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What did you get her?

The setting is this.

Starbucks. Morning. Saturday. Insomnia. Coffee. Mmmmm. Few people. Guy on phone. Talking too loud. I am sitting too close. GO.

Here is what I have figured out so far.

He is talking to someone on the phone. Has to be a woman and based on a comment about “When we were kids.” I am guessing its his sister.

He is divorced. Its a Saturday, he is alone and not working on a “Honey-do” list. Also, there is no wedding ring, but perhaps a dent in his ring finger from a ring in the past.

Plus there is that single guy confusion rather than that married guy “certainty of being just plain fucked” aura to him.

And it seems that he has run into an impasse with a woman he is dating.

Evidently, he screwed things up last night and has called his sister to get her perspective on his mistakes.

He has yet to sleep with said woman he is dating yet.

But, they have discussed it.

She has mentioned being good at blowjobs. (Odds are she never said this. She said something that he interpreted as concerning blowjobs.)

He, surprise surprise here, likes a good bj. (You and every other swinging dick out there, buddy.)

Don’t start groaning yet, we all know its coming, but don’t get ahead of the story.

So, he got her a rather expensive jacket, and gave it to her a few days before Christmas.

So, deer in the headlights, no gift to give him back, she indicated that she hadn’t gotten him anything yet.

So he suggested a blowjob.

The stupid peeps out there are wondering what is wrong with this.

There are a number of ways to take this, and none of them are good.

The nicest way I can think of is that he gave her dick for Christmas, wrapped in a jacket.

And you want to save the paper on that one.

The worst way is that he called her an old school whore.

I have yet to make this particular mistake, not sure how I missed that.

I never intend to make mistakes, but I have a problem with running my mouth.

And, if you ramble long enough, just about anything is capable of coming out of your mouth.

I have been dealing with this for so long, that when everything goes wrong, I tend to just laugh.

And that never helps.

Nothing takes a pissed off woman and shoves her rage thru the freaking rafters than laughing when she’s pissed.

But this guy has an innocent stupidity to him that is almost endearing.

I mean, he’s giving away dick for Christmas, and she is at the head of the line.

She should feel good that he holds her in such high esteem.

And she could be at the front of that line or the back. Count your blessings.

Seems like a win-win, right?

All of a sudden he and I both being divorced makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?

Remember, always save the paper, no matter what its wrapped around.

 
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Posted by on January 2, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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Your dirty, sexy mouth.

Picture this in your head.

Picture the woman that says the following phrase.

“Finish your coffee, I’m gonna go push out a gang of tootsie rolls and then we’ll roll.”

What is the image in your head?

More specifically, what does the trailer park she lives in look like?

Is Walmart involved?

Now, here is the reality.

Mid-40’s, attractive brunette.

High end business suit, hair styled by someone that probably costs a fortune.

Mercedes smart key on the keychain.

iPhone 6 sitting on the table.

This is a high end business woman.

With the communication skills of a foul mouthed teenager before curse words come into play.

It really ruins the overall desirability of the rather expensively hot look she has put together.

For the mind, that is.

The penis could care less if she shit herself, he is still up for play time.

Very one track mind, the penis.

The woman disturbed me for a few minutes mainly because she didn’t fit the niche I had carved out for her in my head.

In my head, she was a sophisticated, flirty, wholly desirable business woman in an age range that is totally at her peak, physically and sexually.

And then, my mind made the correction and put her in the niche she belongs in, and all was better.

Salesman.

And now her phrasing made sense.

Salesman have a relationship with the spoken word much like a john with a Bangkok hooker.

Use it to do things you should be ashamed of, for money.

Sales is the type of profession that kind of removes your filters when you are not speaking to a client.

You have to be very controlled in not only what you say to a client, but also, how you say it.

When that is no longer required, the kid gloves come off.

I was a salesman for about 10 years, and this blog reminds me a lot of my mouth during that period.

Not a lot of filtering going on.

But back to the situation at hand.

My disappointment is huge.

I hate having my semi ruined mid-lust. (Anyone but me get this one?)

Eventually the hot, potty mouthed business woman returns from her presumed tootsie roll dropping, and they leave.

And the whole thing has left me slightly twisted.

I spend a lot of my time slightly twisted as it is, so when I hit something that shoves me further down that road against my will, it ruins my equilibrium.

Even coffee is not helping.

That alone tells you how disconcerting this is, because coffee usually fixes EVERYTHING.

I was so upset, I got another vente house drip.

And if you follow the news, you know that Starbucks house drip has the highest caffeine content of any national coffee house.

A vente cup has roughly 415mg of caffeine.

I have had 2 in the span of an hour.

There is a legal limit of 250mg of caffeine per hour in the state of California. (I could be wrong)

So, having ingested 830mg puts me over 3 times the legal limit.

Which explains my attraction to the hot, yet dirty, businesswoman.

I no longer question what goes on when I am under the influence.

This comes from years of morning after examinations.

At least with caffeine, you will never wake up with indelible marker writing on your face.

And sadly, with caffeine, you will never wake up after a black out evening to find yourself in bed with a hot businesswoman, dirty mouth or not.

 
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Posted by on December 12, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Thanksgiving – No holds barred.

Thanksgiving was yesterday, so lets figure out what we are thankful for.

But first, a small rant presented as bullet point.

  • A grand jury could not find enough evidence to even go to trial.
  • The disinfrachized used the opportunity to loot and cause mayhem.
  • The professional protestors furthered their private agendas and caused mayhem.
  • The handful of actually outraged protesters found their public statements swallowed by the lawlessness of others.
  • In the end, nothing was served, certainly not justice, one side or the other.

Now, lets get to the thankful.

  • A little new life joined my clan. Yay for us.
  • The broken nose from Judo appears to be back to normal. I had a little cartilage bump in my left nostril that is still there.
  • Went back to Judo. After a week off for the nose, a week travelling, and then getting a cold/bronchitis, I finally got back to class. 3 weeks off at my age is not doing me any favors. Began to feel like the shadow of my ass weighed 20 lbs.
  • The wonder kids of mine are doing well. Their genetics are superior, so this does not shock me.
  • The Chromebook I bought for writing may become my home computer. Still incredibly fast and hooks into the 21” monitor without an issue.
  • My penis is doing well.(Not sure why I included this, but it is nice to see an old friend aging well.)

Thanksgiving with my extended family, at least the ones that still show up, as opposed to the smart ones that have figured out somewhere else to go, is always trying at best.

Think about my sarcastic, cynical mind, and then think about the kind of people and environment that would have to be in place to create that kind of cerebral vile and you begin to see why I dread these holidays.

Its a lot like boxing.

Keep your hands up and protect yourself at all times.

And if you step into the ring, you are going to get hit.

Here are three of the best comments overheard at Thanksgiving in recent years:

  • Thats your fourth glass of wine, good to see you are cutting back.
  • I think its great that you have decided not to drive yourself crazy with all of that dieting nonsense, and just be happy. Good for you. (Same conversation as the wine comment.)
  • The last one is not a comment, but a conversation that I caught the tail end of. I had brought a friend to Thanksgiving and went to get us some pumpkin pie. I got back to the table and just caught the end of my Alzheimer’s ridden great uncle, describing in graphic detail, what appeared to be anal sex, complete with hand gestures. She took it well.

In the end, Thanksgiving with the family is a lot like being mauled by a bear.

Survival is all you are shooting for.

 

 
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Posted by on November 28, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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My whore complex.

There is something horrific about a woman in her 70’s that likes to chase men half her age.

For the record, I am not a whore.

But, this is what happened.

I was driving a long distance thing recently.

4-5 hours in a crappy rental car is enough to make anyone a little punchy.

I can drive that far only if I have adequate amounts of caffeine.

Which explains why I am in a Starbucks in a major tourist city.

And that was when I met Betty.

Betty is 70 years old.

I know this because Betty told me.

Would you like to know what else Betty told me in the span of 3.5 minutes in line?

1. Betty’s husband, Herman, sleeps 12 hours a day and has not had sex with her for over 25 years.

2. Betty loves men in their 40’s. (This was said after she asked me my age.)

3. Betty has the cutest condo, just down the street, and I should come see it.

And then she bought me Coffee and a scone.

Let me paint you a picture.

The grand mother of ancient whores is prowling tourist spots and attempting to buy souls for coffee and shitty English pastry.

And the worst part is, she is cheap and has low standards.

You might think I am smacking myself here, I’m really not.

I am a realist.

I am five feet nothing with a gut, a bad attitude and tend to scowl when thinking about things.

This is not the usual demographic of a gigolo.

I have had friends over the years that were the type of good-looking that men, women, and couples would hit on them.

I am not that guy, and I came to peace with that long ago.

There is a solid reason I developed this vengeful nasty attitude.

But, this is not about me, this is about Betty.

Betty is a realist too.

Betty is not searching for Mr. Right.

Betty is looking for Mr. Right Now.

Someone who would be more than willing to drop whatever they were going to do on a Tuesday at 11am at a tourist stop, and give up the goods back at her retiree, ben gay smelling condo, all for the price of a coffee and pastry.

I should be insulted, but I find the whole thing kind of desperately charming.

Betty is not from a generation that does this.

So my mind immediately goes to what road led Betty here.

She let me quiz her for the better part of 10 minutes before she finally figured out I was not a team player and just turned and walked off, getting back into line behind a mid thirties redneck wearing an Earnhardt tee shirt.

I watched the whole thing unfold as I ate my cranberry-orange scone.

Jethro, for lack of a better name, listened as Betty laid it all out to him. He then got his coffee, took a bite of the cookie she bought him, and headed out the door with a delighted Betty.

You have to wonder how it all turned out.

Did she enjoy herself? Probably. I mean this is evidently her whole thing. God knows how many times a day Betty is making the Starbucks run.

Did he enjoy himself? Probably. Women that old usually know their game well. Also, it may have been quite a while since Jethro got anything other than chafing marks from his right hand. Its called lotion people. Look into it.

Did Herman wake up and realize his wife is banging countless strangers in the guest bedroom? For all we know, Herman is dead and his memory is now being served up as part of Betty’s “Mercy fuck” pitch

Did I miss out? Probably not. I am in my own head often enough to know that this twisted little scenario is tailor made for nightmares and indigestion and being even more of a disappointment in the sack.

So, all in all, Betty actually gave me a better gift than some wrinkled ass and crying in the shower.

A somewhat lurid blog, which I always love, and an interesting half hour during a boring drive.

Plus, the coffee was good. (And I do enjoy a good scone.)

 
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Posted by on October 3, 2014 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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You can’t sue me for being lazy.

I am not sure I can get much lazy-er and still be considered living.

I have a nephew that entered the military a few weeks back.

Much to my shame, I just sent the first letter today.

I was in the Army years ago and basic training sucked.

I come from such a close family that the culture shocked was huge.

While the nephew in question comes from every bit the close family situation, he seems a hell of a lot tougher than I was at that age.

But basic training eats away at your old comfort spots, replacing them with new ones in the long run, but for the short term, you are kind of screwed.

But I loved getting mail.

Here is where I hit new highs of laziness.

I didn’t physically write a letter, at least, not in the conventional sense.

I found a website, cut and pasted content, paid just under $2 and they are mailing out my letter for me.

I used this site only because I could not find one to write the letter for me as well.

But the shame factor is hard to get by. (The being raised both Irish and Catholic only ratchets up the guilt factor.)

The results are, a letter was definitely sent. Maybe by a surrogate, but it still went.

By my standards, I am golden, the ultimate uncle.

I have been reminded that I am not the boy’s uncle.

Technically, he is my first cousin’s son, but I come from a large immigrant family, there are literally dozens of cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, and everything else in between.

Dealing with a crowd that large is tough unless you streamline the process.

Here is how it works. Anyone within about 5 years of my age up or down is a cousin, anyone younger than that is a niece or nephew, and anyone older is an aunt or uncle.

Within the family, everyone gets it. Outside the family? You get nothing but stares and confusion.

But, and I understand this one better than most, there is a fine line between being totally clueless and completely getting it.

Perspective is everything.

Perspective is caused by experience.

If you ever want marriage advice, avoid counsellors like the plague.

Seek out a couple that has been married for more than 40 years.

These are two people who raised kids, grew up, grew apart, grew back together, and managed to keep all the plates spinning for decades.

This is who you want advice from.

Counsellors, as a general rule, are single or have been married less than a decade, usually without kids.

And if you take your car to a mechanic who doesn’t drive, you will pay for an overhaul you don’t need.

Marriage, as well as most things in life, require that you work your ass off or they will stagnate and die off.

Trust me on this one, I have lived thru that one.

Enough said.

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Let a Player play!

Every now and then, I ask myself, “What would Jesus do?”

I am pretty sure the answer is not “Smack a bitch.”

Although, the guy at the next table seems to think that is a viable answer to the issue with his, I am guessing here, girlfriend.

Girlfriend is a very loose term that I gleaned from his frequent comments about, and I am quoting, “That wack bitch.”

Shakespeare was known to coin many words and phrases in the course of his writings, but I don’t believe he was the originator of “Wack bitch.”

Setting: Starbucks on Grand, El Segundo, California. 2nd table from the front. Morning, weekend.

1st table, right in the middle of a busy morning rush line, is The Player.

I am not sure who he is talking to based largely on his REALLY poor communication skills.

I thought he was talking to a friend about said “Wack Bitch”, and then, he made a comment about “You know what’s you done.” (Direct confusing quote there.)

I have no clue. (Then again, I don’t think I would be scooting that far out on a limb to say that The Player may not have a cache of clues squirreled away back at the house.)

Every now and then, I come across an example of humanity that really makes me dread the future of this country.

And I am fairly certain that hip hop is involved.

Don’t get me wrong, I used to listen to some of the most gritty, grungy, crappy music out there, but hip hop seems to have a rear-naked choke on raw intelligence that will not only end the fight, but the concept of intelligence itself may end up dead as a result.

The argument could be made that this is racist or class-derogatory or even as a reach, Moperic. (Google the word Mopery. Work with me here.)

If it sounds like I am being hard on the younger generation, please understand that its intentional.

Its not that I think they are dumb, far from it.  (My own brilliant  bloodlines  excluded).

I KNOW the younger generation are dumb.

(Sidenote. I would use the crudish term “Tarded” here, but the sheer volume of hate email that follows takes hours to sort thru. And the incredibly poor grammar always gets nasty responses back from me, which only makes things worse. Shoot me, but for God’s sake, use a comma and look up the meaning of a double negative.)

I would worry about backlash from the younger generation, except that it is a well known fact that, unless accompanied by a pic, such as a 12-step affirmation printed on top of a low graphic photo on Facebook, they cannot read.

I would say that a formal declaration of war against ignorance has been made. My own particular brand of ignorance is hereby excluded.

Think of my perspective as the Geneva Convention of online blog wars except for the implied “Take no prisoners” clause.

As always, if any of this bothers you, feel free to write your own blog.

From a cathartic standpoint, this blog has always existed as a mental chamber pot that I routinely fill with the shit in my head, to be dumped out the window at random intervals, to land on the unsuspecting and the dumb.

Talk amongst yourselves.

 
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Posted by on July 4, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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There is no link between healthcare and hot lesbians. Maybe.

Health insurance is now like a financial herpes.

Its worse than you ever thought it would be, the person that gave it to you lied about how bad it was, and you will never get rid of it.

Lucky us, we all made the same poor choice of who we took home from the dance.

Like your father said when you got the sex talk, make sure you wear a condom.

Damn.

The reason for my disenchantment with comprehensive healthcare is that I started a new job and got my healthcare.

And a small get-by policy that I had 3 years ago has gotten worse and more than doubled in cost. ( Before you try to go down the “It’s better” road, don’t. I went over the premiums and coverage, its not.

Lots of people are in the same boat.

However, if you voice your concern about the financial prison rape that goes on, depending on what state you are in, your state senator will call you a liar.

And nobody seems to give a shit.

Oh well, this would not be the first time that the government has lied thru their teeth and screwed us in the process.

The above sentences have now placed me on a No-fly list and for the next few years, I will be under a sort of “House arrest” in the state of California, without the indignity of an ankle bracelet.

Lucky me.

That being said, this pissy little rant was brought on by 2 different things.

The first is the healthcare discussion going on at the next table.

There are two early twenty somethings not really discussing, but rather whining incessantly about the fact that, despite the fact that they voted for and were in favor of the Affordable Blah Blah Blah they are now shocked that they both have to buy it, and it is not cheaper as promised.

I remember the early twenties, its a period marked by its hapless stupidity.

Regardless of what party you belong to, we can all agree that we’re just fucked in this together.

After 300+ words of soapbox type pontificating, lets move on to something more fun.

There are two hot ladies making out at one of the tables.

I know, I know, its a juvenile thing, objectifies women, but its still cool.

Besides, if you are going to make out in a Starbucks on the cheap cushions of the bench seat, then you obviously, on some level, want people to watch.

And some of us will. Shamelessly.

There is a basic male fantasy that most men have, even the guys who claim they don’t.

Its the whole sexy lesbians thing. Its not a mature thing, its dumb and bigoted, and anyone with a set of testicles is drawn to it like a moth to a bug light.

It may make you a dick and politically incorrect, but it doesn’t make you a bad person.

I once dated a girl who liked to make out in public. She was into the passion, but she needed the people around her involved to be a part of it.

So, looked at that way, they are sharing it all with us.

Its always nice to be included.

 
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Posted by on April 14, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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If it weren’t for hockey.

Rain has come to Southern California.

You would think it was a plague of frogs, judging by the over reactions of some people.

Its just water, for Christ’s sake.

Here is a verbatim conversation from the table next to me.

“Look at that.”

“Dude.”

“Man, how am I gonna get home?”

“Dude.”

“Thats not safe!”

“Dude.”

The participants in this little exchange are late teens to early twenties, totally lending credibility to my theory that pretty much everyone in that age range are functionally ‘tarded. (Don’t email me, I mean it in the good way.)

And, just judging from the hip, both of these boy’s Kush cards are up to date and probably well worn.

But, hey, no brains, no headaches.

Back to the subject at hand.

Water.

Its about as basic nature as it gets.

But people like these two still freak out.

And the sad thing is, its not even raining too hard.

This is one of the side effects of living in Southern California.

The ground may shake every now and then, but you can still go surfing afterwards.

But let the skies weep a little bit and half of the local indigenous population will shit themselves.

Could be worse, I’m just not sure how.

I lived in Portland, Oregon for a few years, and they are the exact opposite.

It rains roughly 9 months out of the year, so you are always a little soggy.

You don’t even notice it after awhile.

That is how you know a tourist in Portland, they are the only ones carrying umbrellas.

But, a little after my 3rd month of moving in, there was a 2.6 earthquake, really rare.

Within 30 seconds of a shaker so weak you could barely feel it, my neighbors were out in the middle of the street, some in their pajamas.

There was some talk of the need to hoard canned goods and drink toilet water.

I think everyplace has something that the locals will freak out about.

Its in human nature to pick out something that rarely happens and then treat it like the terrifying first time every time it happens.

Gotta wonder how this started.

Probably in Canada somewhere.

And I only say that because, in the grand scheme of things, the Canadians are the guilty red-headed stepchild of North America who’s only redeeming contribution to the world is the great sport of hockey and Wayne Gretzky.

I am sure the Canadians started the trend of fear that now plagues the world.

Some Canuck ran into something unusual and freaked out. Something that you rarely see in Canada, like a bar of soap or a job, then all hell broke loose.

(I love smacking Canada, they’re such victims.)

All kidding aside, its the frightful superstition that really shapes our traditions.

Most holidays are based on them.

Would we have Halloween without someone, somewhere, being scared shitless about something the Canadians had done? (Did you really think I was done with that?)

Fear is a great motivator in life, don’t discount it.

Fear can be a better motivator than sex.

In that period immediately after you finally get sex of any sort, you can be afraid of something.

Hell, depending on who you had sex with, you could be afraid of what your new found friend might have given you.

(Better hope she’s not Canadian.)

 
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Posted by on March 3, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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Where do bad girl’s come from?

Where do all the bad girl’s come from?

And I am not talking about the ones we went to high school with, we all pretty much KNOW where they came from.

I mean the next generation of questionable floozies that are coming up thru the ranks as we speak.

Two of them, at least are in Starbucks right now.

It is Saturday afternoon and I am taking a break from a bike ride along the beach because my ass falls asleep if I don’t.

And, if the idea of it being sunny enough in Southern California to ride along the beach in short while the rest of the US is snowed in and warily eying each other trying to figure out who to eat first, please remember that its all relative.

Not relative in the usual sense, I mean that my relatives had me in a place that the weather rocks most of the time and your relatives decided freezing to death was muy bueno.

Not my fault.

Now, back to the evil with cleavage that are waiting for their lattes.

The management of Starbucks can thank their lucky stars that I do not find women half my age to be viable or they would have a major scene involving the police because I am not above humping a leg in public to make my point.

These girls figured out what men like and the Almighty has blessed them with extra.

Some might argue that showing enough cleavage from a DD cup that there is danger of public nipplege is unecceptable in some part.

I disagree.

However, if either one of these Barely Legal (Girls, not the Hustler video series, not that I’d know.) youngsters was my daughter, the police would be involved.

For homicide.

Modesty is a dead thing in this country.

I saw an interview with a young woman who had put off going to college for a few years because, and I quote, YOLO.

She admited to being 30 years old as the reporter explained that YOLO means “You Only Live Once.”

Two things.

The first one is that putting off college for 12 years is not putting it off, its refusing to admit that you flunked the entrance exam.

The second thing that comes to mind is that, indeed, you only live once, so why waste it as an aging hipster consistantly soaked in Ecstasy, cheap alcohol, and semen from random hook ups.

Two are bad for your complexion and the other will get you aids.

(A friend, reading over my shoulder, just asked me if I am intentionally trying to piss people off. Guilty as charged.)

An interesting flip side of the coin is watching the older men in a locale react to these low-rent ho’s.

Its just an opinion, but a man in his late 40’s that finds an 18 year old girl hot could be a pedophile.

I stopped reading Playboy years ago for this very reason.

She’s not hot if she’s young enough that I could have fathered her.

Argue that one all day long, its not gonna work.

Tell your story walking, Short eyes.

(Found that phrase on Google, prison gaurd slang for pedophile. Thank you Google)

My father once told me, (Source of MASSIVE amounts of wisdom) you are free to look and dress anyway you want to in life, but don’t ever make me embarrassed to point you out as mine.

Words to live by, ladies.

 
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Posted by on January 24, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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