RSS

Tag Archives: judgement

Armageddon, brought to you by Pastor Harold Camping.

So, the world is ending and stuff…

Pastor Harold Camping, a serious hell-fire and brimstone snake oil salesman from Oakland California is at it again.

You all remember Pastor Harold, he was the one that said that the world was going to end last May.

Except that it didn’t.

However, right before his May 21st Armageddon deadline, thousands of the soft headed sent him millions. (If the world is ending, why should they keep it? A better question is, why would he need it?)

When that Saturday came and went, Slick Harry laid low for a few days, then said that he got his dates wrong, it was going to be October 21st.

Ok……

At a press conference back in May, Slick Harry then said that he believes Judgement day came and went and we just didn’t realize it.

The Almighty is giving us 5 months to repent since the world is going to end and all.

Kind of like an Armageddon lay-away program.

Anyway, that 5 months is up this Friday.

Time to pay the fiddler.

Let me throw out my own little prediction.

The world………..is not going to end.

And the Slick Harry, sorry Pastor Slick Harry will have an explanation why it didn’t, and it will somehow involve an extended deadline and the need for donations.

So it breaks down to the basic two items.

Nothing happening and donations.

Money makes the world go around.

Oral Roberts said, and I quote, “Donate 8 million or God will call me home”?

My brain was split in two different directions.

Part of me was stunned that the Almighty would be involved in some sort of shake down for cash.

The other part was in awe of Robert’s balls.

THAT is how you play the game.

Now, while this was in 1987, he still raised 9.1 million. In 1987, this was an astronomical

At the time, I remember wondering if perhaps the Almighty would call him home anyway.

Not until 2009.

Pastor Slick Harry is not as polished as Roberts. While his ministry raked in 80 million during a 4 year period, (According to the IRS) I don’t think he has the pull to make money demands.

He’s just not that photogenic.

Roberts pioneered Televangelism. He perfected the TV demand/pitch for decades before he tried for the big score.

Pastor Slick Harry is a fuggly old guy. (Combination of two words. Think about it.)

He kind of has that freeze-dried look I love in a tyrant.

If they arrested him tomorrow for child molestation, I would not be shocked. (Something about his eyes.)

Now if the Almighty would just call him home.

But maybe the Almighty is not looking to have to put up with him. Thats like getting stuck with the here-after check, and its never pleasant.

Or he gets shot during a carjacking, serial killer, something.

As long as its plausable, I don’t think it will be investigated all that hard.

Countdown to Friday.

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on October 17, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , ,

Ask not for whom the vibrator tolls…

“That thing is just obscene!”

That kind of line, when harshly whispered, will always catch my attention.

I have been waiting patiently at Starbucks for my favorite people, the Evil Couple, to start the show. I have never sat near them that there has not been a show. (To catch up on who the hell these people are, click here.)

They are whispering, something never done before.

To my mind, that says one thing.

Its something dirty.

Based on what comments I have been able to make out, Mrs. Evil Couple was either given or has bought, a marital aid.

A vibrator.

That revelation is both erotic and somewhat icky.

Let me explain.

Mrs. Evil couple is in her mid thirties, and might be one of the hottest women I have ever scene, but only on that rare one time out of a hundred that she dresses up.

The other 99 times, she has a wild low-rise blonde afro, no make up, thick gray muscle-man sweats, and a t-shirt that is always several sizes too big. (Underneath that t-shirt is a large bust line without a bra.)

Take a moment and let that sink in before you read on.

“Why does it bother you so?” Mrs. Evil is done whispering, it seems. Her tone has taken on something I recognize immediately, I wonder if Mr. Evil does?

She is taunting him.

“You don’t need it!” He is almost spitting. Evidently, even with the decade plus of marriage to this woman under his belt, he has still not figured her out.

“That is your opinion.” She lays that one down like a card shark throwing down a full house.

This was a no-look rib-kick he was not expecting.

“What do you mean by that?” He doesn’t sound so sure of his anger now.

Big mistake, this woman can smell the blood in the water like a great white.

“Perhaps this is not the place to discuss, this.” That is one of those phrases that makes you feel just fucked. That there is a LOT more to say, but it will obviously upset you, so lets take this private. Its a master-stroke move.

Now I am getting the feeling she is taunting me.

Please discuss it here, please, please, please. I am not above a little psychic begging here.

There is such a duel set of feelings in observing this woman. How can anyone be both vile and desirable at the same time.

Its like the old show Kung Fu, with the studant trying to snatch the pebble from the master’s hand. Except that the master is Charles Manson, with incredible cleavage.

Thats where I am at. Sometimes this blog twists the shit out of me.

Where were we?

Oh, right, the aforementioned vibrator.

Confusion is almost dribbling down his leg like piss at this point.

“I think we are ok in that department.” His tone makes this a question.

Oh, shit.

She will not let this one go. I have seen her eviscerate him with less of a straight line.

She sips her coffee and eyes him over the rim like a cheetah looking over the caribou from the tall grass.

This is not going to be pretty.

“It is not for me. Its for Magda’s shower.” She smiles slightly, batting her eyelashes at him.

WTF?

I’ll be damned. She let him off the hook.

She pulled her punch and threw the fight.

As I sip my coffee, I remind myself of the fact that while she may think her husband is an idiot…

He is still her husband.

As I pack up my laptop and head down the street, a song is in my head. As I get to the corner, I remember the title of the song and I suddenly know why this particular song is in my head in the first place.
“The lion sleeps tonight.”

She’ll be back.

 
4 Comments

Posted by on October 13, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Deep Fried Goodness

Question: When is a deep fried Twinkie healthy?

Answer: When its deep fried in pure canola oil and wrapped in recycled paper.

Welcome to the LA County Fair.

The sign I am looking at has well over a dozen, evil gut-buster delicacies, and at the bottom of the window, a sun-faded sign proclaims that all items are deep fried in pure Canola oil.

Well, that just makes it all better , doesn’t it?

County Fairs as a general rule don’t really have a strangle hold on the health food issue.

And I am good with that.

You almost have to have bad food at a fair.

Its expected.

Not to partake of the deep fried goodness would be like going to a Tijuana Strip club and ordering a lite beer.

It just misses the point.

There is always new stuff the is deep fried every year that I have never seen.

It amazes me. You would think that it has all been done by now.

Here are the 5 mainstays of the deep fried fair world.
1. Twinkies.
2. Oreos.
3. Foot Long corn dogs.
4. Snickers.
5. Funnel cake.

Of them all, corn dogs and funnel cakes I can deal with. With the rest I have to make a judgement call as to the current state of my stomache. Nothing ruins a day at the County Fair more than projectile vomiting.

As for the new comers to the deep fried carnie-world, here they are.
1. Kool aid (I shit you not.)
2. Cream cheese. (Not bad, actually)
3. Butter. (Good god.)
4. Bacon. (Which is then dipped in chocolate, just to add insult to injury.)
5. A ten inch wide maple donut, covered with bacon bits, topped with a hot fudge sunday, topped with whipped cream, nuts and cherry. (While not a true County Fair, fried food, I wanted it included here because it shocked the living shit out of me and I am still in awe.)

My fiancee continues to argue to this day that the nuts at least “Give it some protein.”

This is a lot like arguing that at least Meth is fat free.

Let me get back to that Maple-bacon-donut-hot fudge-sunday. It was incredible.

It wasn’t even on the menu, it was a combination of two separate items on the menu. When we suggested it to the cashier, she looked at us in confusion, like we had just told her that her cat had tennis elbow.

Didn’t compute.

Three cashiers, a manager, and two cooks later, it was decided that it could be done. The biggest delay was them trying to figure out how much to charge for it. To carnies, this is their whole reason for being.

We ended up paying the same price as if we had bought both a Maple-bacon donut and a Hot-fudge sunday.

Whatever, creating a legend is never cheap.

I ate half of that monster and my stomach still twinges. Projectile vomiting was on the table that day, but I managed to keep it together.

The taste was incredible.

Plus, it had peanuts.

 
4 Comments

Posted by on October 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Here Kitty, kitty, kitty

Being accused of being a burglar is a dicey thing to try to talk your way out of to begin with.

Luckily, I used to make my living on the phone, so talking is something I can do well.

But let me explain how I ended up in this predicament.

First let me say that I am not a cat person.

Never have been, never will be.

I would say that I am a dog person, but I need to be more specific.

I am a big dog person. Little dogs of the kick-em variety make my teeth itch.

But at least they are not cats.

A pet that gets to sleep in the house and gets fed daily has an obligation to protect the house. Kick-em dogs at least try to do their part and yap incessantly at strangers.

Big dogs are friendly, playful, and just might rip the throat out of a burglar on occasion.

Back to cats.

Cats are the mooching welfare recipients of pets. You owe them a living, food, board, toys…etc.

Oh, and then theres catnip.

Cat lovers love to stockpile catnip because, and I quote, “Cats love it.”

Its a drug, dumbass.

So, the welfare recipient of pets has a drug of choice?

Of course they do.

Off on a tangent there.

Cats also have the annoying tenancy to escape on occasion.

And that would explain why I am walking down the street in downtown Sacramento at 7am calling “Here kitty, kitty, kitty!”

I feel like an idiot.

However, one of the main reasons I am out here is to keep the peace.

Its my fiancee’s daughters cat, and the girl is one of those types that views the cats as her children.

I love each and every one of the dogs that I have ever had, and I have buried over a half dozen, but lets not lose sight of the fact that they are pets.

Just pets.

However, a house cat that gets out doesn’t understand about cars.

I figured that, if I cover a lot of local streets and find the cat, smashed flat in the middle of the street, I can at least scrape the poor beast up and dispose of it before she see’s it. She may read this and be pissed at me for this, but its a “Protecting” parent type of move. The last thing she needs is to get it in her head that “I have to see her”. Bad idea for the long term memories.

That way, poor Whiskers was never found and may be living happily somewhere. Certainly not tossed in someones recycling garbage can and sent to the land fill.

And then I see her.

Alive and staring at me a half block away at the entry to an alley.

“Here kitty, kitty, kitty.”

She takes off.

Shit.

I am hoofing it into the alley, fully aware that a chubby man with stubby legs cannot out run a cat in its prime, but I have to make the effort.

The cat is dawdling, about four houses into the alley, staring at me.

I get one house away, and the cat vaults the fence. The fenc e is a wooden one, a solid one despite the rickety one next store.

I am describing the fence in detail because I was eyeing it as I ran at it in an attempt to get over it.

Short men, as a general rule, tend to avoid climbing fences in a hurry. Its the type of thing you really need to take your time at.

Except that I am in a hurry.

The little furball will be gone if I don’t hurry.

I vault the fence and flip over it, land in a three-point stance.

Kitty is across a short yard and three steps up on the back porch.

I walk up slowly, making “It’s ok” sounds.

The cat isn’t having it. She runs up the porch and hides in a corner.

I am on the porch, walking towards a hissing cat thats cowering in a corner, when it hits me.

Wrong cat.

Thats when all hell breaks loose.

Back door creeks.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY CAT?!?!”

Shit.

Some of my slickest fast-talking bullshit comes during moments of extrame stress.

I twisted a masterpiece of BS involving a diabetic cat dying of cancer that desperately needs its meds.

Cat lovers eat this shit up and I have absolutely no shame at the moment.

In short order, I am let out of the side gate so that I will not have to hurt my back again going back over the fence again.

I believe the poor old woman was going to get her shawl so she can go look for poor dying, diabetic, cancer-ridden (I have to stop this shit at some point) Whiskers.

My phone rings.

“I found her! She was hiding in a laundry basket! Isn’t that cute?”

I hang up.

God, I hate cats.

 
10 Comments

Posted by on October 11, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

My rude past…

I have an odd reaction to really embarrassing moments.

I get louder and become fearless.

This can be a really bad combination and it rarely leads to things calming down and moving away from whatever the embarrassing starting point was.

Here is a good example from my past.

There is a fine art to having sex in a restaurant.

And I am not artist.

Maybe I should add a little bit of back story here. In a certain sense, I am still the dirty-minded 13 year old I always was.

I was in an El Pollo Loco with a new girlfriend.

We were in the honeymoon stage. That cool period of time right after you figure out that you are sexually compatible, and you really can’t keep your hands off of each other.

You can only sit in a booth making out for so long before the help begin to get twitchy. And we are not wide eyed teenagers. Being past the age of being old enough to know better, but obviously not giving a shit ratchets up the discomfort of others even more.

And that is when the idea of sex in the bathroom begins to make sense.

El Pollo Loco almost encourages this sort of behavior. The bathrooms are always in their own little secluded hallway.

This discourages witnesses. And the bathrooms are single occupant only.

We are both a little iffy about the whole scandalous thing right up until we get in the bathroom.

Its on like donkey kong.

Less than 30 seconds later the knock on the door comes.

Its loud, its impatient and its incessant.

“We have to stop.” She is the voice of reason in these situations.

“No, we don’t.” I am really not in control of my actions at this point. My penis has taken control and he is a tyrant.

“Stop” Once out of their teens, women are much harder to talk into things they have decided against.

“How do we get out of here?” NOW she is worried. Women hate witnesses. Men view witnesses as more of an annoyance than an embarrassment.

This is where I become Rambo with a hard on.

“We go out one at a time, no eye contact.”

She straightens her clothes while I put mine back on. Men seem to get naked a hell of a lot quicker in these situations.

I put my hands on the lock and the door knob and look back at my somewhat nervous partner in crime. I blow her a kiss, but I can tell she is missing the humor of the gesture.

I open the door and find an old woman waiting with her hand poised to rap on the door again.

Her eyes widen in shock at a man coming out of the bathroom. I focus on the hallway next to her and step past.

“All yours chief.” I am now headed for the parking lot.

Pure guilt makes me look over my shoulder.

It is worth risking the look back.

My partner had tried to push the door shut the moment I cleared the thresh hold.

The old woman recovered from her shock quickly and tried to get into the bathroom.

There is a brief struggle with both trying to move the door, one to get it open and the other to close it, presumably to hide.

Then the door is forced open.

My partner makes her first mistake.

Eye contact, frozen in place.

A number of things should be falling into place mentally for the old woman at this point.

If there is more to be seen, I have no way of knowing.

The front door is in my hand and I am now free.

You are on your own, sweetie.

Don’t hold it against me, survival is an instinctive thing, and those old ladies can be vicious.

A few minutes later, my now thoroughly embarrassed partner exits the El Pollo to find me across the parking lot, sitting on the hood of the car, smiling and about to begin laughing loud.

“You’re an asshole!”

What the hell did I do?

I would ask, but I have pulled enough shit in my past that I don’t question the asshole accusation.

She forgave me, eventually.

As part of an unspoken agreement, we steered clear of fast food bathrooms from there on out.

Looking back, I view that as a damn shame.

There is a poster I see here and there about living life.

Here is my version.

Live well.
Laugh often.
Love deeply.
And if you are ever kicked out of an El Pollo Loco bathroom for having sex, NO EYE CONTACT!

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on October 10, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Evil Couples councelling.

How fucking oblivious am I?

I have been sitting in Starbucks for the last half hour, writing a blog about Ronaldo when the couple that came in right after me begins having a snippy argument.

The only reason I notice is when the wife reaches over and puts her fingertips, beautifully manicured, on my table.

“Can I ask you a question?” Her tone is aggressive and a little angry.

AND A LITTLE RUSSIAN.

Evil Couple. Stealth Evil Couple. Sitting right next to me.

I am the littlest deer in the headlights ever.

Oh shit!

I stare in horror as Mrs. Evil narrows her eyes at me.

“Um….yes?” I am not sure whether to shit or go blind at this point. (An awesome phrase from the 70’s in the deep South that totally applies here.)

“If your wife asked you for something simple, something you would want if you were not being angry and childish, would you do it?” She folds her arms, almost like it was either a rhetorical question or that I  had already answered affirmatively.

In the back of my head, the former husband in me understands the tone and the move. Going outside the argument and bringing someone else in means that both he and I are just fucked.

And I am not even married to this bitch.

“I’m divorced.” Its all I can think of. Digging a hole in the sand to hide in won’t work, they use Italian tile in Starbucks.

“And?” She arcs her eyebrows. I am not getting out of this.

“Depends on what it is, I guess.” You could not get a pin up my ass with a jackhammer.

She looks right thru me.

“I can see why you are divorced.” She dismisses me and focuses an angry look at her husband.

If anyone else talked to me like that, I would rip in, curse, throw shit…etc. But I have spent so much time studying these two and writing thousands of words about them that being shit on by her……is kind of charming.

As they keep talking, it becomes apparent that, somehow, the school that the twins go to has wisely decided to put them in separate classes, as is advised by many child psychologists.

He is in favor of it and she is not.

As always, according to her, he does not love her or the twins enough to fix this.

In other words, tell the school their job.

“When they are beaten by bullies, I hope you don’t laugh in front of them.”

The fact that he speaks at all after this comment tells me that he has been married for over 10 years and hasn’t learned a damn thing.

In trench fighting, the first thing you learn is that there is a time to fight and a time for keeping your head down.

Break in the action.

A friend of the two of them has come in.

This guy has that awesome social skill of being totally unaware of walking into a tense situation.

Mrs. Evil is leaned over the table, angry finger thrust into Mr.’s face and is ripping him in whispers when the friend sits down next to Mrs.

“Whats up, guys?”

The entire situation diffuses.

“Are you going to eat that?” Mrs. points at the cheese danish in front of Mr. This is in the awkward silence that follows.

“No!” The anger in Mr.’s voice catches me off guard. He rarely shows that much anger, and I have seen them in arguments that would end most marriages.

“Why not?” For once, Mrs. Evil seems off balance, like she wasn’t expecting the response.

He looks at the friend that is sitting there, in between her and me.

“I lost 50 pounds last year and gained it all back, wanna know how?” He looks at the friend.

And me.

Shit, I am back in the middle of it.

Mrs. Evil, for her part, has a little deer in the headlights thing going on that seems so out of place on her, its like watching a different person.

“I had a full breakfast with my wife less than an hour ago.” He gestures disdainfully at her. The volume of his voice is rising steadily and people behind him are stepping quietly away.

“Then I sit down and she puts this shit in front of me.” He gestures angrily at the danish.

The man is all in a lather and Mrs. Evil’s face is frozen.

“And I will eat it like a FUCKING animal who doesn’t know any better!” He holds up a finger to shut Mrs. up, who was not trying to speak, by the way.

“No, Kat, no! I am sick of this shit!”

Kat? Katrina? She’s russian, maybe its Katarina. Lovely name.

Back to the scene.

This is a warped twist I was not expecting. The roles have been reversed.

Mr. has caught his breath and is continuing.

“Shit in the morning, shit in the evening. Its no WONDER I am gaining weight.”

He stands up abruptly, shooting his chair back an angry foot.

“I’m going to work.” He is pissed. He doesn’t say anything else, he just turns and walks out.

Mrs. Evil barely misses a beat before she is up and out the door chasing after him, a look of anguish on her face.

What just happened to the world?

Just when I thought I had it all figured out, at least this little part of it, it has spun so far out of pace that I am firmly convinced that I know nothing. My mind is trying desperately to catch up.

I feel bad for Mrs. Evil. Those words, even the thought of those words, is an alien and foreign thought.

How did that happen?

So, to recap:

Mr. Evil has an anger and weight issue.

And poor Mrs. Evil?

She is the victim.

How fucked up is that?

 
8 Comments

Posted by on September 15, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Open Seseme…

Oscar the grouch.

Represent, bitches.

Oscar was a grumpy shit way back when. Back when you were young enough to get in trouble for being in a bad mood.

I think it had to do with living in a trash can and being the unspoken homeless guy on the show.

Bert and Ernie had a house and they didn’t seem to have jobs at all. They were either mediocre kids, living without parents or retarded adults who might be gay.

Take your pick.

Back to Oscar.

I seem to end up dealing with the homeless a lot on this blog and I can’t figure out if it is an obsession or just good choices on writing content.

I saw a new Muppet Movie is coming out and it got me thinking about Oscar.

Oscar came at us during a time in our life when we were being bombarded with vanilla, black and white views of life. The cartoons reflected either a good guy or a bad guy. The good guys were always good and the bad guys were always bad.

And then there was Oscar.

Oscar was a good guy that bitched about everything. but everyone seemed to like, and he was just kind of made fun of, but he spoke his mind and was more or less accepted by the majority.

All without getting a time out.

I am seeing scary similarities between myself and Oscar.

And, in a way, I kind of like that.

Oscar pretty much demanded that you accept him and his shitty attitude at face value. He taught us to be pushy and outspoken way before that was allowed by school or our parents.

And never once did he get the recognition.

Hell, some of us have personalities based on it.

Willy the grouch.

Has a nice little ring to it, ay?

When my kids were growing up, I started watching Sesame Street again. I was a little twisted up by it at first.

The Muppets were puppets and never aged, so all my old friends were still vibrant and funny.

But the people changed.

They were older and what was once friendly and helpful was now kind of creepy and moist? and made me afraid to leave my kids alone in the same room with them.

But I got over it and sat with my daughter and clapped and sang. Daddy stuff.

And then your kids grow up and, at least mentally, you put the Muppets on the shelf again.

Until the grand kids show up. Then you can watch again.

And I will still be creeped out by the overly sugary-sweet delivery of the cast of humans then, too.

But the Muppets will still be there.

And, fuzzy pound for fuzzy pound, Kermit the Frog is the elder statesman of childrens television. He kicks the shit out of Spongebob with one thin furry arm held behind his back with a little black stick.

And he will bitch slap Hello Kitty without working up a sweat.

Although, Hello Kitty has a Japanese following that is fanatical and well monied, so maybe that’s a bad comparison.

Getting back to Oscar the Grouch, I like to think he was a roll model for some, if not all of us.

He catered to the inner asshole.

Thank you Oscar.

I would follow you into Muppet hell, you magnificent fuzzy bastard.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

10 years of remembrance

And a lot of whining and bitching.

Its 9/11 and I am thinking about water boarding.

On the day we watched people die, there was a rolling wave of outrage that rippled through out the land.

Think what you want about President Bush now, but he was awesome during that time.

We chased that rotten shit head Ben Ladin all thru the mountains and couldn’t catch him.

And then the whining began.

Waterboarding was screamed at in the news as being torture.

Except that it wasn’t.

The reporter from CNN had it done to him on camera by an ex CIA agent. Within 30 seconds of being waterboarded, he was back on camera, microphone in hand.

WTF?

How is something so terrible that the media screams that we are hideously torturing people if it leaves no damage and is being done by reporters to make a good story.

John McCain can tell you about some torture.

Broken knee, broken shoulder. Stabbed in the ankle and the groin. Cracked ribs, broken teeth.

That is torture.

Waterboarding is tough, to be sure, not something you want to do, unless you can benefit from it. But it is not torture.

Put an Ohio state shirt on the waterboardee, pour beer on them and have them sing the Ohio State fight song?

Its a hazing prank.

The big argument is that torture doesn’t work.

Then explain why every society since the dawn of time has used it. Because it doesn’t work?

Morally, they don’t want it to work. They hate that there was actually terror plots blocked because of info gained by waterboarding.

The argument should be, should we use torture.

The answer is no.

But waterboarding is not torture.

Let me say that one again. Waterboarding is not torture.

There is no permanent damage. It scares people. Scaring people is not torture.

If so, zombie films are torture. They scare the shit out of me.

How dare you violate my civil rights like that.

I think that one of the saddest things about the anniversary of 9/11 is that it has been a decade of whining and accusations. Should we have done this? Should we have invaded there? With a war on, we have had people who disagree with the president calling childish names and definitely giving the impression that they can change our minds with violence and threats.

These are the same people that piss and moan when you question Obama.

Usually, they call you a racist for disagreeing with him.

Here are the basic facts. Due to what they claim are valid reasons, terrorists hijacked a total of 3 planes. They ran 2 of them into the Twin Towers. The towers fell.

2996 dead.

Another plane crashed, after the passengers tried to overpower the hijackers.

127 dead.

Al Qaeda hailed it as a victory. And, I guess if you think you were in a war at the time, it was.

So how can they bitch when we begin scouring the planet to ferret them out like vermin.

Fuck em. I am tired of caring what anyone outside of this country thinks.

The one thing I would like more than anything is to get the opinions of people I have never met.

The ones that died on 9/11.

However, they aren’t talking.

And I hope that silence is never forgotten like it has been for the last 10 years.

God Bless.

 
4 Comments

Posted by on September 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

To rebut is human……to forgive is not.

I am a little angry today.

So what else is new?

I have received a second email from an anonymous source about the “Ronaldo’s Son” blogs. The first was a simple admonishment about being harsh.

Fine, I sent back a “Sorry you feel that way” email and asked them to post on the blog page. I prefer to make a public scene.

The second was more, and I take it personal.

Despite my request that I would rather you comment on the blog on the actual blog page, Ms. X has elected to continue emailing.

Fine.

Then I will rebut all the lines of your email here.

First of all, eat me.

I have never read anything this pathetic in my life. Every soft-headed platitude in the book or books is there.

“An addict is not responsible for his actions.”
Two things. First, Ronaldo never said his son was an addict, I never said his son was an addict. Second? Bull! We are all responsible for our actions. An addict always has the option of getting help.

“Walk a mile in his shoes before you judge him.”
I could be in the Battan Death March in his Nikes before I would shit on my father to the degree this piece of garbage has.

“Judge not lest ye be judged.” Ah, biblical. Mathew. Sermon on the mount. It was part of a sermon on ostentation and not meant to be a “get out of jail free” sinners card.

The really interesting thing is that, for all of these dark and dour crimes, you assume he is an addict and auto forgive all of his actions.

What about me?

How do you know this isn’t my 11th out of 12 steps or something? Where is the automatic assumption that I too, am an addict. Where the hell is my auto-forgiveness?
(According to MyAddiction.com Caffeine is a really serious one too. All of my behavior is now golden. Yah!)

Back on subject.

I know a little something about addiction. I have family that is in the rehab biz and the general consensus is that taking responsibility for your actions is in there somewhere. It is also one of the twelve steps.

But lets look at all the people you have turned your back on in favor of the Demon Son.

Ronaldo. The meth lab on the premises gets his retirement-funding house seized. It also is a huge betrayal of his parent. (This is a biblical issue too, or did you miss that?)

The girls. Smuggled into this country and forced to do drugs and make porn films. A sizeable portion of their life is ruined. I hope they get some peace down the road on this one. I see them as victims.

The parents of the girls. They will most likely find out at some point. Could be the biggest nightmare a parent could face.

Anyone in the film distribution chain that is simply trying to make a living. They have been given films that contain illegal actors. I assume the economy sucks all over and they can’t afford hits to their bottom line either.

Because actions speak louder than words, I have a challenge for you. When Ronaldo’s son gets out of jail, take him and Charles Manson as room mates.

Let me know how that goes.

You may as well go fishing with Fredo, because you are dead to me.

So, to sum up, take your excuses, your platitudes, your obvious self-issues, your blind eye forgiveness to any crime that does not directly affect you…..

And stick them. In the biblical sense.

Have a nice day…………..ass.

 
9 Comments

Posted by on September 8, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Time to pay the fiddler…

I am sitting in my favorite Starbucks, in the middle of Blondie and her study group. The Penguins want to play cards, and have yet to say anything because, while they may be able to bully Blondie and the girls, I think they hesitate at hassling a grown man with a goatee and mustache who tends to look angry when concentrating. So it is an uncomfortable stalemate with everyone just glaring at me.

Its good to be back.

For those who were not aware, I have been gone for the last week. The blogs have been scheduled. I spent a week with my kids in Portland, (While managing to blog several times.). Then I made the trek to the Nevada desert for Burning Man. (More on that later.)

Normally I would not give up my asshole seat for anything. There is a certain delight in pissing of several groups of people at once with just my presence. (Check the archives till you find the story about me taking Garrett the six and a half foot tall homeless guy to Noah’s Bagels and having morning bagels out front with the regulars. It was nice visit with an interesting guy and a beautiful shit storm of discomfort for the regulars.)

But Ronaldo just came in.

For those behind the curve, (Read the fucking blog) Ronaldo has an interesting situation. He bought a house 50 years ago in a prime location in Manhattan Beach. 20 years ago, he remodeled and made it a mansion that he rents out to wealthy families as an income property. His son manages the property.

Well, he did until recently.

It turns out that the son was renting the house to himself under an assumed name, not paying rent, making underage porn films, possibly dabbling in the sex slave trade, running a meth lab and embezzling money from his own father. Its an amazing bit of cruel shit to pull on your parents. It caused Ronaldo to have chest pains for several days.

We have to talk.

I slide sideways from the big table into one of the little rounds and wait. When Ronaldo gets his tea, I wave him over.

Ronaldo is one of those old guys from that generation that will relax and commiserate over his troubles with a friend over a drink.

Now days, our drink is coffee, which is not made to relax you. The good news is, Ronaldo views me as familiar enough to tell me his troubles.

And they’re some pretty fucked up troubles.

Turns out that only 2 of the girls were underage, the ones making the porn films? Somehow, this is viewed as better, I am not sure how, but whatever.

They were all illegal, which is bad, and it is still being debated about whether they forced to do drugs and make porn films. Half the girls are saying they were forced and half were doing it because they have to pay off the “Sneak me into the country and ruin my life” fee. That is still coercion,

Ronaldo is sure they are lying and his son will be cleared.

A father’s love is golden.

Personally, I would really appreciate it if Karma would get off of its ass for once and bring down some vicious biblical justice in this case. Ronaldo’s son is the closest thing to Manson I have seen in this generation.

And yet, we are so jaded by this sort of thing that we say “Oh, how terrible!” and move on. I have yet to see anything on this in the news. In other words, they ran the original story and no follow ups.

How sad.

According to Ronaldo, his son’s friends were running the Meth lab and he didn’t know.

This entire situation is hard to fathom.

Ronaldo seems like a fine man, says the right things you expect to hear from a solid guy from that generation.

And yet, his son, based on reports, is a fucking monster who deserves to be put down like a rabid dog.

With any luck, that will happen in prison.  I think in my last Ronaldo blog, I called for the hopeful prison rape of both Ronaldo’s son and Karma.

I do tend to rant, don’t I.

Why the hell not?

They only thing you hear from our politicians is ranting about other politicians. It is never anyones fault, its always someone elses.

he economy, taxes, jobs, war, drugs, fiscal responsibility. There is a lot of bad shit rolling right now.

Me? I have decided to blame it all on Ronaldo’s son. Kind of a “Sacrificial Lamb” of the new millennium.

Because someone has to pay the fiddler.

 
2 Comments

Posted by on September 6, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,