17, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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My whore complex.

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

For the record, I am not a whore.

But, this is what happened.

I was driving a long distance thing recently.

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

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

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

And that was when I met Betty.

Betty is 70 years old.

I know this because Betty told me.

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

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

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

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

And then she bought me Coffee and a scone.

Let me paint you a picture.

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

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

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

I am a realist.

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

This is not the usual demographic of a gigolo.

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

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

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

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

Betty is a realist too.

Betty is not searching for Mr. Right.

Betty is looking for Mr. Right Now.

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

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

Betty is not from a generation that does this.

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

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

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

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

You have to wonder how it all turned out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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The old woman in the shoe needs to stop fucking.

I have no idea if this is even medically possible, but, does there come a point where a woman’s lady parts just fall out and scurry out the door like a deranged rat from ill use?

This may be dirty, but not how you think.

I am talking about childbirth.

And I am not even targeting the easy one. The tv show, 19 And Counting.

I am talking about a true reality show going on at El Pollo Loco right now.

You could hear this family before they hit the front door.

Some people teach their kids to be polite in public and not scream an some don’t.

I would like you to meet Ms. Some Don’t.

You might think 13 children might be too many for one person to handle.

And you would be right.

Mrs. Some Don’t does not appear to have a lot of personal skills, like child rearing or discipline, herself or the kids.

However, she can lay prone and kiick out children like a motherfucker.

Watching the woman try to order and keep her kids from killing each other or burning the El Pollo Loco to the ground is like watching a blind man with down syndrome trying to herd kittens.

It stopped being amusing 5 seconds after the first one came thru the door.

I don’t see a wedding ring, so I can only assume that this is a solo adventure.

Feminists will tell you that a woman does not need a partner to have a child.

Can it be done by one person?

Sure.

But, to quote Chris Rock, you can drive your car with your feet if you want to, but that doesn’t make it a good fucking idea.

And then, the part that really pissed me off happened.

She is paying for lunch for her pack of rudeness with WIC.

Welfare, for those who don’t know.

Great, I am paying for this little production of Our Town. Awesome. (It may take a village, but get off your ass.)

I realize this will piss some of you off, that I am not celebrating the joy of life and the new American Dream.

Where everything is free, except for those of us who pay taxes, we’re the suckers that get to pay for room, board, medical, and college for anyone and everyone.

Fine, call me a rotten bastard, I stopped caring 2 weeks after I started this blog. If video games desensitize you to violence then this blog has desensitized me to holding my tongue and not screaming BULLSHIT when I see it.

I am a firm believer in carrying your own weight, and if you can’t afford something, don’t put yourself in that situation. Wipe your own ass.

I can only imagine the shit storm of hate mail I will get from this.

(And if you think I am kidding, consider the fact that I got 14 emails over my use of the phrase “Unholy bitch” a few weeks ago. Whining fucking maggots…)

As I write this, a total of 4 kids have been kicked out of the kitchen and two were involved in a salsa fight over at the condiments bar.

Mom has yet to open her mouth or chastise anyone.

My mother would have beat my ass for the antics I am witnessing.

I wonder if I could talk my mom into heading over here and beating the ass off of Ms. Some Don’t.

Based on my observations of Ms. here, Mom would make short work of this lazy carcass.

But, and I am going by personal memory here, the ass-whipping would pale in comparison to the verbal ripping she will be getting at the same time. (And don’t try telling her you won’t do it again, it just prolongs the ass-whipping.)

 
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Posted by on September 12, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Karma is now my personal hitman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, I found myself walking thru the front door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like a kid in a candy store.

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

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

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

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

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

These are people who need to unwind.

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

Enough said.

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

And who doesn’t need some new friends?

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

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

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

 
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Posted by on September 5, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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I hate you too, pumpkin.

This may come as a shock, but there are some people that hate this blog, and by extension, me.

And I am ok with that.

I didn’t start this weekly screed to make friends, I just wanted to have someplace to literary vomit on a regular basis, the fact that you read it is not something I will be held responsible for.

But, and this is the whole whiny point here, why read it if you don’t like it?

I got 5 hate emails last week for my post.

And not one of those 5 people who emailed were new to me.

EVERY one of them had emailed me before to bitch at me for something.

I had the C-word thrown at me again.

Not that one, Cis-male.

For those that don’t know, a cis-male is someone who insists on being the gender they were “Assigned” at birth. But there is a really pissy connotation like you are just choosing it to be an ass.

So, for my crimes of both being born with testicles and a penis and going the further step of calling myself male, I am getting hate email calling me a “Belligerent cis-male.”

As far as hate email goes, this is the weakest crap I have ever seen.

Part of insulting someone means that you at least use a vernacular that they will consider insulting.

I am a male. That is a physical fact and really does not leave room for debate.

I cannot claim to be a woman because I am, in fact, not.

Even if I go the route of the “Woman trapped in a man’s body” I would still be a man.

Gender is not something that you can argue.

Correction, you can argue about anything you feel like, but if you argue gender, you are wrong.

The physical is the default, that is the way it is.

Now, if you want to surgically alter the physical, that is different.

I am all about personal freedom, just don’t get stupid about it.

And when it comes to insulting me, you have to understand something.

Insulting is my game, welcome to Thunderdome, bitch.

Honestly, here is what insulting me does.

It identifies you as an eligible receiver in the game and screams “I’m open!”

Most of these people that email me are somewhat controlled yet insulting in their first email.

And then they get my reply.

And their second reply is where they lose their shit.

Because my reply doesn’t even try to be polite.

If my reply and polite were in a prison cell together, polite would not be allowed to pee standing up. (Wait for it… Wait for it… BAM! You got it.)

And can you blame them?

The dash off a poorly written, grammatically spotty email to chastise some blogger and the response is obscene, attacking, and, in some instances, against the law in several states.

The utter horror you get back when you call someone’s dog a cunt and intimate that it is a pedophile is stunning to read. The woman I pulled that little stunt on wrote back a 300 word reply that boiled down to “I don’t know how to respond but I hate you.”

I live for those ones.

Its an ugly side of me that I made peace with long ago.

And its gotten worse.

Its like the lunatics have taken over the asylum, but they are doing a better job of running it.

 
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Posted by on August 22, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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