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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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What the mob wants.

This is appropriate.

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

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

Neither one of these are weird.

This is weird.

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

For 20 fucking minutes!

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

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

My morning is ruined.

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

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

And unacceptable it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then this happened.

Pedophiles and lynch mobs.

Set against a background of rich Sumatran coffee.

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

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

He’s no stranger to police lineups.

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

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

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

Oh shit!

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

He goes to the counter.

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

“Can I get a refill of the Sumatran?”

Oh.

We are drinking the same thing.

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

And besides, my mother likes old school romance novels.

And he does know his coffee.

Eh.

Ok, so he’s not all that bad.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Cavalry to the rescue

There is a certain crazed energy in a 5 year old that is terrifying and awesome to behold.

There is also a certain vibe you get from a mom that is just burnt out and done with it all.

Its in her stare, her lack of reaction, no matter what that evil little beast does to her that tells the world on a very primal level – “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK!”

The 5 year old, let’s call him Damian. (If you get that, kudos. If you don’t, you are too young and I didn’t write that for you.

Damian has so far run face first into two tables, 1 door, the counter and 3 people.

He is definitely the type of kid who wears a helmet but isn’t on a team. (Are you following this?)

Let’s hope mom left his helmet at home because this kid is not going to have a brain left by noon.

Mom is sitting at a table, cell phone in hand, not texting, just holding it.

There is a glassy eyed stare that they would have called “Shell-shocked” in WWII.

5 year olds can do that to you.

Once again, I am unbelievably grateful that my children are grown.

I don’t have that kind of energy anymore.

Much less the kind of energy that could handle the kind of sugar-fueled, hillybilly inbreeding responsible for Damian’s little one man show.

Mom is still in her chair, as out of it as if she was Michael Jackson an hour after taking his bedtime “Jesus Juice”. (For the record, Propofol is not available as an added shot in your latte at Starbucks…. Nothing? Jeez, Google it, you people are pathetic.)

If I were Damian, at this point, the police would be feeding my mother into the back of a squad car for my murder and taking statements from witnesses. (Odds are, no one would remember seeing anything. Mom puts that kind of fear into people when she gets rolling.)

In lieu of my mother, the cavalry has arrived in the form of a middle aged woman shaped roughly like a bowling ball.

Damian ran head on into her and kind of bounced off.

Before he could get up, she grabbed him by the hood part of his little hoodie and lifted him off the ground.

It was like the human version of a momma cat picking up a kitten by the scruff of the neck.

She carried him across the room and plopped him down in a seat next to his mom, who until this moment, I had not realized how ridiculously you she was. (See also – Children raising children)

Mom looked a little more alert, but was still silent.

Before she went back to the line to get her coffee, she pointed an angry chubby finger at Damian.

“You get out of that chair, I will spank your bottom.”

It was an awesome moment.

It was also one that I hope she didn’t go to jail for.

Sadly we live in this hyper sensitive society that is a pale comparison of what it used to be.

Take a good look at any protest going on and you get a good look at the fascism of the politically correct freedom. (Inverted McCarthy-ism is never pretty to look at. There is a primal schadenfreude that lingers in the back of your head if you think too long about it. Even if you dig it in a sick way for the short term, it wears on you. Like an existential migraine that you just can’t shake.)

But enough of that.

The awkward feeling that was permeating the room has begun to fade, and the world has returned to homeostasis.

Plus, my coffee just arrived, so all is well.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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Don’t forget the roses, asshole.

Valentine’s day is one of those days where people freak out for a variety of reasons.

Saint Valentine must have been a sadistic son of bitch, setting aside the whole sainthood thing.

A quick Google search says that Saint Valentine lived in Rome when Emperor Claudius decided that soldiers were not allowed to marry because single men fight better, so Valentine was captured and tortured for performing marriages on the sly.

He was captured, imprisoned, and tortured.

That sounds about right.

Dating and sex, done right, can be some of the most uplifting things in your life.

Done the way almost EVERYONE does it, can suck the soul out of you and make you wish you were dead.

(Side note – I am in a coffee place that does bagels. The manager has been explaining to a homeless woman at the counter that the bagel toasting machine does not have settings. There is a nob on the front that says “LIGHT-MEDIUM-DARK”. So either the manager is just trying to get rid of the homeless lady or he is un-able to read, yet they made him manager. Go figure.)

Couples that go out on Valentine’s Day have a whole butt-load of stressful things to worry about.

If they have been dating for a long time, this whole night is just a farce.

If they just started dating, the pressure is on.

He will either drink too much out of the stress of wanting the night to go well, setting up a “Whiskey dick” scenario for later. (Good luck with that, buddy.)

Or, he will not drink enough and just be a stressed piece of shit for the night. (Doesn’t matter if he can get it up or not, he ain’t gettin any.)

For the single folk?

Even worse.

Because alone is when your inner voice tells you shit about love and relationships.

Not the good, hopeful stuff, either.

But the vile, evil shit that leads to bad behavior and obsession.

Stalking comes from this.

Guys and girls, no one is immune to the crazy bug.

And the crazy bug is something that is resistant to even the strongest antibiotics or bleach.

Stalking is kind of the middle of the road, generic thing that goes on.

Its kind of the safest one of the bunch.

The worse behaviors are extreme stalking and the “Fatal attraction” scenario.

And if you have never woken up in the middle of the night and dis-armed a lover before she can stab you, you really do not have an understanding of the mind set.

(Side note – Ignore the tears when there is a steak knife in her hand, they are crocodile tears and only meant to confuse.)

Moving on.

Romance is a bit of a cage fight.

Keep swinging and hopefully you will win and not end up dead.

Or castrated with a steak knife.

Cause that would be bad too.

 
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Posted by on February 17, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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