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A little like Romeo and Juliet (Maybe)

There is a time and a place to lose your shit in a bad relationship.

But early morning at Starbucks is not the place.

Let me introduce Rudy and Tam.

Do we all remember the story of Romeo and Juliet? 

The star-crossed lovers that had a love so strong that the apparent lack made life not worth living?

Yeah, this has nothing to do with them.

Rudy and Tam have a different story.

Depending on how you view this, they are either in the middle of a really horrible breakup or this is just another day in the middle of one of the most dysfunctional relationships I have ever seen.

Lets meet Rudy and Tam, shall we?

Ladies first.

Tam is 2 women in one. 

Literally.

She is double the width and weight of your average woman. 

I don’t view that as fat-shaming as much as being mildly observant. 

She is also a mix of various clothing styles. 

Ugg boots are always nice, but striped rainbow thigh-high socks throws off the look badly.

Also, and this is just a personal choice, a tight tube top loses its charm when its 3 sizes too small and pushes the muffin top out to the point of needing a new name.

The Mushroom Cloud.

I have reread and edited the last few sentences several times to try and get it under the “Being Mean” wire and I finally have just given up. 

Some of you will read it and get your panties in a twist over it, and I will have to somehow live with that. (Let’s be honest, I have said worse and you were ok with it for a variety of reasons. If you are going to be a regular here, you are going to need to roll with an extra set of undies.)

Anyway, now that the wardrobe description is out of the way, like any movie set, the last step is hair and makeup.

The hair is a progressive mix of old school chola hair spray high mixed with black and a sickly strip of grey. 

The makeup has raccoon style black eyes and enough lipstick to make a professional clown say “Damn”!

This description is harsh and intentionally mean mainly because I don’t like her. (Plus, this is my world and I get to be a prick if I want to.)

As if this little visual treat is not enough to catch my eye, she is alternating between whispering hideously angry shit at Rudy, but ending each sentence with a 2 syllable scream.

“Mumblemumblemumble, FUCKING RUDY!!!” 

As far as vulgar public displays go, its not bad, I have seen worse, but it’s been awhile. 

Rudy, for his part, sits like a soldier experiencing severe PTSD, and maybe he is. 

This woman is the closest thing to the Vietnam war I have seen.

And how long has Rudy been dealing with this conflict?

Its like the relationship version of the “1000 yard stare”.

And he doesn’t move, like at all.

He just stares straight ahead and sips his coffee. 

And eventually, his strategy, or lack of, pays off. 

She stops. 

Breathing heavy, with a twitch in her left eye she just sits and glares at him. 

And then, in a most unsatisfying way, its over.

Rudy just gets up and walks out, trudging like the weary soldier he is.

And Tam follows. 

To her, the movement is like the bell in a boxing match. 

It’s back on. 

Outside, she seems to be screaming for the whole sentence now. (Loud enough to be heard thru the big bay window. 

Good luck, Rudy. 

You’re going to need it, son. 

 
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Posted by on March 2, 2020 in Uncategorized

 

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Welcome to the Freakshow

When did the airport become Walmart?

There are a number of videos on Youtube that show people making poor clothing and life choices in Walmart. 

And it is a flat out freakshow. 

But when did the freakshow take their weird act to the airport?

Here is where we’re at so far. 

It started slow. 

In line at the TSA checkpoint, I saw a guy that looked like a basketball in a polo shirt. (Let that visual sink in for a second.)

Nothing seemed out of place until he bent over to untie his shoes. (TSA checkpoint, remember?)

And then I saw it.

A whale tail.

You heard me right.

M-ER F-ING Whale tail.

This is something I can never unsee. 

Like a 1 second Vietnam War, this may affect me for the rest of my life.

I staggered along thru the checkpoint in a stupor, even the excessive pat down barely registered. (Someone fondling my testes usually gets my attention.)

While putting my shoes on at the bench after my #MeToo moment, while trying desperately not to see the whale tail again, the attractive business woman sitting next to me farted. 

Not a lady-like toot followed by an embarrassed “Oh my! Excuse me!”, but a full barreled flatulent ground zero moment followed by locking eyes with me and glaring like I was the one at fault.

She made a beeline for the bathroom right after she got her shoes on. (Possibly shit herself. If it was me, I would want to check after a blast like that too.)

There is a horizontal escalator that moves you along faster to the far off gates.

It was here that I wondered if you could get crabs in the butt crack?

I only ask because the guy in the skinny jeans ahead of me is raking his fingernails up and down his as with the fervor of a man who’s ass might be on fire. 

The scent of patchouli oil drifts back to my nostrils. (This does not help my already poor opinion of bohemian types. A smelly ass hippy with an itchy taint is still a smelly ass hippy. Plus, Ear gauges, need I say more?)

I get to my gate and figure all is well, just bide my time and I will soon be on the plane.

Life, it seems, has other plans. 

Airport security shows up and yanks some guy to his feet at a nearby gate. 

It seems a young mother has lodged a complaint. (As they frog-march him away, it occurs to me that if you are going to wear pajamas like regular pants, either sew up the bathroom slit in the front or wear underwear. I would be ok with airport security walking him down a few flights of steps so he could “Accidentally” fall down the steps and learn a deeper meaning of “Common courtesy”.)

And finally, I am on the plane.

But we are not done.

As I was boarding, Whale-tail is arguing with an attendant about the full size suitcase he claims is a carry on. 

I made the mistake of booking an aisle seat. 

This means that I spend all of boarding leaning to the right so that EVERY guy walking by doesn’t rub his ass on my shoulder. 

Look, I know how whiny and pitiful all of this sounds and I would be the first one to shout PUSSY at anyone else with the same bitch-list.

But, this is my world, and you are just a squirrel, trying to get a blog-nut.

The fact that the stewardess on the loudspeaker giving the safety speech has a decent harelip doesn’t even phase me. 

But the guy across the aisle picking his nose so deeply that it looks like he is up to the second knuckle is starting to freak me out.

A young mother with a cute little daughter sit down next to me.

With mom watching, the little girl rummages under the seat in front of her and digs out a piece of gum someone put there.

Immediately puts it in her mouth and begins chewing.

Mom says nothing. 

Gonna be a long flight.

 
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Posted by on December 15, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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The coming of Bridezilla

Bridezilla is a real thing.

You see that word and you envision a reality show, some over-indulged, moderately privileged bride snapping at people as she plans her wedding.

And then you are in Starbucks right now and you realize that the most over the top episode of Bridezilla is a best case scenario. 

Because she is here.

The bride to be.

Amber.

The name conjures a Britney Spears image. 

A pretty blonde with good teeth in suggestive clothing.

The suggestive clothing is there, and that is all.

In your head, replace Britney Spears with a chunkier Roseanne Barr with bad hair and a serious overbite.

Take a second and let that sink in. 

If a shudder just went down your back, understand that its just being described to you, I am actually here.

And her entry is epic and befitting the name Bridezilla.

The front door of Starbucks opens with a little too much force and in she comes, talking on her phone to Lorraine. (How do we know her name?)

“Because I’m the fucking bride, Lorraine!” 

The phone being an inch from her mouth did not stop her from yelling. Loud.

Is the situation made better or worse that Amber is about 6 months pregnant?

That is a rhetorical question.

And the argument could be made that it doesn’t make it worse, but it does add to the comedic value of the entire situation.

Also, call me old fashioned, but the soon to be mama should go easy on the caffeine.

A soy latte with a triple shot seems excessive. 

But she is drinking for two. 

To each his or her own.

Sure you risk low birth weight, but have you HAD a triple shot soy latte?

It’s divine.

Lets check the obscenity board while we have a moment.

Things Lorraine (Maid of Honor) has been called in the 2 minutes since Bridezilla came into our lives. 

Cunt 3 times. (To be specific, 1 cunt, 1 dumb cunt and 1 response of cunt when responding to what I believe was Lorraine objecting to being called a dumb cunt.)

The list will end here. It seemed like a great idea, and then it got entirely too sad when viewed as a societal comment of millennials in general. (Plus, Bridezilla is sitting next to me and I am in fear for my life that she will lean over and read this.)

So, after the longest 10 minutes of my recent life, during which a triple soy latte was guzzled, 6 petite vanilla bean scones and 1 Gogurt from her purse, Bridezilla got up and stomped her way out of our lives. 

I was going to make a joke about missing her already, but its a little late in the game to start lying to each other.

In parting, let me throw some wisdom your way. 

Call your mom, if you are married to the mother of your kids, kiss her, send a text if she is your ex-

And thank her, from the bottom of your heart.

For not being Bridezilla. 

(Unless she is, then you are just fucked, my friend.)

(And if she is Lorraine, dim the lights, get her a glass of wine and rub her feet. You’re fucked too, but in a different way. And if you can get me an invite to the wedding, I would consider it a solid. Thanks bro.)

 

The Caffeinated Humor Books – CLICK HERE

The PODCAST – CLICK HERE

 
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Posted by on November 24, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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The podcast is live!!!!

The Caffeinated Humor Podcast is Live!!!

Read and listen! The blog that does it ALL for you!

https://anchor.fm/caffeinatedhumor

 
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Posted by on October 28, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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My whore-like existence

The brilliance of this blog is a lot like an orgasm from a celibate man. It’s more than you expect, a little overwhelming and will most likely get you right between the eyes.

Like an intellectual money shot that gets in your eyes and blurs your vision for a moment.

FYI, some of these images are meant to be disturbing.

A little like a mental Rolfing that leaves you refreshed, but in a little or a lot of pain.

So, that being said, here is the wisdom.

Your shit is not that fucking important.

Before you dismiss that, think about it, not read it and sip your soy milk, 2 shot, caramel latte with cinnemon and sprinkles that you paid $6.99 no less, and actually think about it.

Let me define “Shit” for you.

Shit is a generic term with rude imagery for a purpose.

It denotes your politics, food choices, pets, children, religious beliefs, and anything not covered previously in this sentence.

Now for the other shoe.

Not that fucking important means Not that fucking important to anyone else.

This whole train of thought was brought on by some over the top statements on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram by some serious attention whoring drama queens that all make the same sad desperate “Look at me” statements.

If you like (Insert person, cause or belief) then unfriend me now. (Insert a whiny point of view usually based on poorly reported biased news.)

It wears on you after awhile.

One particularly stunning woman I know made this comment to anyone thinking about voting for a political candidate that they don’t like.

I didn’t unfriend her, but I did unfollow her, she is a fan of the blog. (I truly hope she reads this and understands that its nothing personal, but she is a dipshit. She also like to post lingerie pics that are worth seeing. Don’t judge me.)

Unfollowing is a good way of making sure that when I post, they get my post, but I don’t have to be bothered with their fleshy-headed bullshit any more than I have to.

At first glance, you might think there is a mean edge to this post, today.

Far from it.

This is more of the blogging version of tough love.

Like a stern parent or a tough cop, occasionally, I have to go upside your head to get your attention and change your perspective.

And, like all children of stern parents, you try to rebel, bitch about how harsh it is and then, years later, you realize how goddam right I am.

Your welcome.

And yet, there is also a seedy side to this.

Like I have said before, to achieve the pure innocence that I have, you have to travel just as far down other side of the scale so it all balances out.

And yet, I never rebelled against my parents.

I don’t view that as a weakness of character, especially when its the opposite.

You would have to know the absolute forces of nature I call mom and dad just to understand that synchronicity made total sense.

Mom is a total therapist, been a professional psychic for over half a century, and dad is the original man, a mechanic with a rock solid lock on how a man behaves in the world.

My gratitude for the luck of my birth and my parents is boundless.

And here we are.

I do not view their influence as having to do with the cruder side of this blog, that unfortunately, is all me.

I have taken what they gave me, and turned myself into some sort of sex worker in print.

You come here, once a week, do your business, avoid eye contact, then leave awkwardly.

You could at least leave the money on the dresser on your way out.

Or a cup of coffee.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on August 12, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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Are you talking to me?

Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself do not become a monster… for when you gaze long into the abyss. The abyss gazes also into you.”

Nietzsche was a mentally twisted beast of a human being.

But, he did have a point.

I got an email. No big deal.

I get a lot of emails, mostly spam. (Viagra, rogain and life insurance. This should bother me more, not sure why it doesn’t.)

But, there is also a certain percentage of inevitable hate mail that this juvenile screed scares up on a regular basis, week in, week out, often by the same people.

And it rarely bothers me, mainly because I value very few opinions higher than my own.

And critics kind of rate at the bottom of that list.

But, every now and then someone pops up that truly has an intellect, expression, brilliance and puts down a scathing rebuked that throws me into the shit.

Who is this superior being? The erudite elitist that has that kind of clout?

Me.

Shit from pretty much everyone else is water off a ducks back.

But what happens when it comes from the duck?

And here is how it started.

Some jagoff sent me hatemail and said I was like a monster.

Didn’t call me a monster, said I was like a monster.

Probably a throw away line from this person that meant nothing.

I read it a few days ago, and don’t even recognize what it was that caused the twisting of the panties.

It came from one of those people that I get crap email from all the time.

But it struck a nerve, made me think.

Thinking is a lot like looking in a mirror.

And the last thing a monster wants is to look in the mirror.

There is that moment of recognition of being a monster, and that delayed hit of realizing that you didn’t start out this way.

The abyss of this blog has been staring into me long enough that it has changed my perspective.

I used to sit in the normal section and point out the funny shit over in the asshole seats.

Now? After almost 5 years and 600+ posts?

I live in the asshole section.

Hell, I am the mayor.

My filter is gone and what is spewing out of the pipes is some foul shit.

So be it.

The one thing that Nietzsche never figured out was this:

Being a monster doesn’t bother the monster.

He likes being a monster.

Its a lot like being an 800 pound gorilla with a big dick.

It intimidates a lot of people, and the ones it doesn’t are the only players of the game you are likely to find.

And these players will pick up the shit you throw out.

And throw it back.

And thats fun.

 
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Posted by on May 6, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

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The naive 1% who care, but not really.

Stop trying to guilt me into doing something that will do ABSOLUTELY nothing to help someone else.

“99% of you will not share this…” This beautiful little slice of massive guilt is always contained somewhere within the message on Facebook, shared by some soft-headed prole who’s lemming-like instincts FORCED them to stab the “Share” button.

And the message is always some over the top, hideous tale that would make both Sarah McLachlan  and the dogs cry their eyes out.

The bulk of the message is some syrupy wretched tale of woe that is the stuff of nightmares.

But, half or three quarters of the way thru the poorly worded message is a guilt trip that would put a jewish mother to shame.

And, the demand is always the same.

“Please share this and get the word out. I know that 99% of you don’t have the heart, while the 1% who will actually care.”

Translation? “YOU ROTTEN GUILT FUCK!”

Now, and this really is the interesting part, clicking like or share does absolutely nothing for the particular wretch involved.

Even just spreading awareness it still does nothing in terms of forming a response.

It reminds me of the social media campaign to fight human trafficking.

It took picture of celebrities holding a sign that says “Real men don’t buy girls.” And put them on Facebook with the guilt-share demand.

Are we talking about hookers or slaves?

30 seconds of Google research later, it turns out that its both.

Children forced into prostitution and/or forced into porn or old school slavery, presumably out of the country.

An ugly business, but one that has only one certainty.

And that is, clicking “Share” will not help anyone. At all. Seriously. No fucking around here. Really. Like head-out-of-your-ass really.

And the use of Sean Penn as a deterrent is a little iffy at best.

I seem to remember an early interview with him in which he admitted to visiting prostitutes.

His sign should have read, “Real men don’t buy girls, ANYMORE.”

I am probably going to get sued for that one.

I am fine with that, he can have half of a penniless blog as a settlement.

I have been taking Muay Thai and Judo to prepare for his attacking me on the street.

I figure if he is willing to swing at photographers that get too close, he would be more than willing to beat me like a rented mule for outright slander.

Rumor has it that Madonna got into kickboxing shortly after the divorce.

But, that is the problem with the empty headed idiocy of social media.

People can get the emotional quick fix of thinking they are involved and doing something, all the while not doing a damn thing that will actually help.

Like the sex trafficking issue.

The people, mainly men, who engage in that industry, from John’s buying quick time in a gas station bathroom, to the serious slave traders, could care less than a shit about what you think of them.
The people who sell other people understand money and guns and that is pretty much it.

A pimp is never a timid person, easily swayed by public opinion and the slave traders are down right brutal.

The bottom line is, if you want to get involved, get off your ass.

If not, quit making an ass out of yourself by pretending you are.

Some of us are sick of this shit.

 
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Posted by on August 8, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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