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Tag Archives: satire

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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Raising the adult child.

It can be difficult, raising an adult child.

And I am not referring to a child that is late teens or early 20’s.

I mean the one you married.

There is a couple in Starbucks that fit this little scenario.

Lets call him Workman

And Workman looks exhausted.

Like, working 3 jobs type exhausted.

He swills coffee like a man trying to jumpstart his battered and spirit-broken heart.

Like he either wants a caffeine rush or a coronary, either one will do.

And sittlng across from him is a little honey we will call Babs.

Babs has that alert but useless look to her.

Just had her nails, hair, clothes, you names it, this leech has had it done by a professional recently.

And Workman is on the hook for indulging “Daddy’s girl”.

5 minutes of listening in fleshes out the story.

They both had solid careers.

And then she lay prone one evening and conceived.

Once the baby was born, an ugly cycle began.

The stay at home mom was born.

Don’t get me wrong, when your kidlets are wee ones, someone who shares the same blood should be with them, 24 7.

However, Babs and Workman’s kidlet just went back to college from the Xmas break.

And Babs is talking about getting involved with a ladies group for an “Event”.

Here’s why I am a psychic, watch me predict the future.

I know nothing about Bab’s, the other ladies involved, or the “Event”, but I will make a little prediction.

1. It will cost Workman money. (This one is a gimme, but I have taken an instant dislike to Babs and feel the need to point it out.)

2. It will not accomplish anything substantial in the real world. (By this I mean, if it is not completely obvious to anyone that sees it and requires anything that resembles an explanation.)

3. It will be little more than an ego stroke for a gaggle of well monied, useless house fraus from the beach cities. (Kind of like the human version of a Lamprey. A fish that attaches itself to other fish and eats the scraps.)

This annoys the crap out of me. Its like having a permanent house guest that will never leave, pick up a check, but will bitch at you about how little respect she gets.

However, its a common story, you know 3 or 4 Babs in your daily life, we all do.

Workman is stuck, raising the adult child.

And this is not a sexist thing, for every Babs, there is a Bob. (Male version of Babs)

I think recognition of who the Babs and Bobs in our lives are is sexist.

Men can only see Babs, but the Bobs are invisible to them.

Women can only see Bobs, and cannot see Babs at all.

And both are convinced that the others are lazy pieces of shit.

Sad thing is, they are both right.

There is a saying about marriage, you either grow together or you grow apart.

But what if one of you grows lazy, while the other one grows overworked and tired.

Eventually the Workman of the couple will either grow a lawyer or a coronary.

And really, both are preferable.

There is a reason why children grow up before you get sick of handling all of it.

Now imagine a child that never grows up, you end up “handling it” forever, but the child will bitch about how tired they are of the lack of respect for their “position” in the household.

You might be tempted to say that this is from my perspective and that I am transferring it onto Workman and Babs.

Wrong.

Its equal parts taken from their conversation, a little poetic license and the final part is my love of the annoying extreme.

And the fact that I don’t like Babs.

Makes me wonder what Workman sees in that leech.

 
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Posted by on February 14, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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