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Book #4 is out!!!

The 4th book of the Caffeinated Humor series!!!

All the content you love, packaged together for your entertainment.

Get yours now!

Click this link! ——>It’s the Coffee Talking: Caffeinated Humor 4

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Posted by on July 18, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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Too little, too much and too dumb to know either way

Boxer Joe Tory once said “Pizza is like sex. When it’s good, it’s very good. When it’s bad, it’s still pretty good.”

And I believe that. 

You get what you give. 

Here’s why. 

Mandy.

Who’s Mandy?

Mandy is the 40 something woman on the patio of Starbucks who is on her phone, having a thoroughly rude conversation about her sex life and believes my headphones being on mean I cannot hear her.

But there is no music playing in my headphones, I can hear Mandy loud and clear.

So listen I did.

And what follows is a 20 minute description of Mandy’s sex partners for the last year, evidently there are more than a few.

And her final description of all of them, the summing up, the “review” of her carnal playmates?

“They all suck in bed!”

Wow. 

All of them?

Well, if anyone would know, it would be Mandy. 

But I do have one question.

It’s for Mandy, but you can mull it over if you like. 

Once you’ve had sex with the first couple dozen guys, and they ALL SUCK.

Doesn’t the thought occur to you that, maybe it’s you?

Mandy’s bed may be the killing fields of sex, the place where good sex is sad and without hope.

I honestly have no way of knowing I am just guessing at this point. 

But my accuracy when I begin guessing is legendary. 

But maybe I am biased and more than a little jaded.

So, I checked with the internet and did some quick and dirty research about what makes good sex. (Don’t Google “Hot Sex”. It’s a LOT of video research plus you risk carpal tunnel.)

I found a Millennial blog ALL about how to have great sex.

Here are the top three pieces of advice:

  • Meditate. (They even specified that you are NOT meditating about sex. Being at peace gives you the “Dick of death” or something.)
  • Masturbate a lot. (I actually exploded with laughter on this one, snotted myself and everything. The level of stupid here is frightening.)
  • “Understand that, for most women, sex is a violation.” (Great, sex tips from someone who hates sex. I am getting a semi as we speak. 

Mandy is going to be fine, she is just shitty in bed. 

But the Millenials are going to die out as a generation. 

Kids, you don’t have to freeze in place every time you have an emotion and refuse to move until you have figured out who to blame for it. 

What started out to be a fun little romp about Mandy and her revolving door panties has taken on an even sadder edge as we contemplate that a huge amount of the 20-somethings out there will be the last of their bloodline, dying out without an extinction level event as its cause. 

But I am sure the kids will figure out who to blame. 

 

The books are out! Check them out here! The Caffeinated Humor Series

 
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Posted by on July 5, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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The aroma of a disreputable God.

I may be cursed.

I have tried to find an old gypsy woman to verify this, but have come out with snake eyes so far.

I usually live a life that is an interesting cross between golden-child kind of charmed and red-headed bastard son of a medieval lord.

Odd combination, but I usually come out on top.

Until today.

I have mentioned my sense of smell, or rather lack of, before?

For those who are new or not paying attention, I have had some unfortunate breaks of my nose that have ruined my sense of smell.

Among the many scents I cannot enjoy, body odor, affectionately known as BO, is one of them.

I also cannot smell most flowers. (This is almost a crime.)

But not being able to smell BO? I am ok with that. (It almost, but not quite, makes up for no flowers.)

Again, until today.

I am in a Starbucks I have never been in before. (Is that even possible?)

I set up my laptop, grab my coffee, cream and sugar to perfection and head back to my seat.

And then it hits me.

The smell.

I have never smelled a human like Crepitus before.

Crepitus has BO on the level of decomposition.

Check that fucker for a pulse, if you dare to get that close.

Crepitus, for those who don’t have time to research ridiculous crap like this, is the Roman God of Flatulence.

Might be the walking dead for all I know.

Good show, but who knows where the extras on that show go between seasons? (I can’t prove they are not using real zombies in that show.)

Anyway, the smell is an overwhelming thing, like a person unto itself.

A really obnoxious person.

With a personality (Smell) that is aggressive and in your face.

Like an olfactory version of a used car salesman.

They say that the course of human events changes because of the deeds of great men.

I disagree.

I think the course of human events changes because of the stench of random people.

Smell makes the world go around.

However, smell is currently making me lose interest in my coffee, its THAT bad.

There are those people in life that have such a narcissistic view of the world that they have no clue about how they affect the world around them.

No man is an island.

Bullshit.

I can name ten that are land-locked islands with no sense of the other islands on all sides.

And they are not going to change any time soon.

And then, as it always does, shit changes. (Do you see the irony here?)

Crepitus gets up, possibly shits himself, and leaves.

The door opens a few times, letting a little more fresh air in each time.

A woman sits at the next table that has what I would normally think of as too much perfume.

But not today.

Today, even shitty perfume in quantity is a delight.

Now that Crepitus is gone.

And I can get back to my coffee.

 

The books are out! Check them out here! The Caffeinated Humor Series

 
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Posted by on June 24, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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Escaping the cult

HOW I ESCAPED THE CULT OF APPLE

Hello, my name is Will, and I used to have an iPhone.

Hello Will.

As the twelfth step of my electronics rehabilitation, I will explain how I got out of the IOS cult.

I came to the iPhone from an abusive relationship.

Metro PCS. (Lovingly referred to as Metro POS. [POS=piece of shit])

The phone was called an Android, but I cannot be sure that was true because the phone rarely functioned enough to know.

I left POS and went to the Sodom and Gamora of phone carriers, Sprint.

They gave me an iPhone for free, part of a promotion of some sort.

In reality, it is considered polite for a drug dealer to give you your first hit free.

But then you are their property, and they abuse the relationship.

So you spend the next two years under contract, figuratively on your consumer knees, servicing your provider.

It is rare that anyone gets away from their slimy clutches, but it happens.

You hit rock bottom and finally say enough is enough.

You break your digital chains and run to the promised land. (Slavery/religious metaphor? Really?)

The promised land is T-Mobile, by the way.

I went back to Android like a man making a jailbreak.

It was liberating, it was exhilarating, I finally felt like a free man.

For the first time in years, I stopped checking my data usage everyday like its a checking account that might have been hacked.

And maybe got a little crazy, who wouldn’t?

I may or may not have bought an international phone that competes with the $1K phones, but only cost about a third because they don’t sell it in the US. (Not sure if that’s illegal, but I don’t fuck with the feds.)

Here is the simple truth.

iPhone is cool if you are old or electronically retarded. (Yeah, I went there.)

Android is for adults who know how to find and use the settings on their phones.

If this sounds arrogant, sounds like you are paying attention.

I am not one of those, I got out and you can too, I believe in you.

I am more the “Later Losers!” as I slam the door.

By the way, it is shocking how fast you get used to the fingerprint reader on a cell phone and you wonder how you ever survived without it.

Let’s go over what we have learned so far:

  • Metro PCS = Piece of shit.
  • Sprint = Carrier pimp
  • There is but one cell God and Android is his prophet. (Should I be nervous about this one?)

I will be nurturing for a moment.

If you have an iPhone, its not really your fault.

You fell for the hype and let yourself be dumbed down. It happens.

The important thing is that you are now aware and can make plans to leave your digital pimp-daddy.

There are shelters and places to go where Apple will not find you.

And you can start your cell life over.

Just make sure they transfer your contacts.

 
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Posted by on June 17, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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Where is the Baby, Roy?

Where’s the baby?

Good question.

But, it’s a question that Roy cannot answer.

For those who came in late, take your seats and I will catch you up.

Roy, not his real name, is more than a little crazy.

I would say it’s in the eyes, but Roy may not have any.

Eyes, that is.

8pm at night, and Roy is wearing the darkest sunglasses you can buy.

Those odd, pitch black wrap arounds that the eye doctor gives you when he dilates your eyes.

Also, Roy is pushing a baby carriage.

Actually, it is the metal frame of a baby carriage without any fabric or padding on it.

So it’s either not done being made or it’s in the process of being dismantled.

And Roy?

Roy appears to be in the same state of being dismantled.

He just mutters and rocks back and forth, even when he walks.

I cannot seem to get anything out of him other than a word that sounds like “Roy”.

I began trying to find out about Roy like any good zoologist, befriending him with food.

You never try to hand feed a strange animal. (Especially one who might have a violent chemical load going on.)

I am a scientist, but I am not stupid. (Jane Goodall never had to deal with silverback meth heads, there’s a difference.)

So, after feeding him a cookie, some string cheese, and a banana, I am no closer to figuring out Roy’s secret language than when he arrived at the front door of Starbucks and rammed his baby carriage into the front door. (The millenial that was standing at the door all but shit his skinny jeans in shock. A twenty-something having a heart attack is worth seeing, trust me.)

Roy has all the earmarks of a long time homeless.

The smell is a gimme, face is a grubby mess, but his hands are oddly clean.

The clothes are dirty, baggy and many layered.

He has USC hat. I am assuming that he is an alumni. (So many USC alum end up like Roy. Go Notre Dame!)

I am on the far left, Roy is at the next table, and there are 2 skittish teens on the other side of Roy, studying like good children.

The kids are eyeing the door and trying to figure out how fast they can pack up all their study books if all this goes to hell.

Long experience has my best time of packing up and getting the fuck out of Dodge down to 1.1 minutes.

Roy just belched, then farted so loud, I am shocked he didn’t shit himself.

The teens are officially spooked and packing up.

And, it seems that it is time to go.

Roy did shit himself. (Now I will never find out what happened to the baby.)

I set a new record by being out the door in 58 seconds flat.

Just as the door was closing, the miracle happened.

Roy raised his hand and mouthed the words “Thank you”.

I am a fucking saint.

 
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Posted by on June 7, 2019 in Uncategorized

 

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The Old Hoe Hall of Fame

“Who shows up at a blind date and can’t get it up?”

The line is epic, the tone is rude and the speaker is an old whore. (Disclaimer – The views expressed in this blog are based in fact and completely true, hand to God pinky swear on that one.)

Using the term “Old whore” is not because of her obvious promiscuity.

Its for being crass enough to say this in a Starbucks while sitting at a table with young children 2 tables away.

Here’s what we know so far:

  1. Betty is old enough to be my mother’s aunt.
  2. Betty is single and on the prowl.
  3. Betty is not aging well.

Online dating has done to dating what politics has done to civil discourse. (In other words, gang raped it and shit all over it.

Despite putting you in touch with thousands more people that you might have never met, it is now harder than ever to meet Mr/Mrs Right. (That includes Mr/Mrs Right Now. Patron saint of one night stands and non-lethal STDs.)

And the quality of people has gone thru the floor.

It used to be that if you wanted to meet someone of a certain class or economic strata, you simply went to a bar in a better section of town.

Catfishing seems to be the order of the day. (I would normally tell you to Google it, but its central to the story here.)

Catfishing is basically pretending to be who you aren’t.

The simplest form of Catfishing is posting photos that are not yours. (I once got catfished by a 76 year old woman who posted photos of her daughter. Even good coffee could not save that awkward little meet-n-greet)

People pretend to be wealthier, better looking, better place in life, better you name it.

But it may be a new and weird type of catfish that you present yourself as a player when your sexual function is gone.

The concept of the player who cannot play is new.

Or maybe very old.

Either way it does tone down the spotlight pointed at Betty the hoe.

Someone suggested that I am slut-shaming Betty the hoe.

It’s not shaming because Betty has no idea I did it.

It’s not like anyone she knows is going to read this.

So it’s like a private joke between me and the three people who actually read this shit.

Also, let’s have a slut talk, shall we?

Slut is a word that mean girls and assholes in highschool say to hurt girls that may or may not have slept around.

I know many a girl called slut in highschool who hadn’t done a damned thing.

And the girls calling names were usually the biggest sluts I knew at the time. (I was lucky enough to meet some truly epic sluts after high school.)

But a woman out of school who sleeps around?

She is empowered and knows what she wants.

More power to her. (I was also lucky enough to meet of few of these lovely ladies as well.)

Hoe-shaming would be more accurate.

Except for one thing.

Hoes don’t give a shit.

Not in a confident way, but in more of a ignorant of the fact that it’s an insult to begin with.

I sight as an example:

Betty sipped her coffee and let out a big sigh.

“Maybe I’m just some old hoe.”

Maybe?

Don’t sell yourself short, Betty.

You are a hall of fame Old Hoe.

Mmmmmm, coffee.

 
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Posted by on December 30, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Me, my bitch and the drunken clown.

I am in love.

That pure, spring is in the air kind of love, not the hair-pulling, “spit in my mouth” type of lust you see in porn.

I’m talking innocent here.

Gracie is my bitch.

True, she belongs to someone else, but dats ma biotch!

She is also a dog.

Something about dogs this week.

I am in Starbucks and there is another dog in the store.

Gracie looks like a miniature doberman pinscher, but smaller that whats in your head right now.

And she is into me.

She has been licking my elbow for the last half hour.

In certain 3rd world countries, that is as binding as wedding vows. (Although it saves me the bridal price of 3 goats.)

But, as with any true and pure love, there are issues.

Gracie likes to fart.

Maybe like is the wrong word.

Must, must fits better.

Gracie must fart.

It is an odd ironic twist that my nose, broken several times over the years, has a wide collection of smells that are denied me.

With the exception of rectal potpourri, and especially that variety of canine eau de toilette they are so well known for.

Eh, I’ve dated worse.

She isn’t cheating, has a drug problem, crazy ex, or 10 kids without fathers. (I am assuming here, but she seems like a good dog.)

But there is someone trying to break us up.

Gracie’s owner.

No clue what her name is, but I want to call her “Hot mess”.

Except that the word Hot feels odd in this sentence.

She’s a heavy girl, not that that’s unattractive, but this is that unhealthy kind of heavy.

The makeup was done by a drunken clown on a meth binder with Hodgkins.

In a very old woman, iffy crazy makeup would be somewhat excuseable.

But the drunken clown appears to be an ill-kept 22.

There is a low level murmur that has been going on for awhile now.

Except when she suddenly becomes aware of Gracie and me.

“Gracie, NO!” and yanks her over beside her, then goes back to being oblivious as Gracie comes back to me, begins licking my elbow, and farting one more time.

It is my sincere hope that Gracie does not shit on the cushion beside me.

Who knows how long the drunk clown has had her in here?

I am interrupted from my musings by the fact that my coffee has cooled just enough to drink without blistering my mouth.

There is an almost orgasmic delight in that first sip of a properly done pour over with Ethiopian Yirgacheffe beans. (And this is with clothing on, go figure.)

Mmmmmmm… coffee.

Gracie seems to share my excitement and snuggles up.

It is a good moment to exist in.

Even the drunken clown minds her own for that moment.

Which is good.

Sometimes, you just need that moment.

 
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Posted by on August 27, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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