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Tag Archives: humor

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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Nuns and hidden agendas

I often wonder what is the driving force behind old school shitiness.

I bring this up mainly because I found an old picture of me as an alter boy and I was reminded of what a better person I am than most. (I was an altar boy for a total of 10 days and then I was dismissed as part of the “Sacrificial wine scandal” of 1976. I was a victim.)

And then I came to Starbucks and just got in line in time to catch the tail end of a “How hard is your job?” berating of an irate dick head directed at my favorite barrista.

I was about to say something when the nun spoke up.

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?”

She was loud, she was angry, she had the most delightful jersey-girl accent.

And she was in full habit.

Nothing more intimidating than an angry nun in full habit.

Like a pitbull armed with a straight razor.

Bad memories, like PTSD, come boiling up from my past.

If you never went to Catholic school, its a lot like being a former resident of hell.

But going to Catholic school that is taught by nuns it like being in a prison and wearing a pretty sun dress that shows off your legs.

You know you are getting screwed at some point.

And its your fault.

Before you ask “What is my fault?” understand that EVERYTHING you do in Catholic school  is a sin and you are guilty!

Nuns are married to God, and it looks like a bad marriage.

Now, before my mother weighs in on this subject, let me state that I am a deeply devout man, or I am at least close.

But nuns have a general hatred of anyone with a spark of excitement for life.

And that is when I met them.

The penguins.

It started in first grade and continued to 8th grade graduation.

I had nuns continually riding my ass like a chronic hemorrhoid in a black habit and rosary beads.

First grade was when I was first expelled for accidentally stabbing someone in the neck with a pencil.

And blood is one of those things that cranks up the screaming.

You can apologize all you like on that one, you are not getting away with a slap on the wrist.

3rd thru 5th grade was the hayday of silly reasons to expel me.

There was the gambling ring, the extortion ring, truly innocent slave trading, and a misunderstanding involving a game of show and tell in the girl’s room. (All excuses are ignored when you have no pants on.)

My mother was a slick horse trader and alternated between being the school nurse and substitute teacher for 8 years, never being paid. (The penguins even had fact teaching credentials made up for her that evaporated when I graduated.)

The deal was understood.

Shut your mouth, tow the line and we will let that little bastard stay.

Not bad as far as back room deals go.

Back to modern day Starbucks and Sister Mary-Goomba.

She followed Mr. Rudeness over to wait for his coffee, glaring at him like a mad woman the whole time.

If anyone else pulled this kind of shit, they were either homeless or dealing with a different type of crazy.

Nuns get away with everything.

I got my coffee and began writing this, delighted at finding a solid blog subject.

They can be hard to come by.

“Friggin lesbians!”

This little muttered tidbit came from the guy sitting next to me.

I took out my earbuds, I had nothing playing, and turned to look at him.

Stir the pot.

“I know, right?” Apparent agreement is the quickest way to find out what makes someone tick.

He looked at me, maybe for the first time, then nodded slightly.

“They have a whole fuckin agenda!”

I sipped my coffee and tried to figure out if he was homeless or not.

Crazy was already a gimme at this point.

Some days you rack your brain trying to figure out a subject to blog about.

And then some days, they fall out of the sky, like some sort of literary coffee cake, to be paired with a delicious roast.

Mmmmm Coffee.

 
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Posted by on September 15, 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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Amusement and ADD

“Clowns to the left of me, Jokers to the right. Here I am, stuck in the middle with you.”

Sipping coffee.

Surrounded on both sides by borderline weird.

On my right, is old, plain and simple.

This couple is so old, you cannot figure out how old they are.

Old enough that I didn’t realize there were people that old out there.  (Contemplated several “Farts dust” comments and decided against.)

They did not use the seats that came with the table.

They roll with their own seats. (Literally. Their walkers have built in seats.)

And the weird thing was, they didn’t have to move the chairs that were in the way, they just kind of disappeared.

They rolled up to the table and people just kind of grabbed the chairs and moved them.

No words were exchanged.

And the old folks said nothing.

They just sat and sipped tea.

Starbucks just became the afterlife’s waiting room.

I am waiting for the Grim Reaper to walk in and ask if the chair across from me is open.

And on the other side…

“What is so important, Chuckie?” The voice is tired, and the conversation just started. You have to wonder why.

“Charles, please.” Being corrected by a decidedly effeminate voice holds it own special brand of annoying.

“Fine, Charles.” The sigh is a gimme. “What is so important?” (I present the rest of the conversation without my comments, to preserve the integrity of the art.)

“The power is out at my apartment.”

“When did this happen?”

“2 days ago.”

“2 days?!?! Dude! What did you do about it?”

“I have sent the management company several texts.”

“Texts? So you have been living in the dark for 48 hours? Did you check the breakers?”

“I don’t know what those are.”

“Chuckie, you are fucking useless.”
“It’s Charles. Stop being crude and help me.”

“Why are we meeting here? Why not have me meet you at your place?”

“I just couldn’t even today.”

“What the hell does that mean anyway?”

“I would call you a menace, but you lack the ambition.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“Yeah, I will help you. Fuck you are useless.”

“Belittling me is not helping.”

“I’m just amazed. Fucking amazed. Fine, lets go.”

“We can’t yet.”

“Why?”

“I’m waiting for a caramel macchiato.”

“Oh my God!”

Now, for a little scenery.

“Chuckie” Has the little brother feel to him. His hands are soft and you can tell that whatever he does for a living, its not strenuous and he rarely breaks a sweat.

“Older Brother” is dressed in a vintage AC/DC t-shirt and shorts with work boots. His hands have the look of a construction worker.

The two look enough alike that they have to be brothers.

Except for one thing.

Older brother is thin and maybe 5’3.

Chucker appears to be 6 foot plus.

The genetic keno game odds on this one boggles the mind.

It was at this point that one of the old folks on the other side of me, remember them? Anyway, one of them, no clue who, farted pretty loudly.

The wife looked across at the husband.

“What?”

I sipped my coffee and looked straight ahead.

“Clowns to the left me…”

 
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Posted by on July 21, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Attempted innocence – FAIL

I just finished watching one of the worst stand up comedy concerts Netflix has to offer.

I will not say the name, mainly because I don’t want the karma that comes with making someone even mildly curious enough to watch it.

It would be same if I was encouraging a pedophile.

So, I will not name the shameless hack out loud, just say that when you take a mediocre talent and promote her, nay, ram her down the throat of the public, despite talent, you end up with what I call the “Beyonce Effect”.

Enough with that.

 

Here’s the problem with Thai food.

They use spices that exist nowhere else in the world. (Meaning in anything I would eat regularly enough for my system to be used to it.”

This leads to a condition the experts call “Asinus praesepe mortem certa explosione” (The ass explosion of certain death. Its Latin and fuck you if you don’t get the humor there.)

Its not a pretty sight, or smell, for that matter.

Picture this, if you dare.

Constipation.

For the first few hours.

Your stomach begins gurgling like an angry newborn after the first 5 minutes and the pressure/pain builds and builds.

The final 15 minutes is like giving birth without anesthesia. (Or so I’m told.)

The pressure gets so bad that for the final 2 minutes, your body produces the symptoms of stroke and your whole left side goes slack.

What happens to the toilet is a damn shame.

At this point, even atheists will thank God for the discovery of bleach and Febreeze. (Pro tip- Avoid Lemon scented room fresheners. The only thing worse than the smell of ass is a lemon ass.)

Luckily, much like a sudden storm, it fades by the next day.

The only thing left to deal with is the psychological side effects.

I am not saying that you can be outright traumatized by a dose of the quacker-shits, but it is a near thing.

Seems to be a lot of potty talk lately.

I am sure there is some sort of Freudian reason for it. (I doubt it, but anything is possible. There really isn’t anything I hide from myself.)

But it should never shock women when men get weird sexually.

Its kind of a deeply ingrained thing with us.

Begins early, around 12 or 13.

We discover that the penis has a secondary feature that we never knew about.

AND THE GAME IS ON!

What follows is a lifetime of shame, guilt and wondering if your lazy eye and near-sightedness is self inflicted.

As far as obsessive hobbies go, masturbation does not mind sharing.

It doesn’t mind you having a girlfriend, a wife, a job, or other passions in your life.

Its like the sexual version of Cheers.

Happy to see you, never forgets what you like and is willing to try new and freaky shit in a judgement free atmosphere.

Masturbation is the best friend who will never leave you.

Ok, potty talk morphed into a creepy jerking off tangent.

Time to get back on track.

 

Coffee.

Today is blue collar, 7-11 coffee.

Kudos to 7-11 for realizing that shitty coffee is a poor seller.

They stepped up their coffee game awhile back.

Now it is one of the main profit sites in the store and they recognize that.

Flavored creamers, a variety of roasts and sizes so large that even the true stimulant freaks (Holler!) can get their fill.

I went with a solid Columbian roast, nothing better for the morning.

3 pink packets and a little half n half later, Bittermac is a happy boy.

To quote a hot friend of mine:

Coffee up, motherfuckers!

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on April 28, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Best to stay upwind

Perfume was invented by the ancient Egyptians.

They used it in religious ceremonies, burial preparations and daily use.

It is some of the most expensive liquid on the planet, ounce for ounce.

So, the modern usage for women is to lightly apply it.

So why do you need to know that?

Because I am under an aromatic assault.

Someone reeks.

Remember what I said about the modern usage?

Lightly being the key word there.

How the fuck that morphed into dipping yourself in a large wine barrel of perfume daily using some sort of repurposed sexual rope and pulley system is beyond me.

The term “Old French Whore” comes to mind.

Not to dabble in misogynistic slut shaming, but now I am wondering what kind of old French whore.

Not like a modern one that you know she could bathe more, but she has a meth issue that gets in the way of productive thought, but a French revolution era French whore that bathes once a year, has an opium dependency and is rocking that whole “Les Miserable” vibe.

My nose actually hurts, how is that possible?
Growing up, one of my grandmother’s friends was an Avon sales lady.

And while grandma loved her perfume, You could smell the Avon lady when she pulled up at the curb.

I think the outrage, and sinus pain, that I am feeling is that the woman sitting next to me is not from my grandmother’s era.

She appears to be in her 30’s.

Stunning Japanese women that have an obvious talent for dressing and accessorizing never go wrong with perfume.

It boggles the mind that a woman in stiletto heels would not realize she smells like Miss Redneck at the homecoming tractor pull.

I am attracted and repulsed.

Let me clarify that.

My mind is repulsed.

My penis is lacking a nose or any sort of restraint, he finds her wonderful and would like to wear her ass for a hat.

(I am sure I will pay for that last line somehow, Karma has been taking cheap shots lately.)

The ring on her left hand tells me there is a mister somewhere, working his ass off to afford her expensive shoes and barrels of cheap perfume.

I wonder if his lack of a sense of smell has held him back in life?

Or perhaps he was raised in the family business, hand cleaning septic tanks.

Maybe she is the trophy/fetish wife?

None of my business, although my penis is nosey-rosey today.

The second my coffee cooled to the point that I figured I was offending some coffee based diety by not drinking it, I fled the building.

It took a full five minutes of walking and breathing deeply to clear out.

In thru the mouth at first, out thru the nose, just to push the crap out, then breathing in thru the nose after awhile.

And then I smelled the perfume on my shirt.

And realized I was sporting a semi against my will.

Karma, you are a twisted fuck.

 
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Posted by on March 31, 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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