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The politics of being a polite asshole.

Interesting conversation the other day.

Having lunch with a few friends, 1 who is a huge blog fan and a friend of her’s that is not.

Just to choose a name at random, lets call the non-fan Shiteyes.

The subject turned to the blog and this was the comment Shiteyes had on it.

“I have never actually read your blog, but I hear its entertaining.” This was said with a scrunched up nose.

Translation? “I have an agenda based on hearsay I am going to try to force on you because I am convinced I am an intellectual.”

I’m not dumb, I can recognize my cue when I hear it.

“It’s not for everyone. I enjoy writing it.”

“I’ve heard you like to hurt people’s feelings.” Ah, here we go.

Social Justice Warrior. Don’t step on toes, never hurt feelings, passive, passive, passive.

My response freaked her out a bit.

“Like it?” Leaning forward, hands on the table, intense.

“I fucking love it.” Said without heat or anger.

I spent the next hour baiting and screwing with this adult child’s head.

Fuck her sensibilities. Gangbang her sensibilities with a vengeance.

Got her to the point of crying twice.

I look at it this way, if you can’t fight, don’t go looking for one. But if you do start it, at least be able to take a punch.

But, it got me thinking.

I don’t like to hurt everyone’s feelings, rampaging like a mad dog. I am a little specific about the feelings I choose to rampage on.

More like a boxer or a soldier, there are rules of engagement.

Here is what I have figured out:

  • I am allowed to defend myself. That is where the whole “You came into my yard” “Welcome to Thunderdome, bitch” I will be moderately polite until I hit the defensive point, then I become an asshole.
  • I never swing first unless I know for a fact that the other person is up for it.  For instance, I have a brother that honestly looks forward to being screwed with by me at family BBQs. Its a sick thing, but he thinks I must be angry at him if I don’t.
  • My restraint is lacking. It really is a joy when someone who thought they were going to verbally put me in my place gets to a point where, no, they can’t deal with it. And it is that point in time that I get vicious. Nothing to be proud of, but it is what it is.

Its important to understand yourself, even if your an asshole. It makes it easier to figure out how others will react to you.

Plus, and this one is pretty important, if you don’t know what is lurking deep inside your subconscious, you are going to be reacting to what someone tries to stick you with emotionally instead of intellectually, and that is where vulnerability lives.

Jeez, this is like Superman describing how to make kryptonite.

But, before you toddle off to take a swing at creating the mental weapon of mass destruction, understand that the overwhelming mass of humanity are REALLY not ready to crawl around inside their own heads.

It can get ugly.

And most people don’t handle ugly well.

Mainly because its, well, ugly.

 

 
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Posted by on October 23, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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I weep for the future.

It has been pointed out to me that I seem to hold an incorrect opinion.

I don’t agree with that, mainly because I am wrong so seldom that its not even on the radar.

So, while my critic is definitely wrong, I am forced to examine the statement. (Mainly to figure out how best to disparage the critic. I know, we’ve met.)

Here is the opinion they “claim” is wrong:

The youth of today are dumb. (My own golden bloodlines exempted, of course. I swear, its like being part of the Master Bloodlines or something.)

I feel pretty confident about this too.

Here’s why that’s bullshit:

I am in my second favorite breakfast spot and sitting in my third favorite booth.(Of COURSE there is a rating system.)

And sitting at the next table?

A pack of subversive hippies.

Young ones.

Dumb ones.

Future drains on society.

Great.

Nothing kills your appetite quicker than listening to a marauding pack of pseudo intellectuals pontificating about subjects they know NOTHING about.

Here are some observations that are not assumptions, but based on statements made by the useless pieces of shit at the next table and looking at other evidence in attendance:

  • All 4 unwwashed hippies in their carefully ratty clothes come from well monied people. (One reference about trust fund and allowance, 2 Mercedes key-chains and one visa platinum card in evidence.)
  • All four bitching about “Monsanto”, yet two of them had to be corrected that Monsanto is a corporation and not a product. (Actual quote “The government should make it illegal to put that in food. Put what in food? Monsanto.”)
  • The belief that healthcare is now free. (I actually got involved here and asked. All 4 are covered by their parents insurance.)

The complete ignorance and spoiled entitlement is staggering in its entirety.

I used to know a subversive, a real one, old school, he reads this blog and I have complete respect for him.

Back in the day, we had a LOT of conflicting views.

But he understood them. Well.

He could debate them. In fact, he insisted on doing so publicly. (His Reagan outbursts were epic.)

It is a pretty solid fact that if you cannot calmly debate your point in public, or online, without devolving into name calling, then you do not understand your subject enough to hold the opinion in the first place.

Here is why I did not simply dismiss this older subversive and his opinions back in the day.

Because he didn’t sit on his ass.

He was more than willing to verbally go toe to toe with you about his beliefs.

He wrote and performed protest songs.

And he worked his ass off.

He was never a drain on anyone’s wallet.

A work ethic is always to be respected.

And guess what, he now holds, 20+ years later, a position of immense responsibility and contributes more than most ever will to the greater good.

Which, I think, is why the next table bothers me so much.

If you are going to be an alternative free thinker, don’t expect me to pay for it, or by extension your father and for GOD’S SAKE, know what the hell you are talking about.

Not that ignorance doesn’t have its place.

Its the only way some politicians can get elected.

And if you think I am talking about a specific political party, you are showing your own ignorance.

No, this is a general rant about the lazy and the ignorant, citizens or elected officials, take your pick.

There are times where I feel like the Lorax from that epic Dr. Suess tale.

I sit in my tower and dispense the wisdom thru the shuttered window of this blog.

So listen to me as I say, making the blanket assumption that the youth are smart and given time will find their way.

Thats ignorant, in and of itself.

Youth is ignorant, no matter what age you are.

If you want to be an intellectual, do the legwork and don’t expect me to pay for this, intellectually or monetarily.

And THAT is why I am correct.

The youth of today are dumb and a significant percentage will always be ignorant.

You are now free to go about your lives.

Namaste.

 
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Posted by on September 25, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Bunny and the Glazed Donut Monster

There is a certain insanity to a child.

More of a delusional logic that disappears over time.

The really bad part is when we get pulled into it to the point that we accept the delusion.

Because you and I both know that a stuffed animal, as a general rule, do not speak foreign languages.

Case in point.

Bunny.

Bunny is currently sharing the child’s seat in a shopping cart in a supermarket.

The child with the strangle hold on Bunny is a grubby little rugrat, to say the least.

His shirt was white, once.

Key word is once.

Not a lot of thought has gone into his wardrobe.

Blame dad for that, mom is most likely the bread winner in this little scenario, because she is no where to be found.

Dad has that barely keeping all the plates in the air, half assed approach of the stay at home dad.

Further re-enforcing this theory is that fact that, if mom was involved, I can’t help but think that she would wipe this kid’s face, specifically his nose.

Its like a glazed donut screwed a Chatty Kathy doll and this was their unholy offspring.

Its filthy, sticky and will NOT shut up.

I could hear this kid running his mouth from 2 aisles away.

And what was the subject of discussion?

Throwing Bunny under the bus.

Ratting out Bunny seems to be a serious past time for the Glazed Donut Monster.

The insanely delusional list of crimes Bunny is guilty of is like watching a miniature Alzheimer’s patient in the early stages.

And here is where we find out the problem with this whole situation.

Because most kids flap their little underaged festering pie hole and I rarely notice.

I usually just assume they are a little slow, mainly because they are not mine, and I move on.

But dad is the problem.

Dad is  buying into the insanity.

“I really doubt Bunny is cussing in German!” Dad says this almost pissed off.

First of all, its cursing. Cussing isn’t even a word.

Second of all, seriously dude?

Its one thing to make the conscious decision to raise this little melon-head even after the doctor told you and the misses that he would never be right in the head. More power to you. Its a selfless thing to do.

But when you buy into the madness, you start down a path that only has one final destination.

But like I said before, stuffed animals rarely speak in foreign languages. They tend to stick to the native tongue of their owner.

And if they did, it would not be German.

Stuffed animals, even filthy snot-covered ones like Bunny, tend to evoke a warm and fuzzy feeling. Summoning images of loving and caring mothers.

Which, if you have never been to Germany, is not what you will find in the old country.

Think of an entire country and a people with resting bitch face.

Show of hands, who have I not pissed off so far?

Sometimes, the truth can be brutal.

Sometimes, outright lying can be just as brutal. Mainly because it has some unpleasant truth to it.

But insane father’s that argue in public about the linguistic abilities of stuffed animals are a different kind of unpleasant.

Because Bunny might be the only sane one here.

 
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Posted by on July 3, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Castration is a bitch.

For the record, Bruce Jenner is dyslexic.

I am not saying that this had anything to do with his gender reassignment.

But what if he went in for a vasectomy, and there was simply a misunderstanding.

Shit happens.

Does he miss his balls? Do they wonder what they did wrong?

Where they donated in some sort of “Testicular rescue” program?

Have they found a “Forever home”?

Will we see them on a Facebook post?

An infomercial plea for cash to save his balls with sorrowful Sarah McLaughlan music playing in the background.

That seems a little heavy handed for a set of nuts.

But I wouldn’t put it past Sarah.

Even with the airbrushing, Bruce has some pretty grim cheekbones.

But, go to any bar at last call and you will see guys pumping drinks into way fuglier women than Bruce will ever be. Or Caitlyn.

Whatever.

Honestly, I think the dividing line is the basic equipment.

You can’t just decide you are a woman and demand everyone change gears if you are still sporting a penis.

Take hormones all you like, but a dick is a dude and the ladies have lady bits.

At least Braitlyn chose the right time to do this.

The gender reassignment surgeries have hit their high point.

Google it and you will see some pretty gruesome pics of what they viewed as a “Success” 10-15 years ago in turning a man into a woman.

From an uneducated civilian point of view, it was a horror show of oddities that had more in common with an old school freak show than any sort of corrective surgery.

And someone (Actually several thousand) are living with that today.

Wonder what their sex life is like?

Wonder what Braitlyn’s sex life is like?

After all, he was married to the Unholy One, Kris Kardashian. (It has yet to be proven that she brokered Kim’s sex tape, but I have seen Hollywood premieres that did not roll out as smoothly and had less advanced notice in the press.)

Also never proven is how big a penis Kris has. But we all KNOW she has one.

Is that where Braitlyn decided being a man was no longer an option?

Chilling. Mean and funny to those with a twisted sense of humor, but chilling.

Which begs the question, when is Braitlyn’s sex tape coming out? That seems to be their MO.

Will we be able to actually see Kris’s face? Or will it be blurred out? Will Kim be in it? Probably, she is every bit the attention whore (Emphasis) that her unholy mommy is.

I never cared for oddity porn, just not my thing. If it’s yours, God bless, it’s your journey. Just wear a condom, for God’s sake.

What I can’t understand is that everyone is making such a big deal out of Braitlyn changing from man into woman, and no one has even mentioned Kris’s transformation from woman into “Babylon the Great, the Mother of Prostitutes and Abominations of the Earth.” (Revelations M-Fer!)

Just saying.

 
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Posted by on June 5, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Your child MIGHT be the Anti-Christ

I weep for the future.

 

I feel like I am beating a dead horse here.

Like I am harping on the same damn thing, again and again.

So let me say this again, and I will try to be clear.

Beat some sense into your fucking kids.

Soon.

Please.

Maybe its the local.

Panera Bakery has decent coffee, despite how it is made.

They brew it in back and then bring out urns of it periodically.

There is always a vile suspicion in the back of my head that someone is teabagging this lukewarm swill in the back room before trotting it out for the public.

No way to be sure, but there is always a flavor I can’t identify and my paranoia screams “SCROTUM!” each and every time.

But I am not here to talk about the coffee.

I am here to piss and moan about Armageddon.

And it has a name.

That name is Crandall.

Crandall is only 7 and is already a world class fuck-tard.

That is an amazing feat for a 7 year old.

Say what you like about me being a rotten human being, but this will be the one who’s finger pushes the button that destroys us all.

How do I know this? I don’t, but it would not shock me at all.

First off, his family is rich.

Not that kind of rich that is trying to make the world a better place.

Or even that hiding in the shadows, anonymous kind of rich.

Even worse, they are that, its all beneath us, you motherfuckers are shit kind of rich.

Mom has not quit whining since they hit the door.

She is not happy to be here.

News flash you vile slag, none of us are happy your here either.

The husband is living his life thru the bluetooth growing out of his ear like a techo-goiter.

Apparently there are those at his office that cannot take a shit without talking to mister big.

So he is working, and practicing his golf swing with his mercedes smart key.

We get it asshole, you golf. How the fuck else would you be spending your worthless time?

Are we all on the same page here?

Good.

Now, lets meet Crandall.

Crandall is wearing little lord Fauntleroy short pants, a look that went out of style when FDR was wheeling his ass out of office.

There is a 1 inch circle around his mouth that is always wet, like he either lipped a jar of Vaseline in the parking lot or he has been licking his lips for the last hour non-stop.

His eyes travel independently of each other, much like an iguana or a koi fish. Its unsettling to say the least.

He lacks common sense and even basic depth perception, as evidenced by his walking full speed into the baked goods case.

A full five minutes passed and he was still thrashing on the ground, fully absorbed in his fit.

And that was when he farted, loudly, for the first time.

His parents ignored it for the first 3 minutes, then got into an argument over who is to blame.

They ordered, collected their vile offspring and looked over no less than 3 different tables that the wife nixed before settling at one.

I have never prayed for a terrorist attack on any public place that I was at but I would be ok with someone with a vest made out of c4 detonating at the front door if it meant keeping Crandall from attaining breeding age.

I once heard a drill sergeant scream that the best part of someone ended up as a brown stain on a mattress.

I get that now.

I am not saying Crandall is the anti-christ, I am only saying he MIGHT be.

I posted up across the room just to watch this macabre little freakshow for myself.

When the wife would stop talking, and trust me, it was not often, her face would scrunch up in a disdainful mew like someone had farted and she was trying to figure out who.

Just as that thought hit my brain, Crandall farted, or quite possibly shit himself for the first or second time.

The bark of laughter that escaped me scared the shit out of everyone.

I did my best to stop laughing, but that only made it worse.

I didn’t hide it, I just stared rudely and laughed my ass off.

They got their food to go.

It was awesome.

I was sad that I had ruined the show, but I was also thrilled that they were no longer here.

Once they were gone, a peace descended over the building.

The planets aligned.

A lasting peace came to all people.

Somewhere, an angel got his wings.

And all was right with the world.

 
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Posted by on May 22, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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The End is Near, maybe.

I am the harbinger of doom, you’ve been warned.

To judge by the results, I have been breaking mirrors as I hit black cats to make them cross my path so that they can knock over the salt as we walk under a ladder.

The bad luck/shit karma storm seems to be endless.

Not for me mind you, but for everyone around me.

I exist in the eye of the shit storm.

And I feel bad mainly because Karma has been my bitch for a few weeks now.

But that is not what I am hear to talk about.

You all seem to hate the positive shit, you’ve proven that over and over.

The positive or uplifting post are among the least read.

The one’s that detail people held down by Fate and fisted by Karma?

Shit, you can’t get enough.

It boggles the mind and makes me feel bad.

Not to complain, but you do treat me like a whore.

No eye contact, just do your business and leave the page.

Leave the money on the dresser as you go.

So be it.

Why so cheerful today?

Ok, you asked for it, here is the roll call of crap.

This has all been related to me since I wrote last weeks blog:

  • I have had a half dozen people tell me about a close relative with a shitty prognosis involving cancer.
  • 3, count them 3, acquaintances have told me they are getting divorced.
  • 5 car accidents.
  • 1 cat rape involving an out of control horny bulldog. (Sorry, I laughed so hard at this one, I almost shit myself. The dog/cat owner has unfriended me on FB and will not return texts. Still funny.)
  • 2 people related having ED for the first time. (We are getting older, fellas. Its called Viagra, look into it.)
  • An old acquaintance’s child was sentenced to 20 years in prison. (Isn’t meth wonderful?)
  • I got a flat tire on my bike. (Really not much compared to the rest, but I SUCK at changing tubes. All about me.)
  • A married couple I know decided to spice up their bedroom activities and try some new things. They ended up in the ER later trying to get a string of beads out of her butt. (Pissing off people left and right today.)

It seems to be a time for keeping your head down.

Survival instinct kicks in and you learn to adapt and keep the shit stink from finding you.

So you don’t necessarily avoid people, but you are seeking out people either.

I know, that sounds mean, kind of because it is.

But I mean it in the nicest narcissistic way.

In the end, I look on the activities and things that have gone on in the last week as a cautionary tale of sorts.

But the moral of the story is this:

Be bold but be careful and if the bulldog of life looks your way?

Cover your ass.

 
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Posted by on May 15, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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The coming of the Fat Man

This is the world as we know it.

People are not bad at heart, they just do bad things sometimes.

But, they don’t seek to do bad things.

And people that drink coffee like it piping hot.

And then there is the alternate universe going on at the next table at Starbucks.

The Fat Man, not the one from the Maltese Falcon played by the immortal Sydney Greenstreet, but the 450lbs guy sitting in the Starbucks in Manhattan Beach this morning, is eyeing his 3 cranberry orange scones like a pedophile eyeing a playground.

He has been on the phone for the last 20 minutes with someone who, for lack of a better term, is his evil minion.

Here are the atrocities that I have so far heard:

  • At 12:01am on the first of May, any of the tenants (See also, poor unlucky bastards) that have not paid rent are to be evicted. He actually stabbed his chubby little finger in the air for enphasis.
  • Shut down his daughters credit account. Apparently, she is 18 and got a job. The atrocity part of this is that he specified that the evil minion was NOT to let her know. Typically you don’t see parents actively seeking to shit on their own children.
  • The Fat Man crumbled up two of the scones and put the pieces into his coffee, INTO HIS COFFEE, and let them sit and soak. The end result will be the coffee being soaked completely into the crumbs and the cup will be filled with cranberry orange coffee oatmeal, sans oatmeal. While that might sound somewhat tasty, it was the slow, lurid sucking of his fingers to clean them off that lent the air of unclean dirtiness to the whole thing.
  • He informed his evil minion that he had a while to wait before he could drink his coffee because he likes it at ROOM TEMPERATURE.

His look, his speech, his mannerisms, the very air around him is repellent.

If Hitler had a brother that he considered to be a little too extreme, the Fat Man would be it.

I have begun to wonder if others can see him, or if he is just a figment of my imagination, a demon of sorts, sent to torture me as a warning to live a better life. (Much like a twisted version of It’s a wonderful life.)

The man appears to be exceptionally well off, but I hate to use that term.

The words “Well off” seems contradictory.

Plus, he just farted.

I realize everyone farts, but most people try to hide it or at least apologize when they can’t.

He didn’t even lean over on one cheek and let go, it was just a mid-sentence mini-explosion that may well have been a part of his speech, like a comma.

He never paused.

In the back of my head, the part with the vile little voice? There seems to be A LOT of whispering that the Fat Man had just shit himself and that by my not commenting or leaving, I was showing my approval.

Why the voice does that to me is confusing.

I mean, the voice likes being in Starbucks, there is so many things to see and talk shit about.

So, I pack up and leave in protest.

But, I did not manage to get out before I got a whiff of the Fat Man’s rectal cologne.
There is a realization you get when you cut yourself really bad.

Its that split second before the nerve ending explode and pain begins, its the mental realization of how bad it is going to be.

Now, add that the the feeling of being kicked in the balls. (Bear with me, ladies.)

Combine the two and you are in the right neighborhood of me right then.

When you are trying to pack up a laptop and accessories there is only so much speeding up you can do.

Also, the Fat Man began eating his coffee/scone/oatmeal.

I have written and erased several descriptions and 75% of them used some sort of creepy sexual imagery.

Suffice to say it was not pleasant and just left me feeling dirty. Like I needed both a shower and an exorcism just to feel clean enough to begin therapy.

I used to like those scones too.

 
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Posted by on April 10, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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