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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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She is woman, hear her roar.

I hate it when anything interrupts my morning coffee.

I take my addiction to caffeine very seriously, and it better be important enough to warrant my attention.

“The shape of his penis is disturbing.”

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

I put my coffee down and begin typing notes into my laptop.

There is a very petite woman at the next table, talking with either a friend or a coworker, I can’t figure which.

Her choice of morning conversation, along with the fact that she is making no attempt to lower her voice, is the beautiful marriage of oblivious and confident as hell.

She is mid twenties, maybe, a tiny woman. A fairly tight black dress with heels. There are some curves going on in that dress. I want to call her French, but that might be because of her hair being pulled up with just a few wispy strands hanging down.

The effect is very attractive without being slutty.

There is a bit of shock at her statement being made to a man. You would expect her to talk that way to a close girlfriend.

Normally, that would throw my suspicion at him as being her gay friend and its safe to talk to him this way.

Except that he is not gay.

How do I know? I mean, I have pure shit for gaydar, but while this guy isn’t exactly a brutish clod, you can’t help but think that he would dress and accessorize better if he were a homosexual.

There is a definite hetero mismatch to his clothing and color choices.

Like I should talk. My fiancee has outright banned a few of my clothing choices, mainly for colors.

“And you should see the joy in his eyes when he knows its too big to be comfortable.”

This is a subtle little phrase that I jotted down and moved on. When I cam back to it later, I was mesmerized by several things.

First off, this girl is a freak. She is currently dating some sort of sadistic porn star with elephantitis of the penis. He likes pain, and apparently, so does she.

Second off, as tiny as she is, it just seems so out of place. She is sitting, but standing, she can’t be more than 4’11 at most, and 80 lbs dripping wet.

Third off, she likes it rough. This is not necessarily a minus here, unless you aren’t packing the angry bulldog of cocks in your pants.

In other words, the rest of us.

Her coworker has yet to say a word. Just a lot of head nodding and “mmmm.”’s in agreement.

I believe she was halfway thru her description of her weekend with “Tono” (What the hell kind of a name is that?) and describing the restraints he liked to use, when I first realized that I was in love.

Not that I am into rough sex, I’m not. But I love that free attitude that you can sit in a Starbucks, surrounded by business people, yoga enthusiasts, parents with their kids, and of course, me, and feel comfortable enough to talk about the absolute BD/SM porn film that your life is.

Incredible.

She is woman hear her roar.

(Just make sure you wear a condom.)

 

 
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Posted by on November 4, 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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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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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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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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Old School Evil Couple.

This is an early argument that a friend reminder me of, that I had all but forgot.

And it involves my favorite couple.

The Evil Couple.

For those new to the blog, the Evil Couple are simply a couple that comes into Starbucks near my office andhas the most uncomfortable arguments where Mrs, Evil treats Mr. Evil (And everyone else around) like shit she found on her shoe. My favorite description is that she treats you like a moron and she is sick of your shit. That little statement is as accurate now as when I first wrote it.

As a visual, Mr. Evil is a doctor (Always wearing scrubs), he has a local practice in Manhattan Beach. He is mid 40’s to 50’s, good looking, and you would trust your health to him.

Mrs. Evil is a conundrum that confuses and delights me, excites and shames me.

She is mid to late 30’s. She wears thick gray sweats, the kind that muscle guys in the 70’s wore, an over sized t-shirt without a bra. Watching her for a few seconds tells you this. When she turns to the side and her breasts (Impressive DD’s) take a second to catch up, you know something is up. Her hair would be long and blond, however, it is never styled and is worn in kind of a low rise blond afro.

This was the only way I have ever seen her dress.

Until recently. Apparently, she is in real estate, and when she is dressed up for work, I have not seen a woman this stunning for a long time.

When she rips into her husband or anyone around her, the entire encounter is made that much more evil by the fact that she has a Russian accent. It shouldn’t, but it does make a difference.

Enough background, on with the shit.

They were waiting for me when I got to Starbucks. The gods smiled and the table next to them was open.

Good. I hate trying to listen in from a few tables away.

Rude? Yes. Fascinating? Absolutely.

Anyway, the argument was just warming up when I got there.

The twins, it seems, were just starting a new school and the question was, “Should they be in the same class?”

“They will be picked on if they are apart, you know this.” Mrs. Evil has a way of ending her sentance that seems to imply that you are simply confused.

“They need to learn to rely on themselves, not on each other.” He is the calm cool voice of reason.

And she could care less.

“Why is it so important to you that they be unhappy?” He voice can drip sarcasm like no other.

“I don’t want them to be unhappy. Miss Cormack said-”

“She was a whore of a teacher, she spent so much time trying to show you her tits. She was a pig.” She finished with a definitive sip of her latte.

Mr. Evil says nothing. What do you say, really? The argument has shifted from arguing about the classroom assignments of the kids, to whether or not their old teacher (?) was a whore. I am a little shocked she hasn’t accused him of sleeping with her.

“I never noticed that sort of behavior.” Mr. Evil’s voice takes on the tone of someone that knows he is fucked, no matter where it goes from here.

“You loved it, go lie to someone else.”

I spoke too soon. I need to be more patient.

His phone chirps like a boon from the gods. The tension seems to breaks a bit.

They begin texting for a few minutes as if they are not in the middle of an argument.

And maybe they aren’t.

Maybe this is the way they interact on the day to day. A friend of mine once gave the opinion that she does this to drive their sex life, and that she must go with him to work and have make up sex either in the elevator or in his office.

At first, I dismissed such a twisted scenario. Maybe there is more to it than I saw then. Maybe twisted is how you have to view it. You have to twist yourself up or it makes no sense.

To quote Mr. Spock, “In an insane society, a sane man must be viewed as insane.”

God, I miss Star Trek.

 
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Posted by on September 2, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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And I’m leaving, on a jet plane…..

I hate packing for trips. I get distracted and forget things. I can’t tell you how many times I have had to freeball it wearing sneakers without socks while travelling.

Leaving from Long Beach Airport instead of LAX seemed like a really good idea, despite the fact that I live less than a mile from LAX.

First of all, the Long Beach flight was $20 less. In retrospect, I really feel like a cheap douche for allowing that to make the decision for me. Besides, even though my girlfriend, my usual ride, was out of town helping to build a town in the desert, my mom offered to drop me off.

However, my folks decided after I booked the flight that a cruise to Alaska sounded better than dropping me off and booked it.

I would complain, but given the choice, I would have left them at the curb for the same thing.

While waiting in line at the airport, there are two girls in the security line ahead of me that are either strippers or want to be strippers. I think they would do well. They seem to have that quality of cheap slutiness that I love in a good stripper. This is a girl that instinctively realizes that an unasked for happy ending to a lap dance gets a much bigger tip.

Broken field runners are born, not made.

From listening in on their conversation, (no you didn’t – yes I did), they are planning to make a scene should they get the advanced pat down from TSA.

But not the scene you think.

The plan, as I understand it, is to begin loudly getting into the pat down as if the entire procedure is a wild sexual experience.

The strippers are beginning to grow on me.

They are planning on opting out of the full body xray.

However, even from where I am behind them in line, I can see that there is no full body xray machine. Long Beach doesn’t have them.

This is not phasing the strippers.

This is how it went down. The girls walked thru the metal detector without a beep and then told the TSA officer that they wanted to opt out, and would rather be patted down. Giggling the whole time.
The TSA agent was a husky woman that may be involved with MMA fighting. There is a “I am being nice, but don’t fuck with me.” look on her face.

“Can’t opt out of an xray we don’t have, grab your shoes and enjoy your flight, move along.”

It was one of those barks of command that makes you follow it immediately if you are not prepared.

The strippers shuffled off, thoroughly bummed. I felt a little let down that I would not get to what the fake public orgasm.

Fake or not, that type of thing is hot. For example, I do not think Meg Ryan is hot, but the scene in “When Harry met Sally” when she faked the orgasm gives me a semi just thinking about it.

I went thru security with no more hassles. The strippers were no where to be seen.

Bummer.

Two  Questions.

First question. What possesses a 500 pound man to travel on a budget airline with little skinny ass seats?

Second question. Where does a 500 pound man sit while flying?

Right next to me, evidently.

I spent an hour and a half buried alive on my way to visit my kids today.

I read an article a few months back about some huge guy that was out raged over having to pay for a second seat on a flight. The article raged about the inhumanity and embarrassment the airline caused this poor man.

I get it now.

To use an old line, the shadow of this man’s ass weighed 50 pounds.

Mean? Yes, Funny? Questionable. Is it a fact? I think so.

After a short conversation, it turns out that Jaba the Frequent Flier has a small plumbing business.

How the hell does a 500 pound plumber crawl around under the house?

The simple answer is one of physics and reality. He doesn’t.

I didn’t ask, he offered the info. Brand new apprentices will crawl around under the house and install your plumbing rather than the portly plumber. Plumbing put together but novices, after some quick instruction.

A really expensive form of DIY job. Except that when they leave, you are left with a plumbing job that has a timer on it as to when, not if, it goes wrong and pumps shit onto your lawn, and a whole lot of twinkie wrappers left at the side of the house.

At first, I was all excited about the flight. It seems that Jet Blue has installed all seats with tvs on the back of the headrest.

I can sit at home and flip thru over 250 channels for an hour before I realize there is nothing to watch. I don’t know what possessed me to think that Jet Blue would suddenly crack that code and be able to provide non-suckable programing.

As I dig out from the flesh burial that Jaba provided, I realized that tv would not be necessary.

The strippers were sitting in front of me.

A complimentary beverage was provided. The girls finally got the chance to opt out of something. A soda. They ordered white wine. It came in these little single serving bottles. The really interesting part was, that as soon as the stewardess moved out of eye view, the girls pulled little bottles out of their bags. How they got them was a mystery, either TSA didn’t notice or the little terminal store was selling wine that I did not see.

Wine is normally sipped. However, smuggled wine, drank by sloppy blondes mid-flight, is guzzled like cold medicine before school.

In short order, the blondes were drunk.

Thats when the discussion began.

Evidently, blonde number one is dating a gentleman with an enormous penis. Her description of it was both loud and used comparisons that you would never associate with genitalia.

Having a penis the length of a river bass may be an impressive thing, but I have no idea. I don’t like sea food.

And maybe the ladies out there can help me out on this one, but is having a penis shaped “Just like a cat’s head” really something you want? I am not a woman, but even I winced at that one.

The rest of the flight was a combination of watching various people around the strippers glare at them, no one manned up and told them to keep it down, and a continual motion of trying to get out from behind a wall of Jaba’s flesh that I suspect was his arm. It is like treading water, thick clammy water that smells vaguely of old spice and potato chips.

$20s in savings turned out to be pretty damned expensive.

Not all savings are in cash.

 
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Posted by on August 29, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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The weaker sex.

Divorced women have a serious agenda.

When a man gets divorced, we go thru this juvenile “I’m free” thing in our heads. This leads to a lot of whoring around whenever possible, but usually a rejuvenation of the personality. Its like the filter of marriage dampens you down and shuts you up. In divorce, you suddenly find the handcuffs off that you didn’t realize were there, and you can now speak your mind.  This is sometimes a good thing.But what if you are kind of an obnoxious dick?

Take up blogging, works like a fucking charm.

Women, however, view divorce as a kaleidoscope of things.

Empowering, rejuvenating, reinvention, life changing. They start new businesses, join a book club, read these books. (Not even the trashy stuff, but stuff Oprah recommends) Often times, a support group erupts.

And that is when the trouble begins.

Oprah is not pro man. This is a given. She is part of that, “Men are the problem.” thing. Keep in mind that Oprah is single and has been for a long time. Never take your car to a mechanic that never learned to drive. She has a female friend, named Gayle, that goes everywhere with her, and a constantly missing man in her life named Stedman. If a friend in high school had the same scenario in their life, you would have called bullshit long ago.

I have a relative that has had a long time girlfriend, that no one has ever met, but hangs out 24 7 with his “buddy” and room mate. They even go on vacation together because they are such good “Friends”. (Putting quotes around anything makes it suspect.) No one is really fooled, but it has made for some wonderfully awkward Thanksgiving dinners over the years. The yearly answer to mom’s question of when is he getting married and having kids is met with stock quotes from the Liberace play book. “I’m working too much.” “I’m concentrating on my career.” Laughing in the middle of the silence that follows will get you chewed out by my mother in a heartbeat, trust me on that one.

Sorry, off on a tangent there.

Divorced women tend to get together to talk about something called “Feelings”

Stop laughing, I’m being serious here.

Divorced women should never be allowed to congregate together.

Whole lotta “All men are bastards!” Oprah shit going down. Its a mob mentality at that point as they support and empower the living shit out of each other. I’ve seen it and its a terrifying thing. Nobody ends up dead but suddenly, the alimony triples and she’s fighting over custody of your pet rock.

Because here’s the problem.

We are bastards.

Sounds simple, but think about it. It is like that old Aesop’s fable about the woman that finds the half dead snake, nurses him back to health, and when he bites her and she asks how could he do that? He says, you knew I was a snake when you took me in.

Exactly.

And no, I am not saying that all men will wander around with their penis out, 24 7, looking for takers. But we
do still slither around quite a bit. By the purist definition of a divorced woman men are bastards, even the good one. Ask a holy roller, born again Christian if someone that doesn’t go to their church is sinful. 10 for 10 they are a sinner.

Its the perspective the shapes the answer, even before you ask the question.

But we are still men. Most women want a man to “Be a man”. But only to a woman’s definition. Again, perspective. Sensitive, funny, caring, intellectual, loves my mother, good with children, has an eye for flowers and foreign films, loves cats, is not afraid to cry and loves quiche.

Those men are out there, but they’re gay.

Just to throw it out there, I like quiche, but very hetero. I have it on authority from a gay friend that I am
what is referred to as “Tragically hetero”, and that even faking it is not very believable. I asked him if thats an insult, and he said only if you are gay.

Women are complicated creatures, you hear that one a lot.. No their not, they’re nuts! Beware of any creature that can bleed for 3 days, AND NEVER DIE.

Women are from Venus.

Great, aliens.

It all comes into focus. Its pretty obvious that women didn’t come from this planet.
Because if women are from Venus, men are from earth.

Or, it could just be a bullshit metaphor.

Maybe we are just spending too much time over-thinking it.

Perhaps the basic truth of it all is this:

Are you ready for someone in your life?

Simple question, complex answer. One of those ass-clenching, night sweats type answers. The more I think about this one, the worse it gets.

Really ready. Not just “I hope I meet someone” while you are still in marriage counseling, or spending all of your disposable income on meth. Timing is a bitch, but it also pays to be realistic and prepared.

To be ready for someone in your life, you have to sort out enough of your baggage and shit and pare it down to have room for someone without it being sabotaged before it even starts. It means, if your feeling are backed up, like an emotional constipation, that you deal with it and get around it.

Got an addiction? Thats a lover all on its own, and a jealous one at that. You have to break up with her. Talk about hell having no fury. The ex from hell.

It all boils down to dealing with everything that can trip you up. All the collected shit that you have gained over the years and hangs around your neck like a weight, holding you back and pulling you under.

The alternative is to do nothing and watch whatever relationship you have go tits up like a dead cockroach.

And spending your relationship eternity in the dust behind the refrigerator?

It sucks.

 
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Posted by on August 25, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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