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Sorry would indicate regret…Nope

All hell is breaking loose, people!

We are talking scorched earth, end of days, shit going down kind of stuff.

Because PEOPLE ARE UPSETTING US!

There is a growing current of people who don’t want to hear one more word of politics on Facebook.

They are sick of it.

It is upsetting, it ruins their day, its also childish.

Screeching about politics on people’s Facebook page is some of the most entertaining shit you will ever read.

It starts out innocently enough, somebody posts a totally non-political comment, possibly with a photo.

And then the extremist shows up, and the whole thing goes nuts.

I bullshit a lot, but the following happened.

A friend posted a pic of their daughter who just got her driver’s license.

Under it was the caption “Look out world, she’s on the road!”

It was cute and got cute replies, as it should have.

(The new driver was a pretty girl of Latin heritage. There is a reason I am mentioning this and its not racism, at least not by me.)

Enter the pitbull.

“She better enjoy it while she can, cause Trump hates Mexicans and she is going to be rounded up! NOW IS THE TIME TO RISE UP!”

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love to fuck with people and say upsetting things to other people on Facebook.

But you don’t go after someones kids, that is just rude.

Come after mine and I will kneecap you and you’ll never walk again.

The comments after that were off the chart ugly after that, it was awesome.

I am kind of an agent of chaos in all of this due to one basic fact that escapes most people.

A large amount of the people you see and interact with on Facebook don’t actually exist.

They are like swamp gas or weather balloons, they make people see whatever their mind wants them to see.

So you can fuck with them, twist them around, friend and unfriend, block or unblock and it doesn’t make one bit of difference in the world.

About 2 years ago, I wrote a post that, in the opinions of people I really don’t respect if we’re being truthful, was obscene, vulgar and rude.

And it was.

But it set a personal record for highest number of complaints and unfriendings in the blog history.

And I actually never noticed any impact on my life.

And thats when it hit me.

They don’t exist.

They aren’t real.

Like characters in a book, when you put the book down, their world is over.

This blog is like a microcosm of Facebook, but my own personal that you have chosen to peek in on.

I bask in the praise, giggle at the outrage and write for the simple fact that it gives me a masturbatory pleasure without chafing.

And its also a great excuse to sit in a Starbucks and sip coffee for hours.

Mmmmmm coffee.

(Never lose sight of why we are here.

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Posted by on February 3, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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The art of being a Rotten Bitch.

Save me the whiny comments about my prominent use of the word bitch, in this context, it fits.

Feminists would have you believe that the moment you ladies are out of the room, all men can do is call you a bitch and discuss rape as a sport.

That would be like all women waiting until the men leave the room and then talking about how people you don’t know are at their core.

Oh, wait, thats what goes on now. My bad.

Live your life, believe what you want, just try not to be an idiot about it.

Now that thats out of the way, let me describe Dale to you.

Dale is a piece of work, is what she is.

She is an artist of sorts, working in anger and shittiness the way another artist might work in clay or stone.

She was on the phone outside of Starbucks when I got there.

As I passed by, I heard the semi-crappy comment being said almost in a whisper.

“I realize that I promised to help with the planning, but I am not a fan of family parties to begin with.”

Maybe I am just over-reacting to one of my own pet peeves. I come from a really close family that, if you ask for help, it will be provided. Its what family does.

Back to Dale.

Just before the door closed, her suddenly too loud voice yelled into her phone.

“Fuck you, Mary!”

I have no idea who Mary is or what crime she committed.

I figure she has had the shitty karmic luck to be related to this circus side show, but sister/cousin/niece? Who knows.

She finished soon after and came in, getting into line right behind me.

I happened to look back and made the fatal mistake of eye contact.

She seemed to recognize that she had spun every head in the place with her outburst.

“Sorry, you know how family are.” With a shrug.

I do know how family are, I have one of my own, and even as in your face and out of hand as we get there is a base respect and the understanding that you don’t shit on them by phone in public for asking for help with a family party.

But thats just me.

How it is in whatever passs for her dysfunctional trainwreck of a clan is anybodies guess.

And, as the line progresses, Dale is one of those people that talks to herself.

She is looking at the shelves of coffees and knick-knacks as we walk and commenting as we go.

I hate her even more, now.

Top 3 Dale comments:

  • “$15 for a bag of coffee beans? I don’t want to have sex with them, just coffee.” (I don’t know what sort of Craig’s List male whore she is hooking up with, but I hope wore a couple of condoms. You don’t want a lingering gift with this little honey.)
  • “Chocolate covered coffee beans? Ugh.” (Its a fucking coffee house! What is she expecting?)
  • “You could hold a gun to my head and I wouldn’t buy this.” (Don’t tease me.)

And then we got to the cashier.

Her coffee drink is a long, convoluted throw together of conflicting statements and half jokes that make no sense but makes her laugh.

She could have had a root canal in front of the register and it would have been less awkward.

And then the cherry on the Sunday of the order.

“My name is Dale. Dale. D-A-L-E. Dale.”

How could we ever forget?

She waits for her coffee like a mangled cat staking out a mouse hole.

When her coffee comes, she looks at it like someone took a shit on it.

She makes no move to reach for it, but she begins to question the barrista about each ingredient with a pissy scowl on her face.

The only question she did not ask, and maybe should have, was “Did you spit in this?” (And with her attitude, she should ask that question a LOT.)

A few minutes later she reluctantly takes her coffee.

The last thing I heard as I walked out the door was her on the phone with, presumably, poor Mary.

“No, I wasn’t upset at all, I just want you to understand that this is not a priority in my life. Dad and I have never gotten along well.”

Sorry, but even serious Daddy issues do not explain, excuse or exorcise this evil spirit.

It was less than a 10 minute encounter, but I will hear that voice in my nightmares.

“dale. Dale. DALE. D-A-L-E.”

May God have mercy on the world.

 
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Posted by on July 8, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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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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Pride goes before getting fucked over.

It is an odd thing to watch someone losing their fucking mind in public.

And before we go any further, I realize there is a percentage of those reading this that have their panties in full twist mode just because I may or may not have prematurely F-bombed in the first sentence.

And I tried not to, I really did.

I rewrote the opening line several times.

And it just doesn’t work without the “fuck” in there.

So here is where we are at, physically and sarcastically.

Panera Bread in Redondo Beach.

The outside patio.

I started off inside, glorying in the delicious air conditioning because its hot out. (Its the middle of October, for fucks sake!)

And then I saw him.

The salesman.

And when I say, “Losing his fucking mind in public.” maybe I am sugar coating it a little bit.

He’s a suit, expensive one, the shoes have a power shine on them and his tie defines “Success”.

Except that the suit is slightly off

The tie has been loosened.

The first two buttons on the shirt are undone.

This opens the shirt more than the loosened tie will let it and makes the whole look even more off.

His face is twisted up into a painful grimace. (Not even that somewhat creepy Grimace from the McDonalds commercials, circa 1970.)

He is pissed.

I will call him Suit, because it really is a nice cut. He has taste.

But I gotta see this up close.

I have my headphones on, its important that he think I can’t hear him, and I carry my open laptop outside and park at a nearby table, completely engrossed in what is happening on my screen.

There is nothing on my screen, but he doesn’t need to know this.

“Lanny! You are a fucking rapist!”

This is the first thing I hear him say and as far as opening lines go, it is hands down one of the best I have ever heard.

A quick internet search for the proper manners or etiquette for publicly shitting yourself yields nothing concrete, so I am going to have to wing it and just keep listening.

Here is what I learned over the next 5 minutes:

  • Lanny, a business partner, has just screwed Suit over to the tune of $10’s of thousands. (The salesmen that are reading this are nodding their heads, its the nature of sales.)
  • Suit is somehow convinced that Lanny will give up those untold thousands if Suit berates him long enough.
  • Suit keeps referencing “Dan and Lori” and that they will not sit still for this. (They may be the bosses of this little evil empire. Jury is still out.)

In the end, Suit wound down and it finally seemed to settle in that he was fucked.

What really struck me was how long it took him to accept the fact that he was fucked.

Lanny was never going to give the money/sale back. I never even met the man and I figured it out well before Suit did.

Dan and Lori, being the bosses, don’t give two shits. They care that the sale was made. Thats it. I have worked for more Dan and Lori’s than I like to remember.

But, like the business version of a goldfish, Suit will forget his pain 30 seconds later when he closes another deal.

Sales is like that. It has no mercy and recognizes no friends other than money, and the relationship could hardly be called friendly.

I wish Suit well, and hope he closes something wonderful soon.

While I don’t particularly care for him, I do admire his taste in clothes.

Lanny, rot in hell you retched bastard, I have also worked with a lot of Lanny’s before.

And they are all assholes.

 
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Posted by on October 16, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Hoping for that Snooky sucker punch.

There is something about being born in Southern California that keeps you from using the word “Cali” in a sentence.

That has always been the big three of identifying a tourist or worse, someone trying to pretend they were born here.

  1. Use of the word Cali. You were not raised here, stop faking this, its just sad.
  2. Mullet. Can’t get around the hairstyle as an instant identifier of someone raised “Elsewhere”. Its an ugly hairstyle indicative of trailer parks and trucks up on blocks in your front yard. See also inbreeding.
  3. Calling a soda “Pop”. May as well have a piece of hay sticking out of your teeth, Jethro.

Do I have a point here? Not sure.

What I do have is indigestion based on the conversation going on at the next table.

My muse this morning is a mid-30’s woman that is a walking cliche.

Jersey hair, too much perfume, too much jewelry, too much…

Just too much.

And she is on her cell phone, which has been bedazzled too much.

Volume of her voice? Too much.

“I have been in Cali for 5 years now. I’m practically a native.”

I just about shit myself when that little gem slipped out of her mouth, too much lipstick, with her thick Jersey accent.

Like a more mannish Snooky who may, or may not, have penis.

You would think I would be repulsed.

However, like a slow motion train wreck, I cannot look away.

But its a painful perspective.

One that is tough to endure and also tough to hide.

The person she is talking to is located somewhere called “Back in Dirty D”.

Not sure where that is, but it sounds like a pit.

(My apologies to pit inhabitants everywhere. I am sure your place is much nicer.)

Don’t get me wrong, I am fully in favor of migrating if you do not like your present surroundings.

But at least make the effort to blend in before you declare your native standing.

Its a lot like those that become Irish each and every St. Patrick’s day.

No, you are not. Green beer and wolfing down corned beef and cabbage by the metric ton does not make you Irish any more than having few years of rent paid west of the West of the 405 makes you a native. (Mostly just natives will get this. If you aren’t a native, but you do get it, you are still not a native)

So where does that leave us?
For me, it leaves me in a Starbucks sitting with an irritated nose next to the second coming of Snooky the terrible.

Eventually, she hung up the phone and began texting.

And if you have never had the pleasure of watching a woman with inch long fingernails texting, it is a case study in blissful frustration.

It appears to be 3-4 times the effort of normal texting, but all done with a smile and the low humming of a tune.

No brains, no headaches, everything is streamlined and simple.

Its a little like watching Winnie the Pooh, if he had Jersey hair and a push up bra, but that same innocent ignorance.

Except that I have never despised Winnie the Pooh.

But maybe thats just me.

 
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Posted by on July 31, 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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