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What will you do when it stares you in the face?

There are some stories that we all have in our past that we have had for so long, that the vile parts of the story lose their vile-ness.

Conversation overheard at Starbucks between two suited business guys. Mid forties, seemingly bored. Just killing time until they have to go.

“You remember the girl you dated senior year of high school?”

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Dated for 3 weeks, hot and heavy, had to break up with her. No saving it.” Sips his coffee.

“Why’s that?”

“Her dad had this monster dick.” This is said deadpan, no emotion.

“Come again?”

Finally, the prospect of telling the story gets some emotion. The guy folds his hands in front of him, leans in. Time for the story.

I find myself leaning in.

“Her dad was this rugby player on the weekends, beast of a guy, huge.” He talks with his hands as the story unfolds.

This is an old story that he is used to telling.

“During the week, he was, like, an insurance guy. Weekend? Like cage-fighter beast.” His buddy is nodding his head enthusiastically.

“Anyway, the first time I go over to her house, its a Sunday. Dad had a game, and was evidently in the hot tub. You know, after game tubbing.”

“So we come in the front room, and see him thru the kitchen in the hot tub. She turns to me and says, ‘you have to meet my dad first, thats the rule.’”

The guy leans back. “And that fine, gotta follow the rules. So she yells out to the hot tub ‘hey dad! Come here!’ and this dude, gets out of the hot tube, throws his towel over his shoulder, and walks into the house.” He thumps the table and points a finger at his buddy in emphasis.

“Totally naked!”

His partner is sympathetic.

“Oh man, thats creepy.”

“Thats not the creepy part, dude.”

“Oh?”

“The guy’s dick hung below his knee!”

Both guys are laughing.

The rest of Starbucks has quieted as the story got louder. With the last statement, a hush has fallen over the room.

These guys have not noticed.

“So what did you do?”

“Dad walks in and goes, “Who’s this?” He starts laughing. “Dick swinging.”

“And I wanted to say, Captain of the little dick team, sir.” He throws a quick salute.

Finally, he winds down, sits back and sips his coffee.

“Broke up with her the next day.”

“Why?”

“Because dude, if that is what she sees around the house every day, what can she do but look at mine and be like, Aw, like a little puppy.”

“Yeah, nothing else you could do.”

They both begin shaking their heads.

I am stunned. This is one of those obviously traumatic things that this guy has agonized over for years.

What happens next needs some explanation.

There is a business woman that comes into Starbucks every morning. Mid thirties, and one of the most stunning women you will ever see.

Always dressed to the nines, with a body that makes grown men feel under aged.

Thats a line from a song I can’t remember but it fits here perfectly.

Anyway, she is standing 5 feet away from the business guys, with one hand on her hip, the other holding up her coffee cup. She does not look pleased.

She clears her throat.

“Gentlemen?”

They both look, then look again.

She is that hot.

She gives them a long look in total silence.

“You pussies are pathetic!” She almost mutters as she walks out.

And now the boys look sheepish.

Some of the stuff that happens to you in life is not half as traumatic as what you do to yourself for the rest of your life afterwards.

And that sucks.

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Posted by on November 22, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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My unnatural hatred of Halloween, or maybe just Candy Corn.

I have hated Halloween ever since I hit my twenties.

I was dating a girl who just got too into Halloween.

You know the type?

They start with pumpkin earrings.

Add to that a witch decorated scarf.

Skeleton keychain.

Knee high Witchee-poo boots. (Which are hot, by the way, just don’t let them throw you.)

Throw in the Monster Mash on their Ipod, which causes them to mumble that rotten crappy song all day.

And, just for good measure, a sick addiction to Candy Corn.

WHAT THE HELL IS CANDY CORN? CAUSE IT AIN’T CANDY!

It’s wax as near as I can figure.

I know its not corn, cause I have eaten it and held a stakeout over the toilet. There was no Candy Corn in my healthy poop. (I have bowel movements like a thoroughbred in training, thats healthy in a sick way.)

They tend to sell Candy Corn in two ways.

The first is a large bag, filled with a couple of hundred little cellophane bags with ten pieces each. The other is a large bag of just loose Candy Corn, usually 3 to 5 pounds of that waxy crap.

Who the hell eats that much wax without being constipated for a week?

Maybe the company that makes Candy Corn also makes laxatives.

Very sneaky Xlax.

Back to the ex-girlfriend.

I think the thing that bugged me the most was just the level of excitement that she would hit the whole week before Halloween.

Not being into something when someone else is REALLY into it, is really annoying.

It was the weekend before Halloween and we were at the fourth club of the evening that was having a costume contest.

She is dressed in an elaborate Pirate Wench outfit. (I rarely argue with any outfit that sports THAT much cleavage.

This is back before the whole Pirates of the Caribbean films broke, so maybe she had some insight.)

I was dressed as a pirate completely against my will.

I was not happy.

The MC called our name and the girlfriend went out on stage.

Me? I just stopped.

I began to walk out of the club, losing pirate costume pieces as I went.

Thankfully, by the time I hit the parking lot and got into my car, I was back to being a normally dressed man with a little bit of dignity regained. Not a lot, I was dressed as a pirate after all, but a little.

I left her there to find her own way home.

An asshole move, I realize that, but dressed like a Pirate Wench with that amount of cleavage, I didn’t think she would have any trouble getting a ride.

My cell phone went off for the rest of the evening.

I ignored it. If you are going to be an asshole, go big or go home.

She never talked to me again, and I am ok with that.

To this day, I have never touched a pirate outfit or (for some sort of psychologically connected reason) Candy Corn.

Although, upon reflection, maybe it was the big plastic pumpkin bowls of Candy Corn on the table.

I still say its not candy.

 
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Posted by on October 24, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Slutty manikins are a sinister force for evil.

Is it wrong to get a little tingly from looking at a manikin dressed in a slutty fashion?

There are several clothing stores in downtown Manhattan Beach. Several favor themselves as just this side of New York chic.

They might be, I have no clue.

I am standing in front of one that has two manikins. Both are dressed in what appears to be high classed hooker outfits. I can’t imagine anyone else wearing this stuff.

One of the manikins was dressed in a sloppy fashion. One shoulder has slipped and the breast of the manikin is exposed.

You had me at hello.

Why is that exciting?

Its not even a very life like manikin.

The head is a slimly shaped oblong in a vaguely human shape.

Then it hits me.

Its the hint of hotness.

Your mind makes the dirty.

I say your mind because my mind starts dirty and only occasionally goes clean.

Its a fundamental difference in perspective.

Here is an excellent example.

This morning, a woman stood next to me on the corner and asked me if I had the time.

That seems like an innocent question, right?

WRONG!

Its filthy.

I went obscene before she finished her sentence.

I had to wait a second to get clean enough to answer.

You all would have been proud of me, I only told her what time it is.

And yet, some of you are probably a little miffed (Yes, miffed) that I didn’t take the opportunity to play with her head, creating chaos as I go.

I try to remember that I am not nearly as entertaining outside of my own head or off of the blog as I think I am and I try not to inflict myself on the innocents in life.

Besides, there are so many guilty out there to play with I don’t really suffer.

I think I am really the person that marketing people dream about. I’m highly susceptible to all of the advertising tricks.

I read an article about the subliminal tricks the ad men use.

Hard core drinks, they say, have a death wish. So the ad men put little hidden skulls in the glasses of hard liquor shown in ads. The critics at the time said this was absolute bullshit.

Sales shot thru the roof.

This might explain my love of good whiskey in my twenties.

The practice is now rampant in advertising.

And I don’t think thats a bad thing.

At work, with our personal relationships, hell in dealing with family, we do our best to figure out what works best in terms of presentation to allow us to manipulate the hell out of the situation to our advantage.

For those who bristle at the word manipulation and you would never manipulate a situation, pull the pedastal out of your ass and admit, that you especially are a manipulative dick/bitch. (Whichever applies.)

I tend to over indulge my inner asshole and allow him to run the ship a lot, more now than before this blog happened.

The way I look at it, I am trying to point out the Slutty Manikin in all of us.

(Now that is a twisted phrase, but is it REALLY bullshit?)

 
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Posted by on October 21, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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The shit that comes out of your mouth

I was listening to someone in a Starbucks the other day and they said something odd.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass what she thinks.”

First of all, ew.

Second of all, specifically, how much is a rat’s ass worth?

And why am I wondering about a rat’s ass? Is this a gay thing? Either way, its a nasty thing to contemplate.

And, as always, that got me wondering about weird phrases that I hear on a regular basis that make no sense.

And here they are:

“That guy flew, ass over tea kettle, into the ditch.”
I heard this one not five minutes after the “rat’s ass” comment so it stood out.
Why would your ass be over a tea kettle? Why is the ass involved again? It can’t be based on a physical reality, mainly because it makes no sense.
Maybe its dirty. (Pretty much anything can be dirty, in my opinion. )

“I don’t know whether to shit or go blind at this point.”
I have done some thinking about this one and it may be tied to masturbation.
Can’t be sure. Going blind, however, harkens back to the admonishments of my Catholic school upbringing.
And as I always say, we can talk about masturbation later.

“Old habits die hard.”
I doubt this is about how difficult it is to kill nuns.
Sorry, catholic school can affect your perspective for life.
So can prison for many of the same reasons.

“it’s hotter than a snakes ass on a hot rock.”
WTF? Who the hell talks this way?
If I am going to consider this one at all, I have two comments.
One. I was not aware snakes had asses. I mean, I realize that they have to have some way to shit, but you never really think about them having one.
Two. The person that thought this one up has beastiality issues. There was long, hard contemplation of a snake’s anus. Unless you are an anthropologist. this points to some sort of serious sexual issues.

“Familiarity breeds contempt”
I am a big fan of contempt. There are times that I feel like people are trying to be too polite, too politically correct.
However, I think most people find it easier to be ruder to strangers. The better you know someone, the more likely you are to be nice.
I am not a good example of this.

“Going to hell in a handbasket.”
This one makes no sense at all. This sounds more like a fetish type of thing. Some sort of fire bondage/whicker torture thing.

In the end, I think a lot of weird phrases just get made up, sound cool and caught on. They can be stupid, sick or just make no sense.

Looked at from that perspective, I am in favor of these little annoying phrases.

After all, like my Mother used to say:

“Get your ass in the house or I will plant you in the driveway and run you over with the car!”

That one never really caught on.

 
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Posted by on October 18, 2011 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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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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My rude past…

I have an odd reaction to really embarrassing moments.

I get louder and become fearless.

This can be a really bad combination and it rarely leads to things calming down and moving away from whatever the embarrassing starting point was.

Here is a good example from my past.

There is a fine art to having sex in a restaurant.

And I am not artist.

Maybe I should add a little bit of back story here. In a certain sense, I am still the dirty-minded 13 year old I always was.

I was in an El Pollo Loco with a new girlfriend.

We were in the honeymoon stage. That cool period of time right after you figure out that you are sexually compatible, and you really can’t keep your hands off of each other.

You can only sit in a booth making out for so long before the help begin to get twitchy. And we are not wide eyed teenagers. Being past the age of being old enough to know better, but obviously not giving a shit ratchets up the discomfort of others even more.

And that is when the idea of sex in the bathroom begins to make sense.

El Pollo Loco almost encourages this sort of behavior. The bathrooms are always in their own little secluded hallway.

This discourages witnesses. And the bathrooms are single occupant only.

We are both a little iffy about the whole scandalous thing right up until we get in the bathroom.

Its on like donkey kong.

Less than 30 seconds later the knock on the door comes.

Its loud, its impatient and its incessant.

“We have to stop.” She is the voice of reason in these situations.

“No, we don’t.” I am really not in control of my actions at this point. My penis has taken control and he is a tyrant.

“Stop” Once out of their teens, women are much harder to talk into things they have decided against.

“How do we get out of here?” NOW she is worried. Women hate witnesses. Men view witnesses as more of an annoyance than an embarrassment.

This is where I become Rambo with a hard on.

“We go out one at a time, no eye contact.”

She straightens her clothes while I put mine back on. Men seem to get naked a hell of a lot quicker in these situations.

I put my hands on the lock and the door knob and look back at my somewhat nervous partner in crime. I blow her a kiss, but I can tell she is missing the humor of the gesture.

I open the door and find an old woman waiting with her hand poised to rap on the door again.

Her eyes widen in shock at a man coming out of the bathroom. I focus on the hallway next to her and step past.

“All yours chief.” I am now headed for the parking lot.

Pure guilt makes me look over my shoulder.

It is worth risking the look back.

My partner had tried to push the door shut the moment I cleared the thresh hold.

The old woman recovered from her shock quickly and tried to get into the bathroom.

There is a brief struggle with both trying to move the door, one to get it open and the other to close it, presumably to hide.

Then the door is forced open.

My partner makes her first mistake.

Eye contact, frozen in place.

A number of things should be falling into place mentally for the old woman at this point.

If there is more to be seen, I have no way of knowing.

The front door is in my hand and I am now free.

You are on your own, sweetie.

Don’t hold it against me, survival is an instinctive thing, and those old ladies can be vicious.

A few minutes later, my now thoroughly embarrassed partner exits the El Pollo to find me across the parking lot, sitting on the hood of the car, smiling and about to begin laughing loud.

“You’re an asshole!”

What the hell did I do?

I would ask, but I have pulled enough shit in my past that I don’t question the asshole accusation.

She forgave me, eventually.

As part of an unspoken agreement, we steered clear of fast food bathrooms from there on out.

Looking back, I view that as a damn shame.

There is a poster I see here and there about living life.

Here is my version.

Live well.
Laugh often.
Love deeply.
And if you are ever kicked out of an El Pollo Loco bathroom for having sex, NO EYE CONTACT!

 
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Posted by on October 10, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Don’t shit on the help!

Some people are just genetically pre-disposed to pissing me off.

I am in a looooong line at Starbucks. In front of me is a woman that, and I rarely use this word, but it fits, is snooty.

Make that snooty bitch.

The word bitch gets over used by so many that it almost loses its charm. Just when I am tired of it and just about to quit using it, I run into someone that bristles with indignation over the mere utterance of it.

Back to the snooty bitch.

She is on her phone. Whoever she is talking to may as well be asleep because snooty bitch is talking non-stop about every subject under the sun, without stopping, barely pausing for breath.

Like some sort of unstoppable chatty-Cathy doll that figured out how to yank its own string.

All things seem to fall into one of three subjects.

1. How much it cost. There was a brief tirade over the merits of her car versus her sisters car. “My car is a $50K Mercedes for gods sake, Her car costs less than $20K and she boasts about how many cup holders it has, if you can believe that.”

I like cup holders. Where would I put my coffee otherwise?

2. Where she got it. Evidently, you can buy the same product in two different locations, and one will be better than the other because of the location. “I bought my Iphone at the Mac Store in Brentwood. Jim got his at some place near the airport, and he has had nothing but problems.”

Steve Jobs was a great guy, visionary and all, (RIP Steve) but he would have loved to wing a spare Iphone at snooty bitch.

3. Where something is made. There is a pretty interesting denial streak running thru her, and she fancies herself as something of a patriot. “You know me, I only buy American.” She says this into her made in China Iphone, after having driven here in her made in Germany Mercedes. Having known her only a few minutes, and also knowing almost nothing about fashion, I am still willing to bet cash money that her bag is Made in France Prada. (It could be a knock off, but those are made in Thailand.)

Finally, it is her turn to order.

But she won’t stop talking. She is having two conversations at once, or maybe just one. The conversation in the phone takes priority over placing her order.

“I would like a venti Caramel- did Jim mention were are going to Barbados for Thanksgiving? A caramel moci- no, he likes the water there.”

At this point she begins flapping her hand like the girl is just being difficult with her. Finally, she yanks the phone away from her head with an exasperated sigh, speaking with the cashier like she is a slow child.

“A venti caramel mocchiatto with extra caramel.” She gives the UNFUCKINGBELIEVABLY patient cashier a snotty smile.

“Was that so hard?”

She didn’t!

She did!

She is not a ginger, but I am just on the virge of putting my foot to this rotten snooty bitch’s ass.

The cardinal rule in any food establishment is you never shit on the help.

Most chain stores try to regulate it, but there is an excellent chance that someone behind the counter is going to spit in her caramel mocchiato with extra caramel.

And I hope she spills it in her Mercedes, right on her Iphone.

 
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Posted by on October 7, 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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