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Shit or garbage, you choose.

One of the great questions of mankind is what do little old men and rap music have in common.

Not a damn thing.

Except that I am stuck in the middle of prime examples of both as we speak.

On my left, sporting a dazed look and pants that demand both to be pulled up and that his mother (If still living) smack his stupid ass for leaving them down that far to begin with.

He also has faint rap music drifting out of his iPod.

And its shitty rap music.

I am not a fan of that particular genre of music to begin with, but the crap that he is listening to hits the bottom of the “Low rent” barrel.

Plus the kid has this dazed look on his face that I believe is caused by the shitty music.

And then there is the little situation unraveling on my right side.

And by “Little situation” I mean the old guy thats unraveling on my right side.

This guy babysat Methuselah.

Old enough that I cannot even gauge how old he is.

Old enough to have that “Permanently terrified” look on his face.

Old enough to have that vague Ben Gay smell in the background.

Old enough to have a continual head shake that you can’t help but see, even in your peripheral vision.

Old enough that I am worried about him surviving my cup of coffee before slipping out of his seat in a “Code Blue”, accompanied by the crappy jazz music currently piping thru the speakers.

Got the picture so far?

And I am stuck in the middle in my own little “Special” hell.

And the sad part is they are both bopping their heads, one to shitty music, the other because of aging neck muscles.

One side Ben Gay, and there is a smell on the other side that I have not yet been able to identify. Its either BO or AXE body spray gone tragically wrong.

Vegas money is on BO.

First of all, rap music should rhyme. (Old school rules. See also, “Kid & Play” circa 1984)

Second of all, who dresses the elderly? The old guy got up to use the bathroom, and his pants are as high above his ass as the kids are below.

Third, and final, I am not enjoying the new Starbucks as much as the old one.

The reasons are various, but all kind of boil down to me kind of whining about change and how much I hate the unknown.

But, putting my fears aside, at least its still a Starbucks.

Which means coffee.

And if this blog is about anything, not just this post, but the whole blog, its about my fairly out of control caffeine addiction.

And please don’t misunderstand, I am not saying coffee is a God, I am just saying it might be.

It’s the caffeine that makes me generally edgy and rude, which makes for good reading.

For me, that is. This is not about you.

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Posted by on February 10, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

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What’s the going rate on a soul these days?

Prostitution is never a pretty exchange.

Here’s how it starts.

The guy, really no more than a boy, enters the Starbucks looking confused, then he spots someone and his face lights up with a smile from that the book he read last night on “Power Interviewing.”

The introductions are brief.

The kid gives him the Chapter 5 “Winning handshake”, and they sit.

The pimp is fairly low key, as far as pimps go.

Fashionably faded jeans, loafers, a shirt that could be a dress shirt if it was buttoned up with a tie. As it is, unbuttoned the top two, and the sleeves rolled up.

The working man’s pimp.

And the dance begins.

The pimp pulls out the kids resume, and begins to pick it apart.

Spying from the next table over, the kid’s resume is better than most.

Graduating with a finance degree from a decent school, interning for a CPA, then a law firm, then an insurance company, the kid is now a senior, and looking for a job.

The pimp looks it over and tisk-tisks a few times, then tears it to shit.

The critical moment in any pimp/whore relationship is right in the beginning.

The pimp has to break down the whore into nothing.

Its a brutal thing to watch.

All the kid wants is a job.

That is what the last 3 years of his life have been about.

He is doing it the way they all tell you it should be done.

The pimp knows better, he knows the steps to this dance, and he can help.

For a price.

As near as I can figure, he is a new-grad bounty hunting kind of pimp.

He gets his money by vetting grads and presenting them to the johns.

The companies.

Its a new spin on an old tale. (And not a happy tale at that.)

And the new version is just as distasteful as the old one.

About 20 minutes in, the subject turns to money, and this is where the serious soul crushing begins.

The kid has read websites and done his research, he knows how much he should be gunning for in his first job.

The pimp, on the other hand, needs to break him of that, convince him that everything he read is bullshit, and deliver him to the companies ready to accept their crappy offer.

Do the math. The pimp is not doing it out of love, the company is paying him.

And where does that money come from?

Money for the kid, of course.

And, while I didn’t get enough to figure out how, the kid is paying the pimp something.

Wow.

That is a tough deal to broker with a straight face.

Don’t get me wrong, I love haggling a deal, but this vile, leaves a stink.

I may need a shower after watching this, I just feel dirty.

All told, their meeting lasted 45 minutes.

The kid shook the pimp’s hand and walked out the door, smiling.

You poor bastard. God help you.

 
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Posted by on January 17, 2014 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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Deep Fried Goodness

Question: When is a deep fried Twinkie healthy?

Answer: When its deep fried in pure canola oil and wrapped in recycled paper.

Welcome to the LA County Fair.

The sign I am looking at has well over a dozen, evil gut-buster delicacies, and at the bottom of the window, a sun-faded sign proclaims that all items are deep fried in pure Canola oil.

Well, that just makes it all better , doesn’t it?

County Fairs as a general rule don’t really have a strangle hold on the health food issue.

And I am good with that.

You almost have to have bad food at a fair.

Its expected.

Not to partake of the deep fried goodness would be like going to a Tijuana Strip club and ordering a lite beer.

It just misses the point.

There is always new stuff the is deep fried every year that I have never seen.

It amazes me. You would think that it has all been done by now.

Here are the 5 mainstays of the deep fried fair world.
1. Twinkies.
2. Oreos.
3. Foot Long corn dogs.
4. Snickers.
5. Funnel cake.

Of them all, corn dogs and funnel cakes I can deal with. With the rest I have to make a judgement call as to the current state of my stomache. Nothing ruins a day at the County Fair more than projectile vomiting.

As for the new comers to the deep fried carnie-world, here they are.
1. Kool aid (I shit you not.)
2. Cream cheese. (Not bad, actually)
3. Butter. (Good god.)
4. Bacon. (Which is then dipped in chocolate, just to add insult to injury.)
5. A ten inch wide maple donut, covered with bacon bits, topped with a hot fudge sunday, topped with whipped cream, nuts and cherry. (While not a true County Fair, fried food, I wanted it included here because it shocked the living shit out of me and I am still in awe.)

My fiancee continues to argue to this day that the nuts at least “Give it some protein.”

This is a lot like arguing that at least Meth is fat free.

Let me get back to that Maple-bacon-donut-hot fudge-sunday. It was incredible.

It wasn’t even on the menu, it was a combination of two separate items on the menu. When we suggested it to the cashier, she looked at us in confusion, like we had just told her that her cat had tennis elbow.

Didn’t compute.

Three cashiers, a manager, and two cooks later, it was decided that it could be done. The biggest delay was them trying to figure out how much to charge for it. To carnies, this is their whole reason for being.

We ended up paying the same price as if we had bought both a Maple-bacon donut and a Hot-fudge sunday.

Whatever, creating a legend is never cheap.

I ate half of that monster and my stomach still twinges. Projectile vomiting was on the table that day, but I managed to keep it together.

The taste was incredible.

Plus, it had peanuts.

 
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Posted by on October 12, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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I just met a girl named Maria…..

I am sitting in the Starbucks at the mall, doing what I do.

Which is listen in. Rude as it gets.

You have to bear with me on this one, my Spanish is rusty as hell.

Luckily, the young couple next to me at the Galleria Starbucks is switching back and forth between English and Spanish.

I love West Side Story, so here is the story of Tony and Maria.

Tony is Latino and looks to be about 12. He has all the characteristics of a guy in his mid to late teens. Maria is a Latina who is carrying a few pounds and appears to be about 13 years old.

They have 2 kids together.

I wondered at first if I miss-heard that, but it was repeated, so it must be true.

Children having children. (From the look and mannerisms of Tony, dumb kids having kids

Also, it appears that Tony is several months behind on what sounds a lot like child support.

Maria has made several comments about her abwella, or something like that. (After checking with my chola barber, it was abuela, grandmother in spanish.)

She is mellowing, but started out really pissed at him. Tony, however, understands how to shut her down.

Not 5 minutes into the conversation, she is laughing and slapping playfully at his hand.

Shit.

Not that I am against young love as a general thing, but this whole little scenario puts the vice on my butt something fierce.

What percentage of this generation is sitting in front of me?

How many more kids will Maria have with Tony before they get their lives together?

Or at least graduate high school.

Just kidding, I realize that they probably won’t graduate high school.

That is not necessarily a racial thing. I think everyone in their mid to late teens are complete morons, with few exceptions.

People in that age range should not be allowed to make any serious decisions for themselves.

But thats just me.

Although, maybe some of the tougher decisions in life should be made before you can acquire enough experience to chicken out.

The scary stuff.

Marriage, the military, Amway.

Of the three, I am in favor of marriage and the military.

But Amway is a fucking cult.

Lets get back to Tony and Maria before I get all the way up on my soap box.

The sad fact is, they are a small percentage of the other Tony and Maria’s out there, cranking out children like an assembly line.

I saw an article that stated that a lot of kids have kids because it allows them to do something important in their life.
As an esteem builder.

Kind of a self improvement thru reproduction.

I will laugh at that line for a few minutes and then I realize that there is a pretty good shot that I will be paying taxes to keep Maria and the kids in food and huggies for a good long time.

And I won’t even be invited to the family BBQs.

 

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Posted by on September 23, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Hella is not a word, people!

The first thing she said was:

“Babe? I need something hella good for breakfast.”

It was such an odd little phrase that I looked up from what I was reading as I walked along.

It was a young Asian girl, early twenties or so. She was hanging on the arm of the gangly boy walking next to her. It was that type of clingy type of arm holding like she was afraid he would float away like a balloon.

As we walked the last half block to Starbucks, she proceeded to call him Babe 31 more times, I counted. She used the word hella a lot less, but it was more annoying.

First of all, hella is not even a word.

It was like listening to Marine Corp recruits begin and their sentences with a specific word.

Sir, yes Sir!

When they turned in at Starbucks, I was both elated and bummed. Elated because I am always on the lookout for odd personalities and bummed that this vacuous dip shit was ahead of me in line.

My need for caffeine in the morning can be an ugly thing sometimes. I don’t want to hurt anyone, I just want my coffee.

There were 3 people ahead of us in line.

Lizzie, the girl, as referred to by her boyfriend, was like a hyper child in a toy store.

“Oh babe, the coffee cake looks hella good!”
“Babe, did you want the donut? We could split it and a coffee cake.”

My teeth began to itch.

If she were 5 with these communication skills, this would be cute. But, god damn it, this is a woman in her early twenties, and it was more like looking at a caricature of the most annoying woman the artist could think of.

Live and in person.

Shit.

I counted 26 more “Babes” in line.

Pace yourself, dear.

I took a seat right next to them and set up my laptop. I would rather get a root canal, but I am willing to take one for the blog.

The perfect opportunity to be a dick came when Lizzy told “Babe” that she had to pee “hella” bad.

I waited for her to hit the bathroom then caught “Babe”’s eye.

“Morning Babe.” I said this with as straight a face as possible, then sipped my coffee to hide the smiled.

He flinched and had the good grace to act both annoyed and embarrassed.

“My name is Mike.”

Spitting coffee is never a great way to start a conversation, but I could not contain it.

Whatever else I was going to try to say was lost in the laughter that came over me.

I lost it.

I fought for control for about five minutes.

Babe just sat there looking a little pissed, but going further down the road of being really embarrassed.

Lizzy came out of the bathroom and found Babe standing, waiting for her.

Before she could ask anything, he turned and walked out clutching both coffees and the baggie with the pastries.

There are times I need that as much as the coffee.

I think we all do, but have been told over and over that its rude.

Fuck it, I feel really good today.

 
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Posted by on September 22, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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Open Seseme…

Oscar the grouch.

Represent, bitches.

Oscar was a grumpy shit way back when. Back when you were young enough to get in trouble for being in a bad mood.

I think it had to do with living in a trash can and being the unspoken homeless guy on the show.

Bert and Ernie had a house and they didn’t seem to have jobs at all. They were either mediocre kids, living without parents or retarded adults who might be gay.

Take your pick.

Back to Oscar.

I seem to end up dealing with the homeless a lot on this blog and I can’t figure out if it is an obsession or just good choices on writing content.

I saw a new Muppet Movie is coming out and it got me thinking about Oscar.

Oscar came at us during a time in our life when we were being bombarded with vanilla, black and white views of life. The cartoons reflected either a good guy or a bad guy. The good guys were always good and the bad guys were always bad.

And then there was Oscar.

Oscar was a good guy that bitched about everything. but everyone seemed to like, and he was just kind of made fun of, but he spoke his mind and was more or less accepted by the majority.

All without getting a time out.

I am seeing scary similarities between myself and Oscar.

And, in a way, I kind of like that.

Oscar pretty much demanded that you accept him and his shitty attitude at face value. He taught us to be pushy and outspoken way before that was allowed by school or our parents.

And never once did he get the recognition.

Hell, some of us have personalities based on it.

Willy the grouch.

Has a nice little ring to it, ay?

When my kids were growing up, I started watching Sesame Street again. I was a little twisted up by it at first.

The Muppets were puppets and never aged, so all my old friends were still vibrant and funny.

But the people changed.

They were older and what was once friendly and helpful was now kind of creepy and moist? and made me afraid to leave my kids alone in the same room with them.

But I got over it and sat with my daughter and clapped and sang. Daddy stuff.

And then your kids grow up and, at least mentally, you put the Muppets on the shelf again.

Until the grand kids show up. Then you can watch again.

And I will still be creeped out by the overly sugary-sweet delivery of the cast of humans then, too.

But the Muppets will still be there.

And, fuzzy pound for fuzzy pound, Kermit the Frog is the elder statesman of childrens television. He kicks the shit out of Spongebob with one thin furry arm held behind his back with a little black stick.

And he will bitch slap Hello Kitty without working up a sweat.

Although, Hello Kitty has a Japanese following that is fanatical and well monied, so maybe that’s a bad comparison.

Getting back to Oscar the Grouch, I like to think he was a roll model for some, if not all of us.

He catered to the inner asshole.

Thank you Oscar.

I would follow you into Muppet hell, you magnificent fuzzy bastard.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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