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Before you kill someone.

You gotta wonder what goes thru some peoples minds.

I mean, being stupid is ok, but being dangerously stupid can get you killed.

Morning rush hour, traffic is bumper to bumper.

I am not on the freeway, but its still bad.

Luckily, I am not rushing to get to work, just breakfast.

Heading to my favorite breakfast place.

Time to coffee up.

But the car ahead of me is out to kill someone.

Judging from the hair, I am going to say the driver is a woman.

And she is weaving, not a basket or something creative, unless you think of fatality accidents as creative.

She is driving by braille, going from the bumps on one side to the other.

And she has slammed on her brakes 3 times in a 1 mile stretch.

We will assume she is drunk, I mean, she could be a serial killer for all I know.

Anyway, the drunk chick almost just impacted into the back of a UPS truck.

We all know how those UPS trucks dart in and out of traffic, no doubt it was the truck’s slow and even speed that surprised her.

Instead of hitting the UPS truck, she whipped her car to the left, pulling into a turn lane, but going the wrong way.

The only problem with that is that she almost went head on into a car that was just pulling into that turn lane.

This woman is a Goddam menace. A threat to the public. Armed (With a car) and dangerous.

As traffic began moving again, I finally got in the next lane.

As luck would have it, my new lane we faster, and I pulled up next to vehicular public enemy #1 at the next red light.

It is, indeed, a woman.

Either late teens or early 20’s, which makes her even dumber than most.

That isn’t sexist, by the way.

Late teens to early 20’s is easily the dumbest part of life, where most of the WORST decisions in life are made.

She isn’t drunk.

She is putting on her make up.

Are you shitting me?

That will be an interesting scene at the hospital.

A surgeon with bloody clothes comes out to address a grieving family.

“Cause of death, lip gloss.”

This is hall of fame type of stupid here.

However, if you smack your hand on the door of your car and yell “HEY, DUMBASS!” She jumps like a singed kitten and stares at you like you’ve done something wrong.

At least it got her to drive better, for awhile at least.

But then she had to work on her mascara.

While I don’t wish her well, I hope the criminally stupid doesn’t become an ACTUAL criminal.

(But I do wish that some sort of karmic “Instant justice” happens to her. Like she gets fired today, or her cat dies, or she gets an STD. Just kidding, I’m sure she’s already got an STD. From her dead cat. OH YES I DID!)

 
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Posted by on February 20, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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The asshole within.

I gotta get out of this business.

Being the literary coffee house witness is beginning to take its toll.

I no longer have the ability to filter what comes out of my mouth or onto the page.

The only filter is one I developed, the one that tries to phrase everything in the most shocking or shitty way.

Its like the blogging version of PTSD.

The blog has touched my mind, but not in a good way.

More like a creepy uncle with clammy palms kind of touching.

And yeah, there is baggage that comes with that. (From the blogging, I don’t have a clammy-palmed uncle.)

But, I am not a danger to anyone else, unless you read the blog, then we are all victims together.

Great, lets form some sort of touchy-feeling support group to sob about “What the blog did to me!”

That might be a symptom of the problem in this country.

Previous generations, like your grandfather’s on back, the one’s that built this country? They worked, got shit done, and kept their issues to themselves.

They rarely missed work.

I could be wrong, but it seems like we are teaching society that, God forbid ANY problem pop up, STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND THINK ABOUT YOUR FEELINGS!

Don’t move forward until you have coddled your inner child until they are every bit as spoiled as we are.

Recipe for disaster, but maybe I am being harsh.

“Time to cut bait.”

I hate having my thought process interrupted but that phrase caught my attention.

It’s one of those cultural adages that means “Time to get to work”.

The guy sitting next to me is wearing a pretty expensive suit and used that phrase.

Funny, he doesn’t look like a fisherman.

He is on an iPhone 6.

He looks like aging middle management in an expensive, but boring, suit.

It appears he is in insurance of some sort.

And, like his suit, the man is boring.

I have spent less than 15 minutes in his presence and I can vouch for the fact that the man is less exciting than toilet paper.

And thats pretty boring.

But, its a slow day, especially when your blog is about observing other people.

And he is the only cookie in the jar.

So what can we tell about him just from looking?

He has no taste in suits, but he is smart enough to go somewhere to buy his suits that the salesman has decent taste.

He’s a bad salesman, you can tell that just from looking at his hair.

Comb-over. Bad sign.

Also, fiddles with his pen as he talks, also a bad sign.

In poker, they call this a tell.

It means he’s nervous, bluffing and feeding someone a line of shit.

And there are lots of lines of shit in the insurance game.

For those who sell insurance, if you are offended, stop lying to yourself.

Time to get rid of him, he is souring my morning.

I look at him, smiling slightly and hold up my hand till he notices.

“Hang just a second.” He covers the receiver with his hand. “Can I help you?”

I look friendly and a little wide eyed at this point. (Or at least as much as possible. This is not in my wheelhouse really.)

“Have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior? Can we talk for a minute?”

Beat.

“I gotta go.” He says this into the receiver, packs up, mumbles some sort of excuse why we are not chatting and flees the scene in under 45 seconds.

And peace returns.

 
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Posted by on February 6, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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I don’t need a BFF, dude.

There is such a thing as being too damned friendly.

When I am writing, I try to give off an unfriendly, “Asshole” kind of vibe. (As opposed to the friendly asshole vibe I give off the rest of the time.)

Mainly because nothing sucks worse than getting a line in my head that has just the right amount of cerebral stank on it only to have it evaporate like early morning mist because a stranger has decided I was BFF material.

“What are you writing?”

This is the witty opening line that ruined my thought process and sewered the killer blog idea in my head.

The unspoken here is that now you are stuck with my pissy, angst-filled rant of a post about shitting on strangers.

Suck it up, life is like that.

As I pull myself away from my writing I take a good look at “Magoo”. (I can’t remember what he said his name was, but Magoo fits.)

Magoo is one of nature’s children. He has an innocence about him that is almost charming and in any other setting, I would be happy to chat.

But he is in the wrong creative neighborhood at the wrong cerebral time of the night.

Lot of mind assault and battery happens in those settings. (He would be the star of the show if there was a mental episode of “Cops”. And I realize this imagery is a stretch. Work with me.)

But his question does demand an answer.

“Obituaries. I write obituaries for the LA Times.”

“Oh.” Deer in the headlights. The little smile is gone.

I’m not finished.

“Pays better than you think. Plus you get to spend a lot of time talking to grieving families.” (Its important to smile and be too excited at this point. It twists up the deeply ingrained expectation of being really serious on a serious topic. Like a giggling mortician, its out of place and more than a little disturbing.)

“Is that a good thing?” The question kind of tumbles confusedly out of his mouth.

“Its awesome, really gives you a heads up on estate sales and used cars.”

“Oh.” The deer in the headlights is beginning to realize that the headlights are not friendly.

“I am up for a promotion. Sex crimes beat. You talk with a LOT of rape and shooting victims.”

Eye contact breaks at this point and you can feel the flight part of the fight or flight reflex taking over.

He’s not sure what is wrong with me or the situation, but he knows SOMETHING is wrong and its making him antsy.

Bingo.

Almost on cue, the guy mutters something that sounds like something between a hiccup and a word that sounded like “Megosh” and walked away.

More like scurries away. I watch him go, smile and put my headphones back on.

Yeah, I know.

Asshole.

It is what it is.

What kills me is, I had my headphones on.

I could put a sign on the table that says, “Fuck off” but I figured the headphones were enough.

Besides, the last time I put the sign out, enough people complained that the manager asked me to take it down.

Once again, I know.

 
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Posted by on January 16, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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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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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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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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You can’t sue me for being lazy.

I am not sure I can get much lazy-er and still be considered living.

I have a nephew that entered the military a few weeks back.

Much to my shame, I just sent the first letter today.

I was in the Army years ago and basic training sucked.

I come from such a close family that the culture shocked was huge.

While the nephew in question comes from every bit the close family situation, he seems a hell of a lot tougher than I was at that age.

But basic training eats away at your old comfort spots, replacing them with new ones in the long run, but for the short term, you are kind of screwed.

But I loved getting mail.

Here is where I hit new highs of laziness.

I didn’t physically write a letter, at least, not in the conventional sense.

I found a website, cut and pasted content, paid just under $2 and they are mailing out my letter for me.

I used this site only because I could not find one to write the letter for me as well.

But the shame factor is hard to get by. (The being raised both Irish and Catholic only ratchets up the guilt factor.)

The results are, a letter was definitely sent. Maybe by a surrogate, but it still went.

By my standards, I am golden, the ultimate uncle.

I have been reminded that I am not the boy’s uncle.

Technically, he is my first cousin’s son, but I come from a large immigrant family, there are literally dozens of cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and everything else in between.

Dealing with a crowd that large is tough unless you streamline the process.

Here is how it works. Anyone within about 5 years of my age up or down is a cousin, anyone younger than that is a niece or nephew, and anyone older is an aunt or uncle.

Within the family, everyone gets it. Outside the family? You get nothing but stares and confusion.

But, and I understand this one better than most, there is a fine line between being totally clueless and completely getting it.

Perspective is everything.

Perspective is caused by experience.

If you ever want marriage advice, avoid counsellors like the plague.

Seek out a couple that has been married for more than 40 years.

These are two people who raised kids, grew up, grew apart, grew back together, and managed to keep all the plates spinning for decades.

This is who you want advice from.

Counsellors, as a general rule, are single or have been married less than a decade, usually without kids.

And if you take your car to a mechanic who doesn’t drive, you will pay for an overhaul you don’t need.

Marriage, as well as most things in life, require that you work your ass off or they will stagnate and die off.

Trust me on this one, I have lived thru that one.

Enough said.

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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