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Attempted innocence – FAIL

I just finished watching one of the worst stand up comedy concerts Netflix has to offer.

I will not say the name, mainly because I don’t want the karma that comes with making someone even mildly curious enough to watch it.

It would be same if I was encouraging a pedophile.

So, I will not name the shameless hack out loud, just say that when you take a mediocre talent and promote her, nay, ram her down the throat of the public, despite talent, you end up with what I call the “Beyonce Effect”.

Enough with that.

 

Here’s the problem with Thai food.

They use spices that exist nowhere else in the world. (Meaning in anything I would eat regularly enough for my system to be used to it.”

This leads to a condition the experts call “Asinus praesepe mortem certa explosione” (The ass explosion of certain death. Its Latin and fuck you if you don’t get the humor there.)

Its not a pretty sight, or smell, for that matter.

Picture this, if you dare.

Constipation.

For the first few hours.

Your stomach begins gurgling like an angry newborn after the first 5 minutes and the pressure/pain builds and builds.

The final 15 minutes is like giving birth without anesthesia. (Or so I’m told.)

The pressure gets so bad that for the final 2 minutes, your body produces the symptoms of stroke and your whole left side goes slack.

What happens to the toilet is a damn shame.

At this point, even atheists will thank God for the discovery of bleach and Febreeze. (Pro tip- Avoid Lemon scented room fresheners. The only thing worse than the smell of ass is a lemon ass.)

Luckily, much like a sudden storm, it fades by the next day.

The only thing left to deal with is the psychological side effects.

I am not saying that you can be outright traumatized by a dose of the quacker-shits, but it is a near thing.

Seems to be a lot of potty talk lately.

I am sure there is some sort of Freudian reason for it. (I doubt it, but anything is possible. There really isn’t anything I hide from myself.)

But it should never shock women when men get weird sexually.

Its kind of a deeply ingrained thing with us.

Begins early, around 12 or 13.

We discover that the penis has a secondary feature that we never knew about.

AND THE GAME IS ON!

What follows is a lifetime of shame, guilt and wondering if your lazy eye and near-sightedness is self inflicted.

As far as obsessive hobbies go, masturbation does not mind sharing.

It doesn’t mind you having a girlfriend, a wife, a job, or other passions in your life.

Its like the sexual version of Cheers.

Happy to see you, never forgets what you like and is willing to try new and freaky shit in a judgement free atmosphere.

Masturbation is the best friend who will never leave you.

Ok, potty talk morphed into a creepy jerking off tangent.

Time to get back on track.

 

Coffee.

Today is blue collar, 7-11 coffee.

Kudos to 7-11 for realizing that shitty coffee is a poor seller.

They stepped up their coffee game awhile back.

Now it is one of the main profit sites in the store and they recognize that.

Flavored creamers, a variety of roasts and sizes so large that even the true stimulant freaks (Holler!) can get their fill.

I went with a solid Columbian roast, nothing better for the morning.

3 pink packets and a little half n half later, Bittermac is a happy boy.

To quote a hot friend of mine:

Coffee up, motherfuckers!

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on April 28, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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The sex ed penguins.

Went to another reunion, and it wasn’t even mine.

Not entirely certain how I keep ending up at other people’s reunions, but never making it to my own.

It can’t be because I don’t want to go, I mean, obviously I enjoy these types of odd soiree.

Maybe its that sense of not officially being eligible to be there.

Breaking even a basic rule can be fun.

Most people don’t, but this falls right in line with my Catholic School upbringing.

Catholic school is a bizarre form of psycho/sexual abuse that few people come away from unscathed.

I don’t mean being touched by a priest, that is a separate kind of crime, I am talking about the legal form of mental abuse. (Which I still don’t get. I mean, at age 9, I was HOT. You could have bounced a quarter off my ass. Nobody laid a finger on me.)

Sex ed, when taught by angry sexually frustrated nuns to angry sexually frustrated young boys, becomes a harrowing tale of the blind leading the blind.

The girls, in crisp white blouses, plaid skirts and patent leather shoes, were herded into one room, and a mangy group of sloppy boys was herded into the other.

The girls, I found out later, had a four hour lecture about how evil and vile boys were.

The boys, had a different afternoon.

Watching 4 hours of the most grisly VD movies ever made has a peculiar effect on the adolescent mind.

It had the same effect as the Reefer Madness films had from the 60’s.

We didn’t believe a word of them.

First off, masturbation did not cause blindness or hairy palms.

If it did, we would all be tapping white canes and look a lot like werewolves in school uniforms.

And I would be the Alpha Wolf.

Some of us discovered things earlier than others.

The funniest part was, non of us understood what they were talking about.

Self abuse? Who would abuse themselves, that sounds nasty.

Play with myself? Sure, who doesn’t?

There was 2 kids I went to school with that went to the bathroom a few times before recess, spent all of recess there, 1 time before lunch, all of lunch, and a few times before school got out.

In retrospect, it is possible that they were trying to rip it out by the root.

Like I always say, its important to have a hobby.

One kid stopped bringing lunch as eating cut down on his private time.

And non of us went blind. (Ironically, I am wearing glasses right now.

On a side note, I may be one of the hairier men you will meet this side of Little Armenia in Southern California.

Maybe something to that.

For the most part, we all survived the Catholic school version of Sex Ed.

But, much like returning soldiers who have been thru hell, we all bear the mental scars of it all.

The mildest side effects are those of us with the standard sexual kinks. Oral fixations, promiscuity, that sort of thing.

The worst are those that are the serious deviants. Gimp suits, scat fetishes, barnyard animals, and it gets worse.

And the world keeps turning.

And the nuns keep talking.

And the circle of life continues unimpeded.

 
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Posted by on May 20, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Keep it in your pants.

Ok, so things are going to get a little awkward here.

Too many trigger warnings to list here. (If you understand that statement, fuck off and get over it.)

And I don’t mean like – Running into your ex in a restaurant with their new partner awkward.

I mean like – trapped in an elevator with the uncle/priest that touched you at age 12 kind of awkward.

Here is the story as we know it.

A 19 year old man walked into a walmart, took a stuffed horse from the shelf, headed on over to the comforter aisle in the Housewares department and proceeded to masturbate using the stuffed horse, came all over it, and then put it back on the shelf.

Lets break that down.

A 19 year old man walked into a walmart, was greeted by a senior citizen, headed over to a clearance section near the Gardening department. All of this is perfectly legal and not out of the ordinary. No blood no foul at this point.

He picks up a stuffed horse from the clearance rack and heads to Housewares. Minor red flags, but nothing serious. He’s a little old for stuffed animals, but maybe its his niece/nephew’s birthday and he needs a gift.

He hunkers down in the comforter aisle and whips out his junk. WARNING WILL ROBINSON, WARNING! I hate to say it because of the place it puts me here but if you do make the call to get your freak on in a walmart, the comforter aisle is where you want to be. Some people may say the bathroom, but that can only be because they have never seen a Walmart bathroom. An underlying odor of aged urine and shit permeates the air. There is ALWAYS piss on the floor and usually shit on the walls. Its like the monkey hut at the zoo.

Out of 5 news agencies that reported on this, not one says exactly how he screwed the horse. Did he cut an anus into the horse and sodomize it? Cut a hole in the mouth? Was it pliable enough to wrap it around his dick? Don’t shake your head at me, these are legitimate questions!

Anyway, SOMEHOW, he finished and came all over the stuffed horse. Like a plush toy bukkaki scene from a Japanese porno. In fact, I am willing to bet there is a Japanese website dedicated to plush toy bukkaki. They have websites for everything else under the freak sun, why not this?

And, for me, this is where it gets weird. How could it not be weird up till now, you ask? Nothing shocks me when it comes to guys and masturbation. As a species, men are masturbatory freaks. You don’t know the half of it.

But this is why it is weird. HE PUTS IT BACK. He didn’t drop it like Michael Corleone dropping the gun after he shot Sollozzo and walks out, he puts it back on the clearance rack.  That means he wanted it on display for others to see. This hits a new freak high water mark that is tough to match. I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.

And, he did this at 3pm. Right when the kids are getting out of school.

Where are the over zealous cops that get caught on camera beating the shit out of someone when you need them? (They are a minority, but they do exist. I want to use them for good.)

I think the world would be a better place if this guy lost a few teeth and “accidentally” fell down a few flights of steps. Just saying.

The only thing I can think of is that the last time I was at a Walmart, I was stunned by the sheer numbers of unaccompanied kids running wild without a parent in site.

Think twice, you never know when the freaks might decide that the plush toys are just not doing it for them anymore, and decide to take your kid for a spin.

You can ignore this warning if you like, but the writing is on the wall.

Or at least smeared all over the stuffed horse.

 
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Posted by on March 27, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Being inappropriate worldwide.

Evidently, dirty talk has a world wide audience.

One of the nicer behind the scenes features of the blogging software I use is that it tracks where someone viewed the blog from.

And it turns out I am big in Eastern Europe and North Africa.

Moldova. Ever heard of it? Me neither. I am HUGE there. At least 3-4 people.

Slovenia. I am the MAN in Slovenia. At least 2 people there. (Mad props to all my homies in Ljubljana.)

There is a serious Bitter army out there.

2 dozen strong.

Sorry, if you were looking for an actual army out there, you are shit out of luck.

This blog is still largely unknown.

Which is both good and bad.

Bad in that all of this semi-obscene crap only hits a small audience.

Good in that all of this semi-obscene crap only hits a small audience.

Same reason, goes both ways.

And in the top 4 countries with the most viewership are as follows:

1. USA. (This one in a gimme, the USA is my home ground and it leads the world in useless blog writers and readers.)

2. Indonesia. (Not entirely sure where this country is, but they are a cultured, beautiful people and I plan to visit once I figure out where they are.)

3. Canada. (Despite my distaste of the Canadians as a people, they love me. Its kind of a love/hate relationship.)

4. United Kingdom. (And yet, I despise them more than the Canadians. I come from Irish militants, so this one is also a gimme.)

I already have a passport, so the only thing holding me back from heading out on the Bittermac.com world tour is the fact the International travel is massively expensive.

And if you thought this blog made more than $.50 a month, you are deluding yourself.

(Cheap dick jokes rife with thinly veiled misogyny and sociopathic undertones are not chart toppers on ANY advertisers wish list.)

Like I have said before, this tawdry little blog is like a literary hooker. Just do whatcha gotta do, avoid eye contact, and leave the money on the dresser on your way out.

Also like a hooker, don’t make the mistake of thinking I care.

Julia Roberts is just an actress and it was only a movie.

I am not and will never be the blogger with the heart of gold that will change your life.

Or maybe I am wrong.

Maybe, just maybe, there is a post somewhere in here that will touch you.

Hopefully in a good way, but possibly it will touch you in a bad way, like that uncle with sweaty palms that you hated being alone with.

Ok, I will be the first to admit that maybe I crossed the line with that last line, but it is what it is.

I see nothing wrong with hating both the player and the game.

A decent question is, why are we playing games to begin with?

Are you picking up what I’m putting down here?

 
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Posted by on November 8, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Fantasy football and masturbation.

Just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in.

Fantasy Football.

At the end of every season, I swear I will never play again.

And then, like a retirement notice from Brett Favre, I rescind it five minutes later.

Its the ads, the commercials, its like a hooker flashing her tits at you, you can’t resist.

(Get the feeling I lost half of my audience there. Ok, I will curb the hooker talk.)

Whats the harm? I say the same thing to myself every year, like an Alzheimer’s patient that has never gone dome this road before.

And every year, by mid-season, I regret it.

I didn’t even get thru the forth game of the season before I am throwing in the towel and giving it up for good.

And the reason lies in two locations.

San Francisco and Denver.

The Quarterback of San Francisco, is the main quarterback of my team.

I will not be mentioning his name, kind of like you don’t mention the devil’s name for fear you draw his wrath.

But he is a world class QB, or at least he is when he is not on my team.

He was great the first game of the season, and has sucked ass the last two weeks.

So I benched him.

He had a sub par game, and my backup had much better game.

So everything should be great, right?

Wrong.

Enter Payton Manning, quarterback of Denver and is a solid FUCKING shoe in for a first round vote into the Football Hall of Fame.

I would be in a winning position but, after 3 quarters of football, Payton has thrown for over 300 yards and 4 touchdowns.

Its like consensual date rape. I agreed to it, but its rougher than I expected.

Either way, my ass hurts.

At the beginning of the season, I could see myself in the Fantasy Super Bowl, winning a little cash or prize on the side.

Now? I am a sports addiction cautionary tale.

Nothing sadder than a man at the bottom of the pile.

And the really shitty part is, I know better.

But, football is much like coffee.

Its an addictive drug, but its an excepted one.

Thats the tough part.

You are not going to generate any sympathy when you say you have an issue with something people consider to be harmless.

Its a lot like how women see masturbation.

Take it or leave it.

Right.

Every man out there has dealt with the voracious appetite of his penis at one time or another.

And, no, you can’t just walk away from it.

One of these days, I will explain it to you, but if you don’t get it from the start, its going to take a long time to explain.

On to better subjects.

Fantasy Hockey starts soon, and I have a really good feeling about this year.

Get the blog delivered to your Kindle —>Bittermac.com Blog
Get the book —> Bittermac.com Caffeinated Humor Volume 1

 
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Posted by on September 30, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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Peeing is tough enough.

I don’t like being mad-dogged at the urinal.

Let me pee in peace.

There is kind of an unspoken etiquette at the men’s room urinals.

It is a lot like being in prison.

For the most part, guys are convinced that a possible prison rape seen could happen at any moment.

Its a tense atmosphere for most guys. Except the guys that are in the men’s room, looking for love.

Me? I don’t need any new friends.

That being said, could you look lovingly into someone elses eyes for 2 minutes?

No offense. This is a don’t ask, don’t tell. I don’t ask because I don’t want to be told.

Let me set the scene.

There are four stand up urinals against the wall, with the door on the right.

If I take the one 2nd from the left, that leaves one between me and the wall and two between me and the door.

If you come in, please take the one furthest from me, it causes the least trouble.

If you take the one next to me, on my right with the door, you will interrupt my urinating as I wonder if there is an attack coming.

And god forbid you take the one between me and the wall. At this point, I am done urinating and I KNOW you have an agenda.

And I don’t need to have my urinating interrupted. I am at that age where any issue with the flow has me worrying about my prostate. You have to watch that sucker like a hawk.

Back to the urinal.

I realize how all of this sounds. There are some of you screeching “Homophobe!”

And?

I think a little fear is good for you.

So is guilt.

Keeps you on your toes, your head in the game.

I was raised Catholic, so the whole fear and guilt thing goes with it and I get that.

We keep getting away from the urinal and I am starting to think that it is an ok thing.

Urinals smell horrible.

Ladies don’t realize how bad men’s rooms are.

I always refer to them as the Monkey Hut.

Like at the zoo.

Shit on the walls is unpleasant, but not all that unexpected.

Men will pee on the seat, on the floor, the wall.

You name it.

I once read a news article about a man who had never used a public toilet. He spent a huge amount of time travelling from work to home to use the bathroom.

The more I think about that one, the more I think that it would be awesome.

It would be clean.

It would smell nice.

And no one would maddog you mid-pee.

 
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Posted by on October 14, 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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Thats nasty!

I am one sip into my morning coffee when I get that feeling.

Something is up.

I hate having my morning coffee interrupted, but I hate to miss something.

I begin to look the Starbucks over.

Not the front tables.

Not the line.

Barrista and cashier seem to be fine.

There.

Right outside the bathroom, a surfer in a Mexican poncho seems to be convulsing.

Better, he is laughing.

He looks up and sees me watching, immediately he waves me over and I believe he mouths the word “dude”.

I should find out whats up.

I walk over.

I raise my eyebrows in a “what the hell” move as I walk up.

The surfer begins trying to talk in a whisper, but I can’t make out what he is saying for a minute because he is laughing too hard.

“Dude!” I can make that out.

“There’s sex going on in the bathroom!”

I wave him quiet.

Sure enough, there is unmistakable sound of a man groaning in ecstasy.

I’ll be damned.

I begin racking my brain for who it can be.

I spend an inordinate amount of time in this Starbucks. If two patrons have decided to hook up in the bathroom, there is an excellent chance that I will be at least nodding acquaintances with them.

Plus, I love odd situations happening in my Starbucks.

And this is dirty too.

I am almost giddy.

So, we wait.

The surfer guy is alternating between keeping it together and losing it.

Thankfully, we don’t have to wait long.

A long groan of orgasm is totally audible.

Even the old lady at the cream and sugar kiosk is staring at the bathroom.

I snap my head to the door as the lock clicks.

The guy that walks out is a regular, I have talked with him a few times.

He turns bright red as he sees us standing there.

The convulsing surfer doesn’t help.

The guy just kind of hot foots it out, eager to be gone. I don’t think he expected a reception.

The surfer guy and I turn from him and look into the bathroom at the same time.

There is no one else.

Like a sudden migraine it hits me. How stupidly dense am I?

He was masturbating.

Ewwwwww.

The surfer beats me to it.

“Dude! Thats nasty!”

The surfer, who has been waiting to go, is reluctant to enter the bathroom now.

I went and sat down, somewhat dejected.

What had started out kind of cool and naughty had taken a creepy turn.

I can hear the surfer yelling from the bathroom. He is freaking out about having to have a BM on the “Pleasure toilet”.

I can’t blame him.

It finally occurs to me that the part of this that bothers me is that the guy was so loud.

Young boys discover masturbation at the beginning of puberty. It is a hobby that all men have thru out their whole life.

Silence during the act is instinctive.

And thats when it hits me.

He was trying to get caught.

Ewwwwww!

I am creeped out to the point that even my coffee tastes off.

And what the hell do I say the next time I see that freak?

 
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Posted by on October 6, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Its a dirty subject.

I have a friend who is recently divorced and said she was shocked at how guys are just a bunch of horny dicks now.

Now?

I am shocked to find out we were something else back when. Or maybe that was just me.

She was at a local watering hole and met a guy, made an innocent comment that he took in the worst way and proceeded to stalk her for the rest of the night.

And?

I had to take a long moment to understand, or at least try.

And in the end, I had to agree with her, even though it took me a little while longer to get there.

I’m sorry, throw anything resembling dirty or a go ahead at me in a bar when I have a drink in me, and I become a vicious combination of a drink-buying Daddy Warbucks and a horny dog that will follow your around and hump your leg all night.

Just saying.

I think it all breaks down to this.

Its the same sentence for both of us.

Women love sex.

Only to men, it looks like this
Women love SEX

Women, however, see it like this:
Women LOVE sex.

AND WE HAVE NO CLUE.

And its not like we take things out of context or wrong on purpose, we take it wrong because we have no choice.

Its a difference of perspective.

Lets call it the Penis Perspective.

Having a penis is like having a best friend that your parents hate. He gets you in trouble, leaves you hanging sometimes, but every now and then, he comes up with something really cool.

But we can talk about masturbation later.

When a guy is in an environment where he thinks he might have a shot at getting laid, which pretty much means that he is awake and in the vicinity of a woman, his penis begins filtering everything he hears and understands.

Its like being drunk on a liquor called horny.

Yes, its that sad and primitive.

So taking things the wrong way is not a choice, its the only option.

The only one we have.

Guys are the epitome of what your mom use to say.

“If they didn’t care, they wouldn’t say anything.”

That’s true, but care means “Viewed as fuckable” (For the record, I wanted to leave Fuckable out. However, the friend in question loved it and declared it “Word of the Day” So it stays.)

Her other comment was that she was in a place right now that she only wanted some “Me attention”. But, all she seemed to be getting was the “Fuckable attention”.

Its about fifty-fifty in that half the men out there are capable of both types of attention. Unfortunately, the other half can only achieve the “Fuckable attention”.

And theres no way to tell ahead of time.

But, if you are hetero, it is the only game in town.

The only alternative would be to get a gay male friend for the “Me attention” and a high end marital aid with attachments in order to get your “Fuckable” on.

My advice usually sucks, so I normally keep it to myself, but I advised her to go out and play the game her way.

Because dangling the “Fuckable” carrot can get a lot of “Me attention.”

In the Texas Hold-Em game of sex, being a woman is like always having a pair of pocket aces.

For a man to have sex, he just needs to find a woman to say yes. A woman just needs to say yes.

I heard two women in Starbucks the other day, whispering.

Whispering means dirty, and I know this, so I do the discrete adjusting for better listening.

One of the women was complaining that, since her break up, she hadn’t had sex in months and missed it.

WTF?

That amazes me. All she has to do is walk up to a guy, pretty much any guy in a bar, and ask him to go home for some “No strings attached” play time.

And for those reading this that are saying “My man would never do that”. Yes he would and lets not lie to each other here.

I’m just trying to help.

A woman could walk up to 5 different men in a bar and ask them to go have sex and most likely 5 out of 5 would green light it.

However, a man could walk up to 5 different women and ask the same.

Mace is usually involved at this point.

Not that I have ever done this, but when one of the 5 does say yes?

Its like magic.

 
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Posted by on August 19, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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The sound…….of Silence.

There is a vicious, scorched-earth, fully bi-polar argument going in Starbucks right now. Shit is being thrown out there that you should never say to someone you are sleeping with, much less a loved one.

In total silence.

There is a guy at a corner table who is deaf. He has his Iphone propped up against his coffee cup, and if I casually lean over, there is a dark haired woman signing furiously and angrily into her webcam.

I have no clue whats being said other than the expressions, unlike Spanish, which I can sound out. I don’t even know how to sign what day it is.

He has been signing furiously for thirty seconds and now slowly licked several of his fingers and it has seriously pissed off the woman on the phone even more than before. Sign language seems to have newer options for going dirty.

This is absolutely fascinating.

And then its over, he gets up and leaves, in total silence.

He may be deaf, but he still has the same issues we all do. Some more than others.

I couldn’t be deaf, I would go insane. Anger demands noise, that is basic human nature.

But on the same note, being deaf would make me impossible to be around as well. Most deaf people accept it and grow to enjoy it.

Not me.

For me, it would be like having a permanent case of the shits. Always there, always annoying. I would exist in this permanent cloud of pissy that would make me even more unpleasant than I am.

And I can be pretty unpleasant.

But I started wondering why the deaf guy has an Iphone to begin with, its not like he can use it.

And then it hits me like a smack with the big “Hey dumbfuck!” stick.

He is using his phone.

Maybe not how I would, but now everyone can use a phone. The technology has now caught up with the needs of the deaf.

In other words, the people that don’t need phones? They now need phones. And not just any phone, but one of the most expensive, high end phones on the market, with one of the costliest rate plans.

Very clever, AT&T. Or shall I just call you Mr. Jobs?

I can see it all now.

This is world wide conspiracy shit. This is like an Internet grassy knoll, data plan goes back….and to the left, broadband-Da Vinci code type thing.

Chilling.

Should I suddenly meet with some sort of suspicious accident, be aware that “They” had a hand in it.
(And by “Accident” I don’t mean like a child fouling himself. I have only done that once and it involved a lot of grain alcohol.)

I have begun poring over my cell bill, looking for some sort of code. Unfortunately, I think I have a better chance to crack the Beale Cipher, (Google it), than I do of figuring out the AT&T/Apple master plan.

But at least we know there is one.

 
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Posted by on August 18, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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