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Girls gone wild, Guatemalan roast edition

I have joined a sorority.

At least, I think I have.

At any moment, a pillow fight in peekaboo nighties may break out.

Keep in mind, public masturbation is still a crime in the USA. (Europe? Who knows anymore.)

I know, I know, details.

I am in a Starbucks that is in a really nice part of town.

Translation? Money, lots of money in this area.

This is LA so the definition of money can hit ridiculous levels. (As compared to parts of the country where “Money” translates into an ac unit in front room AND the bedroom of your double wide.)

It was one of those days were I sat down to write and came up empty.

And then the front door opened and in they came.

12 young, well monied, college girls.

This might be the beginning of a porn film.

And then the “Basic bitch” shit began.

Coffee selfies were taken.

Ridiculously basic complaints were made and the shrill voice of my sorority sisters proceeded to ruin every vile thought in my head.

Very disappointing.

Why do basic bitches have to ruin everything?

Shouldn’t they be passing Facebook chain letters?
Poorly written cut and pasted messages that claim to have been hacked, so don’t accept a new friend request from them. (AND NO ONE GETS THAT REQUEST)

Or posting memes about how a real man or a real friend behaves.

You know, weak minded, basic bitch stuff.

But maybe I am being mean here.

So let’s look at the facts:

  • I am making fun of total strangers without knowing anything about them.
  • I am not related to any of them.
  • My coffee is cold.

Ok, I am absolved of all blame here.

How can I possibly be expected to be nice to total strangers with cold coffee?

I think you are asking too much of me.

The manager sees me approaching and pours me a venti Christmas blend.

I must look shakier than I thought.

When I am low on caffeine, I get twitchy and am capable of anything.

The girls begin shrill laughter about something Manda has on her phone.

Gonna be a long day.

This started out so exciting.

And now? Migraine is developing.

I am creamed and sugared and just settling back in at my laptop, when things change.

Two of the girls begin to quietly make out, and Manda is now getting teary eyed at something in her phone.

Sex and drama, the two things that could salvage this.

There is a part of me, the part that was an alter boy, the one that is thoughtful and kind, that realizes that its wrong to be both joyful at Manda’s pain and horny at the young ladies intimate moment. (Sporting a semi that no one knows about is NOT a crime.)

However, let’s not lose sight 2 very important things:

  • I was only an alter boy for 10 days before that whole scandal erupted. (And thank God for bad memories, no one but me remembers the details of that vile affair.)
  • A single tear making its way down Manda’s cheek, public tongue kissing by smoking hot collegiate girls and an amazing Guatemalan dark roast can make the disappointments of the moment evaporate like a humor blog with little to no readers.

Plus, the Guatemalan roast is THAT good. (God bless Guatemala)

Mmmmm coffee.

Happy New Year.

 
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Posted by on December 31, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Have some freedom.

This is a don’t ask, don’t tell blog.

The two ladies coming into my favorite breakfast place appear to be a couple. (“Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” Seinfeld circa 1993)

I wear my hair short and one of them even have me beat.

One lady is wearing mom jeans and a tshirt, shoulder length hair.

Lets call her Julie. (Why not?)

Her partner is close to 6 foot. Broad shoulders. Super short hair. Scowling.

Khakis, steel toed chuckaboots, and a faded Springsteen “Born in the USA” tshirt.

Let’s call her Mike.

They stand in front of the menu, looking at the breakfast goodies.

Julie says, in a soft voice, “Breakfast burrito sounds good.”

The cashier takes that as a sign to start taking orders.

“Breakfast burrito, would you like ham, bacon or sausage on that?”

Julie takes 1.9 seconds to open her mouth to answer.

And that is too fucking long for Mike.

Angry mouth 2 inches from Julie’s ear, Mike has had it with her shit.

“Are you going to fucking order?”

Wow.

0 to 60 1.9 seconds has to be a record of some sort.

There are 2 more explosions from Mike before the order is taken.

The cashier looks a lot like a horse in a forest fire, eyes rolling, stuttering and looks like she might bolt at any moment.

The weird part is that it is a large open room that seems to absorb the tension so that no one around them seems to notice.

Except for me.

But only because I notice everything.

The Fates are kind at times and today is one of those days.

Mike and Julie take a seat at the table behind me.

I can hear pretty clearly.

And it is a conversation that makes ADD look stable by comparison.

Here is a 5 minute sample:

  • Shitty comment.
  • Inquiry about upcoming 4th of July Party.
  • Inquiry about the time thru angry clenched teeth. (Still don’t get that one.)
  • Compliment about patriotic tshirt purchase.
  • Shitty comment that included the use of the “C” word.
  • Mention of interracial porn likes/dislikes.
  • Shitty self deprecating comment.
  • Desire to see a movie tonight.
  • Shitty comment.

It was exhausting to follow and keep in mind, I talk to the homeless on occasion.

In the end, it was simply a couple in a bad relationship, having a bad morning.

And the take away for all of you is, no matter what your choice of relationship is, avoid the toxic ones if you can.

But it was entertaining.

There is a joke that plays on the observation that a lot of lesbians get serious way too quick.

What gift does a lesbian buy for a second date? A Uhaul truck. (That joke was told to me by lesbians that I hold in high esteem and in the right circles, that joke kills.)

The take away for me, is the image of Mike, angrily eating pancakes and muttering fuck into her coffee.

And that is what America is all about.

Happy 4th of July.

 
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Posted by on July 1, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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The opposite of Sex

Anastasia Beaverhausen has changed her name.

Written by Molloy

Men. I hate men. Can’t live with em, can’t kill ‘em. It’s an old cocktail party joke, but so true on so many levels. I get now why so many of my ‘middle-aged’ girlfriends have gone lesbo. They used to be married to men – most have had children with them, but something in them finally snapped, and they decided to start playing for the other team.

And I totally get it. Guys: you get so disgusting as you get older. Maybe it’s because your mothers are now too old, or even deceased, and us women are too tired to tell you one more goddam time to pick up your shit off the floor, but you. Still. Do. It. Every day. Do you really need to be reminded every single day? Your boxers on the floor. Your stinky socks and shoes all over the house. Your sandwich makings all over the counter. Your crap. Everywhere. It’s like you are a dog marking territory. Women don’t do this. Everything gets put back away. And we smell like roses. All the time. You all seem to have forgotten that a nice clean man = horizontal play time. Oh, and putting your crap away = horizontal play time + blow jobs and possible ass play – if you’ve poured enough wine.

Women who have tossed out their men, and decided to shack up with a female partner are my inspiration. They have someone wonderful to talk to, a clean house, and don’t have to explain those weird house scents to visitors (girls, you know which ones I mean – those “man smells”). Female partners in the same house have fridges with wonderful foods, such as hummus, wine (tons of wine), cheese, fruit, and olive oil. They also have towels that smell of lavender, no hair in the tub, and no fear of anyone using their cherished tweezers on anything but their eyebrows. Trust me: you just can’t un-see that image of your man leaning over the toilet, scraping out the underside of his toenails with your BrowGal. Speaking of toilets: The coup de gras……..cohabitating carpetlickers do not have to deal with the toilet seat, piss on the floor, or unflushed toilets.

Aaaaaah……I heard choirs of angels singing when I thought of that…..no more toilet issues. I think the mid-life-crisis-sexual-preference changers might be on to something with just that issue alone. They might not be having sex with each other (pity), but at least they are in their own special spa oasis of their own design (can I get a whoop whoop for no more leather recliners, 75 inch plasma screens, and foosball tables gals?).

Seriously, men are just overgrown little boys who like to play with snakes and fart, while women are prettier versions of little girls with the skills and knowledge to color-coordinate and run the world while making a port wine reduction sauce and coaching her teen daughter on partial differential equations.

Men: Can’t live with ‘em, and who wants to anyway? I hate men.

 
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Posted by on September 21, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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