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Loves me even though I’m an asshole.

I’m in love with a phone.

Steve Jobs did me a serious favor from beyond the grave and made the iphone 5C, I am fairly certain, just for me.

He may have been the evil genius (More than one meaning here) but the man knew some phone.

I buy a lot of crap from China.

Ebay and Amazon are filled with ridiculously cheap electronics from China all priced for about a tenth of what we can make it for here.

Ear buds for $.50 a piece? With free shipping? Shit, give me 10 of them.

Sure they are cheap pieces of shit and only last a few months, but they are so cheap!

The iPhone is made in China in the infamous Foxconn factory.

It ain’t cheap, even though I got mine for about a third of normal, it could still not be called cheap.

Its well made and lasts several years.

Not really the China-made MO, but whatever.

Bottom line is, the phone rocks and I am in love.

Siri has never sounded so sultry.

For those who don’t know, Siri is a genie that lives inside the phone and answers questions like a 411 slave.

She never complains and is always happy to help me.

The only thing preventing a long term relationship is her lack of a vagina, but I am willing to be flexible if we can get around her “No dirty talk” programming.

A little TMI there, sorry.

I used to have a teach in high school that, if you ever said “I’m sorry” his immediate reply was “You are sorry.”

That phrase bothered me for a lot of years, but I never knew why.

Now I do.

It took awhile to get to this place of understanding, but I am here.

Here it is.

I’m not sorry.

Not even a bit.

I came to the conclusion that I have always meant it.

Even the mean, horrible, drunk on my ass atrocities.

They may have been rude, mean, obscene and in some instances, illegal, but I intentionally did and said what I wanted.

Like this blog.

The filters I normally employ to be a little more societally acceptable are gone the second words hit the screen.

(I would say “When the pen hits the paper” but I learned to type at age 8 and gave up paper as a creation tool.)

Its a lot like an intentional literary Tourette’s Syndrome.

(Coupled with a little man’s syndrome that manifests as chronic emotional manipulation of others.)

Best case scenario, it makes me unpleasant or annoying on a regular basis.

Worst case scenario, basically, makes me the LAST person you want privy to your embarrassing stuff.

The day to day lays somewhere in between, making me pretty tough to deal with.

Family and friends that put up with me are known for their patience.

It took a long time, but I am at peace with that.

Mainly by paraphrasing that old adage.

“You can only please some of the people some of the time and the rest? Do your best to piss them off.”

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Posted by on October 25, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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The phone war has changed me.

The Phone War, its like a digital version of Platoon.

My phone is a piece of shit.

I realize that I have said this before, but I am feeling it today.

I had a phone I liked.

With only one problem.

It had a small screen.

It was the old iPhone and the new one has a bigger screen.

This would seem like a simple fix, right?

Wrong.

I have a tendency to fuck things up when they are going right.

I had a phone that was fine.

So of course, I need a new one.

I got a deal on one of the higher rated Android phones yesterday.

Got home and the goddam thing will not hook up to the internet.

Called tech support and spent 2 hours on the phone to Mumbai, India, talking to my new friend “Roy”.

(Side note. If you are going to take an American sounding name to put me at ease, choose one that is not creepy and 40 years out of date.)

So, 2 hours of flashing and updating with “Roy”, and the phone is still crap.

Nothing to be done there.

Took the phone back and exchanged it for the same model.

Got it to hook to the internet.

Got home and the next problem surfaced.

Turns out that since my last phone was an iphone, anyone who has an iphone and has texted me before, cannot do so for 30 days.

Are you fucking kidding me?

Turns out that iMessage is Apple’s texting server, and it has a 30 days memory.

It still thinks I have an iPhone.

So, while I text and it goes thru normal channels, iPhone people text back and since my phone is now not an iPhone, I don’t get the text.

A quick survey and I realize that 90% of my texting is from iPhones.

I hate my new phone.

I have had cell phones for over 20 years and I have never had a “one thing after another” experience like this.

Way to go Sprint and Apple, I blame you both.

And tomorrow is more of the same.

I am taking it back.

Apple is Ike Turner, slapped the piss out of me, and tomorrow, I will go back like a bitch.

Damn.

Going with the iPhone 5 is semi-humiliating but actually makes sense.

I know the iPhone. Sure, IOS7 looks like a silly cartoon, but I know where everything is.

Its like a restaurant you go to a lot.

Sure its not the greatest, but you know the menu by heart and you know where the toilet is.

What is shocking to me is the amount of issues out there that are incredibly well documented, on both the Apple and the Android side, that so many people know about, but no one will do anything about them.

Especially not Apple, the phone makers, or the carriers.

Its like the consumer version of Dumb and Dumber.

The issue I was having with my phone not connecting to the internet? A simple network reset fixed the issue.

2 hours on the phone to Mumbai and that never occurred to “Roy”.

For several reasons I can’t change carriers.

We all have different reasons why we can’t change or get away from this shit.

In the end, we are all Tina.

And Ike is hitting harder as time goes on.

 
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Posted by on October 18, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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And you aren’t sure where your clothes went.

The difference between a county fair and an RV show held in the same location, is the variety of available deep fried foods.

At least, thats how I can see it.

Its the same collection of circus freaks that show up for the fair, but with one, clear difference.

Financial demographic.

An RV show draws a crowd that is every bit as weird and dysfunctional, but they are either gainfully employed and weird or retired with an income and weird.

Either way, they are buyers.

From the moment you come thru the door, don’t ever forget the fact that the entire reason for being of the entire event is to sell RV’s or stuff for RV’s.

Don’t forget that, mainly because the people working there don’t.

Walking in, I heard the following, much to my delight:

“I am not going to buy a damned thing, I am just hear to look.”

That is just so naive and cute, its like a 5 year old said it.

I really wish I was still in sales whenever I hear silly shit like that.

Right now, there are several of you shaking your heads and stating how you do that all the time, no one can sell you shit.

Do you know how many people like that say the same thing in those situations?

Pretty much all of them.

These are the people that those of us who sell things make our living off of.

The people who are just that fucking stupid that they are convinced they are clever.

You know who I am talking to.

It starts with the browsing.

You wander from RV to RV, grazing around the ones you like.

The salesman watches this and takes note.

And then, first pass.

“Can I answer any questions for you?”

Temperature gage, nothing more. Just to see if you are homeless.

50 percent of the time, you give them the Heisman, stiff arm, nothing.

“Just looking.”

They are expecting that. So much so that it barely registers.

So they follow up.

“I would never buy from someone who didn’t just leave me alone.”

Shut the fuck up, yes you would. And you have, there are few virgins here.

The guy is helpful, if he is dedicated, he knows his product and he knows the numbers.

Its all a numbers game from there.

Something like this:

10 approaches. “Can I answer any questions for you?” Ask it to 10 people to get 4 who are not rude and ask a question.

10 who ask a question, to get to 2 who are possibly in the market.

10 who are in the market to get to 3 who are willing to go to the tables, the Stockyard, to talk.

1 out of every 8 who go to the stockyard to get the 3 that will go to the isolated closers table. The Slaughterhouse.

1 out of 5 who go to the slaughterhouse will buy.

Do the math.

Roughly 400 approaches, numers subject to change, in order to get a sale.

Commission? $20K

Sweet work if you are good at it.

For every guy out there that believes he is just to mentally tough to be talked into a sale, they make their living off of you.

It just takes a period of stroking your ego enough to get you into position for the kill.

And, on rare occasion, someone will walk up to the sales guy and say, “I would like to buy this one, who do I talk to?”

That is the sales equivalent of having a deer shoot itself, then tie itself to the hood of your car.

And it doesn’t get any better than that.

And for the record, I know how this game is played and I still almost bought an RV.

 

 
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Posted by on October 14, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Only two things scare me.

And one of them is Carnies.

Nomads you know, circus folk, small hands, smell like cabbage.

That is a line from my favorite movie.

Carnies, however, have changed over the years.

Nowdays, they smell like BO, cigarettes and meth.

Suddenly cabbage doesn’t sounds so bad, does it?

I am in a semi familiar place, a Starbucks on the edge of the crappy section of town.

And the circus is in town.

Well, a carnival is in town.

And its just down the block from Starbucks.

Parking at this Starbucks is dicey, they share a lot with a few popular stores.

So, during my half block walk to get my java on, I notice about 5 homeless guys hanging around outside the store.

Grungy, dirty, torn clothes and wild hair. Skin that even the most gifted dermatologist couldn’t save.

I am in a good mood today, so I fish around in my pocket for some change.

I realize that anything I give them is going towards meth, but thats a personal decision.

I am doing it to make myself feel better, they are just the device being used.

Its an old system.

Kind of a win-win with meth involved.

And then I heard one of them say that they had to hurry and get back to work.

They went in and I followed.

Now I was intrigued.

I stood in line behind these smelly inbreds in a daze.

They smelled worse than some of the homeless I have been known to associate with on rare occassion.

But, from the sounds of it, they would be working 16 hour days for the next 8 days.

They have to be the hardest working homeless derelicts I have ever heard of.

I was pretty relieved when I finally got thru line.

The carnies had a stink that will break your soul.

And it lingered.

There is nothing less appetizing than BO and Coffee.

In the end, I had to sit out on the patio, the inside smelled like a cesspool.

I hate to be a whiny ass about this, but it was giving me a headache.

Not my normal MO, but I decided to take a walk with my coffee.

Bed, Bath and beyond is one of those places I avoid like the plague.

Not because I dislike the store, much the opposite.

They have too much stuff.

And it is all the cheap, crappy items that I love to prowl thru.

It was in aisle 12, next to the steel ice cubes that I came across the microwavable seat cushion.

If you are going somewhere cold, you can pop this into the microwave for 2 minutes on high and it will stay warm for 10 minutes.

There are more than a few problems with the whole idea.

First off, if you are outdoors anywhere cold enough to need this, you will not have a microwave with you.

And if your are indoors anyplace this cold, the electricity is out.

Plus, the idea of sitting for 10 minutes on moist heat leads to 3 unpleasant situations.

First, hot ass cheeks. A torture invented by the romans.

Second, a sweaty taint. This is not a desirable thing.

Third, and this might be the most obvious one, quit thinking about your ass so much! Nothing good can come of that.

There is an entire section of items “As seen on TV”.

At one time or another, I have seen all of the items on a cheap infomercial.

They all give the impression that they come from Europe or Australia.

If that is true, they have a lot of worthless crap overseas.

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Posted by on October 11, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Hell smells like BO and urine.

Would it kill people to fucking bath?

The trains in Los Angeles were laid out like a madman’s maze.

I lived in Portland for a few years, and the trains and buses mesh like a well choreographed dance.

You can get anywhere in Portland Metropolitan area in 45 minutes or less.

Los Angeles? Funny.

You can be waiting 45 minutes for the bus or train here.

But thats not the worst part.

I am going to an event in Downtown LA and didn’t want to drive.

So I figured, ”Why not take the train?”

Anatomy of a mistake.

So, I waited 30 minutes for a train that is supposedly running every 15 minutes.

Don’t do the math, it’ll make your head hurt.

So, the first train was a 20 minute ride.

The woman next to me had BO like nobodies business.

Except that, since our shoulders were touching, it was my business.

I broke my nose years ago and cannot smell things unless they are pretty strong.

But I had no problem sniffing this lady.

It was a long 20 minutes.

I waited another 20 minutes for that same “Every 15 minutes” train.

Standing room only.

The guy standing in front of me, and I think the guy to my right, both looked homeless and smelled strongly of urine.

Lucky me.

My only thought was that karma must have had enough of my mouth and decided that it was time for a little payback.

This was the long ride. 30 minutes.

Supposedly 20 minutes, but an extra 10 was thrown in when the handcapped guy managed to get his wheel caught up in the 4 inch gap between train and platform.

Luckily, his chair was mostly on the train, so the door couldn’t close.

I got the feeling if the door had closed, the train would have rolled off with him being ground up.

Instead, we had the driver, me and a few others, trying to unstick his wheels.

What did not help was that the guy was crazy and convinced we were mugging him.

He stank too. Beer, BO and urine.

The trifecta of nasty.

The third train was only a 10 minute wait, and a 3 stop connection to the 4th train.

The 4th train was something special.

The moment the doors closed, a tall black man, smelled like flowers, began shouting.

I was 3 feet from him and couldn’t make out the first 20 words he shouted at us.

I finally began to realize that he was chastizing me about abortion, and something that sounded like “Mopery”.

(I could be wrong on that one. As far as I know, Mopery is the lewd act of exposing yourself to dead people. Although it sounds like something the Almighty would be pissed about.)

In the end it took 2 hours and 25 minutes to go 17 miles.

I have a friend who is an actor who was recently turned down for a role.

He was drunk when he said the following:

“Its tough to get anywhere in this town.”

No shit.

 

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Posted by on October 7, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Coffee Bean and I are now besties.

You would think that hypocrisy would choke more going down.

Especially when hypocrisy was a large Costa Rica and a mini sparkle donut from the Coffee Bean.

Except that its pretty tasty.

I have been going to the Coffee Bean for almost a solid week now.

Not so bad.

Starbucks, in its infinite wisdom, has decided that letting the wifi go down without being in a hurry to repair it is good corporate logic.

Everybody comes because of the coffee, right?

Right? …………(Sounds of crickets)

Wrong.

Turns out its all about the wifi.

Coffee Bean is usually half empty, and Starbucks is packed.

Since the wifi went down, Starbucks has more people working there than customers, and Coffee is packed.

And here I thought I was addicted to the caffeine.

(By the way, this Costa Rican roast is something special.)

Now that its packed, with all the yoga ladies having their latte’s and surfing their iPads.

Now I realize that those who read this blog on a regular basis, (All 5 of you.) are screaming about this.

I have maligned this place in the past.

Some of my mud-slinging highlights:

1. The average age in Coffee Bean is 85 years old, until I walk in, then it drops 20 years.

2. There is a minimum of 3 oxygen tanks at the table.

3. I once claimed that the epitome of the Coffee Bean experience is when an old man sitting next to me noisily shit hi pants.

I think it would be incorrect to call it lying, not to mention rude, so lets say that a certain amount of artistic license is in play.

I came to the conclusion a long time ago that this blog exists to make me laugh.

And thats kind of it.

I don’t mind it if you laugh, but its not all about you.

Its mainly my vile little mind rambling in print, the more outrageous, the better.

I mark my better blogs by how many times I laugh out loud during the writing.

Its later, I am in a different Starbucks.

I have my familiar caffeine in a mug in front of me.

I don’t think I can use the phrase “favorite” anymore.

Its all caffeine, no matter where the beans come from or how it tastes.

I am need the caffeine, but I want/need the wifi.

Otherwise, I could just pound Rockstars all day.

Rockstar, by the way, is the meth of the caffeine fix world.

You start swilling Rockstar, you end up with no teeth, living on the street, giving oral sex to anyone who will spot you a can.

Coffee is natural, organic, and comes from nature.

Reading that, I realize how silly that sounds.

Its the argument for medical marijuana.

Which is a silly argument, but then, its not my addiction.

The really neat thing about a caffeine addiction is that you can get your fix in a dozen different ways.

Plus the acceptability factor is tough to get around.

Any drug you can be offered at a church social or during a break at a court proceeding means that you will never go without.

Plus its cheaper.

 

I wrote the words above this morning.

And at the end of my day, the irony is killing me.

I got home from work and began opening my mail.

And after all of the absolutely vile shit I have said about the Coffee Bean.

Turns out they felt bad that I couldn’t get to my blog site the other day.

So they sent me a couple of gift cards.

So, yeah, I feel like a dick.

Not the first time.

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Posted by on October 4, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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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.

 
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Posted by on October 17, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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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.

 
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Posted by on October 13, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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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.

 
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Posted by on October 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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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.

 
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Posted by on October 11, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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