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Tag Archives: karma

Welcome to the party, Karma, you’re late.

Everyone makes such a big deal about karma, like its this serious cosmic force for justice.

If it worked even a third of the time, we would not need laws at all, and not one of the Kardashians would be living.

Sadly, karma has never pulled its own weight.

That being said, when it does show up, the results can be stunning.

And funny to those of us that relish the misfortune of others.

Guilty as charged.

I am at one of my favorite breakfast spots at the beach, a little Mexican place tucked away in a corner, they’ve been there forever.

Mexican places rock for breakfast.

Several that I have been to spike their coffee with cinnamon for that Feliz Navidad feeling, and chips and salsa while you wait is just sprinkles on the “Happy” sundae.

But enchilada sauce and melted cheese on a breakfast burrito allows you to achieve a sense of nirvana only previously reached by the greater yogi’s of history.

That paints quite a picture, doesn’t it?

Let me go further.

I like the patio. View of the ocean kind of open air, with part of the patio covered with an old wood pergola covered with vines.

Ocean breeze and awesome food, what could possibly fuck this up?

The lady at the next table.

Imagine that great aunt of yours that was your grandmother’s best friend growing up? She is big and heavy, always wore those brightly colored mumu/sun dresses with too much fake jewelry?

The makeup was troweled on by someone with a putty knife and perfume was applied by dipping her in a vat of Avon’s finest.

She came from somewhere else, so she had an accent, not something cute, something that only annoyed you more.

Now, take away any goodwill/benefit of the doubt you might have had because she was a relative, and put her at the next table over on the patio at my favorite breakfast spot.

And she is bitching about something, because what else would she be doing?

It doesn’t really matter what she is pissing and moaning about, to me, the fact that she is squawking about it is enough.

But, you are all details people, I can see that.

Here you go:

Comment 1. “I don’t know why you insist on coming to these dive places, the food is rarely good and you don’t know who they have working in kitchen.” (Are you high, lady? You are in Southern California, there are Mexicans in the kitchen.)

Comment 2. “I don’t know why Tammy was shocked when her son flunked out of school, I had that boy pegged early on. Drugs.” (Yes, whispering the word drugs doesn’t make you seem like a rotten bitch of a human being.)

Comment 3. “What HAVE they done to the coffee? Is that cinnamon? That is almost a cliche its so sad.” (Alright bitch, now you have done it. Do NOT fuck with my coffee. I will cut a bitch.)

However, before I can say or do anything, karma shows up like that flaky friend that is late 9 time out of 10. This being the 10th time.

Sparrows like to flit back and forth in the vines above, but in 15+ years of going to this place, I have never seen one shit on the ground, a table, and certainly not a person.

Until today.

With pinpoint accuracy, a sparrow shit 2x times its body weight onto her upper left breast, evenly splitting the material and flesh for a smelly ground zero that I happened to be looking right at when it happened.

Wow. It is one of those rare times that I am speechless.

Except for laughing.

The bark of laughter that exploded from my mouth scared the crap out of her.

The fist pump and harsh explosion of the word “YES!” from my mouth didn’t scare her as much as it pissed her off.

After all, the sparrow had flown off and she couldn’t bitch at it.

But we had both shit on her in different ways, but I was still there.

The evil old-lady glare I got was epic.

If she had any gypsy blood, I was in for a serious cursing.

They comped her breakfast and she stomped her chubby ass out the front door along with her reluctant companion.

And I got to eat my breakfast in peace.

And all was right with the world.

 
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Posted by on August 29, 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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Life begins at 40.

“Nobody knows when life begins, really.”

That little nugget of attempted intellectual spew just came at me from the brain-dead dipshits at the next table.

College students, nothing dumber on the planet.

They have been toddling thru the latest Supreme Court decision, much to my chagrin and annoyance.

Its annoying because there is an answer.

This is what is wrong with college. Students are not taught aggression. They get their soft little heads crammed with information, but they are never taught the process to push thru to their own opinion on anything.

That is why so many of them take the opinion that is voiced to them by some bearded socialist during this vulnerable period and take it like something they got straight from the burning bush.

Its a lot like a puppy that shits on the rug. Its so fucking cute….. the first few times. And then it goes on for most of their adult life.

And that is the shitty part. (Pun completely intended.)

But the life beginning thing has an answer.

And that answer is yes.

Life begins when it begins. Thats it. It has nothing to do with a court or viability or anything.

Ask a farmer if a carrot is still a carrot if you yank it out of the ground a week ahead of time.

Is it edible? Maybe not. Was it growing? Yes, because that it what life does.

Abortion being murder is a moot point. As a society, we have long viewed the taking of life as an ok thing. Animals, people, whatever, under the right circumstances, we are more than willing to do it. Remove the back story and look at the base action. Its all the same, unsatisfying answer, still the same.

And then the sarcastic side of my mind takes over.

If you are going to talk about life, you should start with masturbation. That is really where life begins, at least from the perspective of young boys, some young girls, but not as many as you think there would be.

Despite a childhood of getting caught each and every time they sneak a cookie, every boy is convinced mom has no clue, no matter how sloppy his masturbatory habits get.

Its a gender specific delusion that seems to permeate the entire male species.

If you think about it, a lot of life has ended tragically into tissues and socks everywhere since the beginning of time.

Ok, so that was a little deeper than I was going for.

Time to get off of the pedestal, I am 5 foot 3 on a good day and that high I risk a nosebleed.

You will notice that, for the most part, I did not mention female masturbation.

That is because I am a Feminist at heart, only a misogynist would go on and on about women and their naughty habits. (Also, I try to keep the posts under 1000 words at the most.)

I think, in the end, the whole “Life beginning” discussion is one of opinion and perspective, like a moveable feast that is wholly dependant on whoever it is flapping their pie hole at the time.

The thing that fucks it all up is the legal aspects of it all.

And the really scary part at the end of it is, that the final ruling will be made by the Supreme Court.

I have not seen a Supreme Court judge that was not so old and decrepit that they looked like they hadn’t had sex in several decades. (With the exception of Clarence Thomas and his slightly odd thing for soda, pubic hair and Long Dong Silver videos. You know that man is closing some serious Supreme Court groupies.)

 
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Posted by on July 25, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Do not mess with the Man.

Behind the counter at a Starbucks I like to call the “Icebox” is the cutest barrista in the world.

Adorable. Under 5 feet tall, little pixie of a girl with her hair in a ponytail and cute, not hot, face.

But that will not keep her from being shit on by The Man.

The Man, at least for the purpose of this blog is a white haired old dude in a white polo shirt and pressed cargo shorts.

Polo shirts are what business men wear during their off hours. Its like a suit for them, classifies and identifies them to their peers.

Its weird, but I read an article in Forbes that laid it all out.

The Man, is retired, but runs a tight ship.

From the moment he walked in, you could tell he was not pleased with all of us.

The brow furrowed, no doubt many a junior executive withered before the scorn of that scowl.

The right toe tapped impatiently.

The sigh was audible.

The case on the iPhone 5s is a bit of a status symbol. Its one of those cases that could survive a space shuttle crash, but they will pay for a new phone if there is a nuclear accident and it destroys his phone.

The entire attitude/ensemble/presentation is one that tells you, in no uncertain terms:

I AM THE MAN, AND DON’T FORGET IT, SHITHEAD!

His order was a high level workshop in concise ordering. Eye contact, voice of a proper timber and volume medium, with a crisp delivery.

Paid, and stepped immediately to the right to await proper assembly of his java beverage.

(Technically, his ordering of a caramel macchiato flies in the face of his post cold war masculine stance. But whatever.)

Enter the aforementioned, cut as a button, barrista.

She finished his macchiato in pretty much record time.

But she forgot his whipped cream.

The combination of whining/macho posturing that followed, was embarrassing to witness.

And then he got personal.

“Do you even know what your job is? Have you been TRAINED?”

Training is very important to The Man.

The actual amount of time it takes to apply whipped cream to The Man’s hot sunday can be measured in seconds, and not to many of them.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to milk it out like a pissy little drama queen.

When he finally does stomp his chunky aging ass out the door, two guys that were sitting at a nearby table burst out laughing. One of the guys did a pretty weak mime impression of him. It was topical, but weak.

The barrista never paused, just continued making her wildly overpriced java creations for slightly over minimum wage and questionably attainable tuition reimbursement.

Because the line of paper cups with instructions written on them never seems to end.

Kind of a commercialism perpetual motion engine.

The only unanswered question from this whole scenario is whether or not the barrista indeed spat into The Man’s effeminate drink. (And before we go down that whole road of denial, yes they do. I know I would and I don’t think I am alone. I would probably do it a little more often and for lesser offenses that just being rude.)

Let that be the moral of the story.

Be nice, you never know when your attitude might cause a little extra shot of DNA into your beverage.

(If you didn’t catch that, here it is, plain and simple. “Don’t be an ass, people can and WILL spit in your food.” If you don’t think that exists, you are either naive or dumb, which is the same thing for practical purposes.)

 
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Posted by on July 18, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Let a Player play!

Every now and then, I ask myself, “What would Jesus do?”

I am pretty sure the answer is not “Smack a bitch.”

Although, the guy at the next table seems to think that is a viable answer to the issue with his, I am guessing here, girlfriend.

Girlfriend is a very loose term that I gleaned from his frequent comments about, and I am quoting, “That wack bitch.”

Shakespeare was known to coin many words and phrases in the course of his writings, but I don’t believe he was the originator of “Wack bitch.”

Setting: Starbucks on Grand, El Segundo, California. 2nd table from the front. Morning, weekend.

1st table, right in the middle of a busy morning rush line, is The Player.

I am not sure who he is talking to based largely on his REALLY poor communication skills.

I thought he was talking to a friend about said “Wack Bitch”, and then, he made a comment about “You know what’s you done.” (Direct confusing quote there.)

I have no clue. (Then again, I don’t think I would be scooting that far out on a limb to say that The Player may not have a cache of clues squirreled away back at the house.)

Every now and then, I come across an example of humanity that really makes me dread the future of this country.

And I am fairly certain that hip hop is involved.

Don’t get me wrong, I used to listen to some of the most gritty, grungy, crappy music out there, but hip hop seems to have a rear-naked choke on raw intelligence that will not only end the fight, but the concept of intelligence itself may end up dead as a result.

The argument could be made that this is racist or class-derogatory or even as a reach, Moperic. (Google the word Mopery. Work with me here.)

If it sounds like I am being hard on the younger generation, please understand that its intentional.

Its not that I think they are dumb, far from it.  (My own brilliant  bloodlines  excluded).

I KNOW the younger generation are dumb.

(Sidenote. I would use the crudish term “Tarded” here, but the sheer volume of hate email that follows takes hours to sort thru. And the incredibly poor grammar always gets nasty responses back from me, which only makes things worse. Shoot me, but for God’s sake, use a comma and look up the meaning of a double negative.)

I would worry about backlash from the younger generation, except that it is a well known fact that, unless accompanied by a pic, such as a 12-step affirmation printed on top of a low graphic photo on Facebook, they cannot read.

I would say that a formal declaration of war against ignorance has been made. My own particular brand of ignorance is hereby excluded.

Think of my perspective as the Geneva Convention of online blog wars except for the implied “Take no prisoners” clause.

As always, if any of this bothers you, feel free to write your own blog.

From a cathartic standpoint, this blog has always existed as a mental chamber pot that I routinely fill with the shit in my head, to be dumped out the window at random intervals, to land on the unsuspecting and the dumb.

Talk amongst yourselves.

 
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Posted by on July 4, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Do I really need to walk a mile in your shoes to know they don’t fit?

Two sides of the same coin.

I was writing a few minutes ago and something oddly uncomfortable happened.

Not like “Too much fiber and a long line at the bathroom” type of uncomfortable.

I mean the outside my comfort zone kind.

I get heavily absorbed when I write, and really don’t pay attention to what is going on around me, unless of course I need something to write about.

And then she was there.

Indian, skinny, she was about 5’4 and had a child clinging to her skirt.

In her hands was a sign.

“Poor, hungry, please help.”

The saddest eyes in the world stared at me.

There are easier ways to get money out of me, but none of them come to mind as I write this.

And it hit me two separate ways.

On the one hand, outrage.

Fucking beggar. And she does this shit in front of her child? Raising the next generation of beggars? Just great, just fucking wonderful.

On the other, curiosity. (Almost wrote compassion, but I tend to analyze first.)

What would you do for your kids? Is there a line you would not cross if your ass was against the wall? Yeah, bad choices, not thinking about your future, blah, blah, blah. But the past has already happened, the future is tomorrow, and the present is… Right. Fucking. Now.

I rarely carry cash, so the $5 in my wallet kind of shocked me.

Yeah, she’s a pro, I’m a sucker, and a five spot won’t kill me.

And its none of your business, good or bad.

True, I make it yours by putting it in print, but this is a lecture, not a discussion.

Socrates once wrote, the poor are with us, always.

A few thousand years ago, thats age’s version of this woman and her kid was carrying a sign written in ancient Greek into the vomitorium and hitting up the Ancient Greek blogger, Bittermaximus for a few drachma’s.

The Greeks invented the alphabet, democracy and astronomy, so I will put solving the problem of homelessness just out of reach for my skill set.

Unless of course the problem can be solved with sarcasm and shitty comments, then I am your man.

Which is a pretty immature way of throwing my hands up and braying, “I can’t fix it, so I’ll make fun of it.”

I like to think its important know your strengths and weaknesses and come to peace with them, you tend to sleep better at night.

And I sleep like a rock.

A guy in line just had two things happen.

He got in the woman’s face and slapped at her sign.

Rude, and mean. Cruel and unnecessary.

What happened next was interesting.

He got his venti cup of steaming goodness at the counter, picked it up and turned to go to the cream and sugar kiosk.

And dropped a steaming venti cup of black coffee right onto his (Let me guess)…Bruno Magli shoes. (Ridiculously expensive shitty Italian shoes.)

You know, it always shocks me when Karma pays attention to the goings on around here.

And its about time.

 
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Posted by on March 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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What’s the going rate on a soul these days?

Prostitution is never a pretty exchange.

Here’s how it starts.

The guy, really no more than a boy, enters the Starbucks looking confused, then he spots someone and his face lights up with a smile from that the book he read last night on “Power Interviewing.”

The introductions are brief.

The kid gives him the Chapter 5 “Winning handshake”, and they sit.

The pimp is fairly low key, as far as pimps go.

Fashionably faded jeans, loafers, a shirt that could be a dress shirt if it was buttoned up with a tie. As it is, unbuttoned the top two, and the sleeves rolled up.

The working man’s pimp.

And the dance begins.

The pimp pulls out the kids resume, and begins to pick it apart.

Spying from the next table over, the kid’s resume is better than most.

Graduating with a finance degree from a decent school, interning for a CPA, then a law firm, then an insurance company, the kid is now a senior, and looking for a job.

The pimp looks it over and tisk-tisks a few times, then tears it to shit.

The critical moment in any pimp/whore relationship is right in the beginning.

The pimp has to break down the whore into nothing.

Its a brutal thing to watch.

All the kid wants is a job.

That is what the last 3 years of his life have been about.

He is doing it the way they all tell you it should be done.

The pimp knows better, he knows the steps to this dance, and he can help.

For a price.

As near as I can figure, he is a new-grad bounty hunting kind of pimp.

He gets his money by vetting grads and presenting them to the johns.

The companies.

Its a new spin on an old tale. (And not a happy tale at that.)

And the new version is just as distasteful as the old one.

About 20 minutes in, the subject turns to money, and this is where the serious soul crushing begins.

The kid has read websites and done his research, he knows how much he should be gunning for in his first job.

The pimp, on the other hand, needs to break him of that, convince him that everything he read is bullshit, and deliver him to the companies ready to accept their crappy offer.

Do the math. The pimp is not doing it out of love, the company is paying him.

And where does that money come from?

Money for the kid, of course.

And, while I didn’t get enough to figure out how, the kid is paying the pimp something.

Wow.

That is a tough deal to broker with a straight face.

Don’t get me wrong, I love haggling a deal, but this vile, leaves a stink.

I may need a shower after watching this, I just feel dirty.

All told, their meeting lasted 45 minutes.

The kid shook the pimp’s hand and walked out the door, smiling.

You poor bastard. God help you.

 
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Posted by on January 17, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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