My buddy Casey is a tattoo artist, and a fucking good one at that. His work is all over Facebook (Casey Campa) and he just finished doing two tattoos on his sister and her son in memory of their dead Aunt who killed herself yesterday. She left behind two young boys.
The upside, if there is one, is Casey is getting some work as doing ink seems to be feast or famine. His wife, or now ex-wife (they still live together) Bridget also wants to memorialize the passing of this woman with a tattoo on herself - done by Casey.
I was on the phone with Casey today when he was telling me the news about the suicide, along with another friend of ours we grew up with who had shot himself under the chin 13 months ago and lived - albeit without half of his face. It's a fucking tragedy in both cases.
After the initial shock of it all, I got to wondering if Casey can charge his live together ex-wife for her tattoo. There are arguments on either side:
On the one hand they have to co-habitate, dealing with each other on a daily basis and sharing the bills because the economy is so horrible. Casey makes ok money doing tattoo work but not if he does them for free - unless it is his ex-wife. Charging her would be a lesson in futility primarily because the money would go from her hand to his hand to her hand and back in the bank.
Essentially it would probably cost Casey money to charge Bridget for her work in fuel and ATM fees, then the fuel and time to turn around and take it back to the bank.
Granted it is a strange situation but a real one. If he does the work for free the aforementioned costs are avoided and all is as well as it can be at the Campa house. However, Bridget could come to expect that Casey do all of her work for free in perpetuity and therefore he is proper fucked when it comes to her, and her skin.
As far as I know neither one has anyone else in their lives and they both still live under the same roof, although I assume they sleep in separate beds. I know what you are thinking because I am thinking it too - Why be divorced if you are still best friends? Been divorced yet neither has done anything about moving on? I'm sensing some unresolved issues.
The deal they have going is of the worst kind - all the bullshit with none of the benefits. So here is what I propose, not that it makes shit difference to either one of them but it is a potential solution.
Casey will do the tattoo work and take it out in sexual favors when the mood hits him - his time, place and way. I know in Utah it's a sin to screw outside of marriage but I'm pretty sure most of us have fractured that law more than a few times. Oral is a different story altogether, and one that must be negotiated carefully, cautiously - not to be entered into lightly or with doubts. A bad oral experience can ruin a relationship, or so I have heard (that was funny).
The lesson here is be kind to those you love and even kinder to those you don't. People disappoint one another, that is the nature of shit. Bad things happen and people die - it's a part of the process we call life. We cannot change the inevitable ending we will all ultimately face - we can change what we do with the time we have together and not allow what in reality is not a huge deal to change our paths.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Special Uncle
We all have one. You know that one relative that shows up at every family reunion or party wasted and doing the back stroke in the punch bowl? An inevitable embarrassment to the sane and politically correct, docker wearing, hybrid SUV driving epitome of normalcy rest of the family - this person makes everyone else feel so superior and together. For the most part, I'm guessing they are correct.
When the embarrassing family member is the uncle of the most powerful man on the planet, it is even worse. Reason being a typical DUI picked up by uncle Fester is no big deal unless the family lives in rural America, in which case everybody knows everybody and the case would probably be headline, front page news.
In the case of Obama's uncle, this cat played his one fucking card all wrong.
The story goes Obama's Uncle Onyango was shit faced and driving recklessly in front of a local police official - allegedly forcing the cop and one other motorist to slam on their brakes. This predicates Uncle O to get pulled over and play the "I don't speak english very well" game. He spoke over the officer while a field sobriety test was being administered, tried to outthink and outwit the cop - and the dude is here in this country illegally (allegedly).
Uncle O shares the Obama name and the cop, who must not be all that bright either, didn't even bother to ask this cat about the possibility of a familial tie. I know, it shouldn't matter but I fucking guarantee you it will.
After failing no less than three sobriety tests Uncle O was taken into custody and jailed. Now anybody with half a brain in their head knows once you are inside that cell it takes work and more importantly, CASH to get out. Dude was given an alcohol breath test where he blew a .14. Well done dude! Not bad for a guy who initially told the cops he hadn't had anything to drink - then admitted to one beer - then admitted to two. He obviously had more than two because numbers don't lie.
However, this cat had all the chances in the world to get any of several government agencies involved in his fuckup long before he even blew into that magic machine, and didn't. It wasn't until he was booked and offered his phone call before he let loose with, "I need to call the White House".
Really? That's when you play that card? This guy is probably not the sharpest tool in the shed but if your nephew is the President, I play that shit right off the bat and get the feds involved immediately before officer Ready gets his accolades for busting another third world shitbag who happens to have familial ties to the first family.
If uncle O had done it right I'm thinking the "men in black" would have come to save his sorry ass in their convoy of black SUV's that seemingly come out of nowhere. They would have used their little memory erasers on the locals who wouldn't know the difference between an ink pen and a shovel and nobody would have been the wiser.
Now Uncle O is going to probably get a cabinet appointment as Secretary of Shitheads, and the rest of us will have to suffer looking at this ugly cat for the next 18 months while his nephew continues fucking up the world.
Nice going Uncle O - you just made your nephew look smart!
When the embarrassing family member is the uncle of the most powerful man on the planet, it is even worse. Reason being a typical DUI picked up by uncle Fester is no big deal unless the family lives in rural America, in which case everybody knows everybody and the case would probably be headline, front page news.
In the case of Obama's uncle, this cat played his one fucking card all wrong.
The story goes Obama's Uncle Onyango was shit faced and driving recklessly in front of a local police official - allegedly forcing the cop and one other motorist to slam on their brakes. This predicates Uncle O to get pulled over and play the "I don't speak english very well" game. He spoke over the officer while a field sobriety test was being administered, tried to outthink and outwit the cop - and the dude is here in this country illegally (allegedly).
Uncle O shares the Obama name and the cop, who must not be all that bright either, didn't even bother to ask this cat about the possibility of a familial tie. I know, it shouldn't matter but I fucking guarantee you it will.
After failing no less than three sobriety tests Uncle O was taken into custody and jailed. Now anybody with half a brain in their head knows once you are inside that cell it takes work and more importantly, CASH to get out. Dude was given an alcohol breath test where he blew a .14. Well done dude! Not bad for a guy who initially told the cops he hadn't had anything to drink - then admitted to one beer - then admitted to two. He obviously had more than two because numbers don't lie.
However, this cat had all the chances in the world to get any of several government agencies involved in his fuckup long before he even blew into that magic machine, and didn't. It wasn't until he was booked and offered his phone call before he let loose with, "I need to call the White House".
Really? That's when you play that card? This guy is probably not the sharpest tool in the shed but if your nephew is the President, I play that shit right off the bat and get the feds involved immediately before officer Ready gets his accolades for busting another third world shitbag who happens to have familial ties to the first family.
If uncle O had done it right I'm thinking the "men in black" would have come to save his sorry ass in their convoy of black SUV's that seemingly come out of nowhere. They would have used their little memory erasers on the locals who wouldn't know the difference between an ink pen and a shovel and nobody would have been the wiser.
Now Uncle O is going to probably get a cabinet appointment as Secretary of Shitheads, and the rest of us will have to suffer looking at this ugly cat for the next 18 months while his nephew continues fucking up the world.
Nice going Uncle O - you just made your nephew look smart!
Monday, August 29, 2011
iDumb
So I began the process of further matriculation today and was waiting outside of the locked classroom door at 7am this morning, for a class that was scheduled to begin at 7:30am. Being the first day of classes there were people scurrying about all over the fucking place and nobody knows where anything is.
The first day at college is fucking chaotic to say the least. Financial aid, books, Id's, adding / dropping classes - it's a shitty proposition at best. Parking is also a joke, but I'm saving that one for another day.
4 of us are sitting outside the classroom door, not saying anything, waiting for someone to show up and let us in. Meanwhile the other classrooms are filling up with students, lots of students. About 15 minutes roll by before I felt something had to be wrong, and asked the other 3 guys standing there if they were waiting for the same class.
So I get on my phone and call campus information and they verified that yes I was enrolled and that the class had not been moved (as far as she knew). The woman asked me to look for a note on the doors (which there wasn't any) and then said she didn't fucking know. Perfect!
So she puts me on hold and goes to ask someone else why there is no lights, no unlocked door and most importantly no professor. Why is there only 4 of us there when this class holds 40. This prompts me to ask the others to get out their schedules which we had all printed from registration online, and compare.
Yup, same class number, same instructor, same books etc. Then it hits me, we are the dumbest ten percent in the class. Why? Because the fucking class doesn't start until the 19th - of September.
All I can hope for is my professor doesn't read my blog and realize how stupid I was on this day. Cheers!
The first day at college is fucking chaotic to say the least. Financial aid, books, Id's, adding / dropping classes - it's a shitty proposition at best. Parking is also a joke, but I'm saving that one for another day.
4 of us are sitting outside the classroom door, not saying anything, waiting for someone to show up and let us in. Meanwhile the other classrooms are filling up with students, lots of students. About 15 minutes roll by before I felt something had to be wrong, and asked the other 3 guys standing there if they were waiting for the same class.
So I get on my phone and call campus information and they verified that yes I was enrolled and that the class had not been moved (as far as she knew). The woman asked me to look for a note on the doors (which there wasn't any) and then said she didn't fucking know. Perfect!
So she puts me on hold and goes to ask someone else why there is no lights, no unlocked door and most importantly no professor. Why is there only 4 of us there when this class holds 40. This prompts me to ask the others to get out their schedules which we had all printed from registration online, and compare.
Yup, same class number, same instructor, same books etc. Then it hits me, we are the dumbest ten percent in the class. Why? Because the fucking class doesn't start until the 19th - of September.
All I can hope for is my professor doesn't read my blog and realize how stupid I was on this day. Cheers!
Friday, August 26, 2011
Drug Dealers vs. Government
It's a sad state of fucking affairs when the drug trade is the LAST true example of capitalism - true capitalism. The business as I understand it runs on supply and demand. Even some of the state governments are trying to get in on the action by legalizing marijuana - at a price.
A "patient" is the legal dope smoker term here in California, and said patient must go to a "doctor" who can prescribe a card allowing the patient to buy from a "dispensary" - which by the way are allowed in some cities and not others.
This was done for the obvious reason that the government hates competition. If some cat growing some kind is knocking back a few pounds every three or four months he can make pretty good money - so long as there is no taxes. So he sells only at street level or to his buddies willing to pay $350 / ounce.
I'm sure Maxine Waters hits the bong regularly, and even her stupid ass can do the math on them there taxes. Instant legalization. At least half the states have realized the inevitability of pot use - if you can't beat em tax em. So that is exactly what they did. And it fucking works, well!
The other "harder" drugs like heroin and speed are being handled at the federal level. The pharmaceutical companies figured out about 15 years ago they could create synthetic heroin in a pill form called Oxycontin, that was easy to use in a variety of forms - swallow them, remove the "time release" coating and crush em up to either snort or inject them, or my personal favorite which I recently learned on Intervention (the show) was smoking them on tin foil. How the fuck do you smoke a pill on tin foil?
Because most drugs which are dolled out by doctors are both dangerous and addictive, they have been prescribing them with relative impunity for years. Hell, there was a doctor I knew about that worked emergency in Utah who had junkies waiting in the parking lot for him to come on shift because they knew he was good for anything they wanted.
When the hospital caught wind of it, and with the medical and ethical issues involved, the doctor went just up the road (literally) and opened up a pain management clinic. Last I heard he was 3 months out for new patients - which is to say the dude is fucking rolling in it.
The pharmaceutical companies can't put three piece suits on street corners with Glocks, so they took the high road and made it legal, and lucrative. I'm guessing heroin dealers will be obsolete in the next 20 years, which isn't saying the problem will go away. It just means that it will become taxable. That's why the FDA doesn't give a shit if these new high powered wanna be heroin drugs hit the market.
There are a ton of people who are addicted to these, and here is the golden parachute for oxycontin and all other opiates like them - methadone. It's supposed to wean addicts off of opiates, but as usual the cure is worse than the disease.
Any way you look at it the pharmaceutical companies are taking in billions, and paying off those in power on the one side, while the same folks who are getting paid off are crying about what an addicted nation we have become. Something must be done, so long as I keep getting paid.
The US government isn't the biggest threat to the middle east heroin trade, Bristol Myers Squib and other pharmaceutical giants are. Wait and see, smack is on the way out.
It's all about dollars, plain and simple. So long as the street dealers are doing their thing then capitalism will still exist. After all, addiction is recession proof.
Have a great weekend, and Maxine Waters........Fuck off please?
A "patient" is the legal dope smoker term here in California, and said patient must go to a "doctor" who can prescribe a card allowing the patient to buy from a "dispensary" - which by the way are allowed in some cities and not others.
This was done for the obvious reason that the government hates competition. If some cat growing some kind is knocking back a few pounds every three or four months he can make pretty good money - so long as there is no taxes. So he sells only at street level or to his buddies willing to pay $350 / ounce.
I'm sure Maxine Waters hits the bong regularly, and even her stupid ass can do the math on them there taxes. Instant legalization. At least half the states have realized the inevitability of pot use - if you can't beat em tax em. So that is exactly what they did. And it fucking works, well!
The other "harder" drugs like heroin and speed are being handled at the federal level. The pharmaceutical companies figured out about 15 years ago they could create synthetic heroin in a pill form called Oxycontin, that was easy to use in a variety of forms - swallow them, remove the "time release" coating and crush em up to either snort or inject them, or my personal favorite which I recently learned on Intervention (the show) was smoking them on tin foil. How the fuck do you smoke a pill on tin foil?
Because most drugs which are dolled out by doctors are both dangerous and addictive, they have been prescribing them with relative impunity for years. Hell, there was a doctor I knew about that worked emergency in Utah who had junkies waiting in the parking lot for him to come on shift because they knew he was good for anything they wanted.
When the hospital caught wind of it, and with the medical and ethical issues involved, the doctor went just up the road (literally) and opened up a pain management clinic. Last I heard he was 3 months out for new patients - which is to say the dude is fucking rolling in it.
The pharmaceutical companies can't put three piece suits on street corners with Glocks, so they took the high road and made it legal, and lucrative. I'm guessing heroin dealers will be obsolete in the next 20 years, which isn't saying the problem will go away. It just means that it will become taxable. That's why the FDA doesn't give a shit if these new high powered wanna be heroin drugs hit the market.
There are a ton of people who are addicted to these, and here is the golden parachute for oxycontin and all other opiates like them - methadone. It's supposed to wean addicts off of opiates, but as usual the cure is worse than the disease.
Any way you look at it the pharmaceutical companies are taking in billions, and paying off those in power on the one side, while the same folks who are getting paid off are crying about what an addicted nation we have become. Something must be done, so long as I keep getting paid.
The US government isn't the biggest threat to the middle east heroin trade, Bristol Myers Squib and other pharmaceutical giants are. Wait and see, smack is on the way out.
It's all about dollars, plain and simple. So long as the street dealers are doing their thing then capitalism will still exist. After all, addiction is recession proof.
Have a great weekend, and Maxine Waters........Fuck off please?
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Dummies and Hurricanes
Yup it's here again - hurricane season is upon us and what fun it is to watch. Eileen is no exception. It's not like a fucking surprise, it happens every year. EVERY YEAR! So it astounds me as to why the people who live in that region of the world get all tipped over every time another tropical storm / hurricane is reported to be headed for a given area. They have 2 days to fucking leave - so go!
100 years ago the poor fuckers were caught off guard, and the Seminole Indians have been dealing with these things since the beginning of time - without CNN or the Weather Channel and they survived. Perhaps Captain Obama should go to one of the tribal leaders and get some fucking advice that has no agenda behind it?
Shit, that won't happen - it makes too much sense. Nope, the feds will do what they always do. Toss a few warnings, watch the coverage via satellite and issue ATM cards to those who are too fucking stupid to take the necessary precautions, and purchase the insurance one should have when living in that region of the world.
So if you live on the east coast, in the "potential" pathway of the impending hurricane here is a hint - GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE! If you choose to stay then duct tape yourself to a tree and videotape your own demise. That will get some serious hits on Youtube, eh?
Weather and natural disasters are inevitable, stupidity and ignorance is not. Ok, well maybe they are but it is fixable. Maybe it's time to thin the herd and deepen the current gene puddle by ridding the world of the weak, stupid, stubborn and ignorant souls? Perhaps this is Darwin's revenge, or just more proof that he was right all along.
Given all of our technology, there is no reason why anyone should even be injured due to this storm. It's not like a fucking volcano or earthquake that has NO warning. I live in LA and I know about it, so no excuses should be accepted for personal injuries or death.
Again, if you live in the potential pathway of the storm Eileen, get the fuck out of the way or count to seven and we will meet you up in heaven - but do the rest of us a solid and videotape it for us. Cheers!
100 years ago the poor fuckers were caught off guard, and the Seminole Indians have been dealing with these things since the beginning of time - without CNN or the Weather Channel and they survived. Perhaps Captain Obama should go to one of the tribal leaders and get some fucking advice that has no agenda behind it?
Shit, that won't happen - it makes too much sense. Nope, the feds will do what they always do. Toss a few warnings, watch the coverage via satellite and issue ATM cards to those who are too fucking stupid to take the necessary precautions, and purchase the insurance one should have when living in that region of the world.
So if you live on the east coast, in the "potential" pathway of the impending hurricane here is a hint - GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE! If you choose to stay then duct tape yourself to a tree and videotape your own demise. That will get some serious hits on Youtube, eh?
Weather and natural disasters are inevitable, stupidity and ignorance is not. Ok, well maybe they are but it is fixable. Maybe it's time to thin the herd and deepen the current gene puddle by ridding the world of the weak, stupid, stubborn and ignorant souls? Perhaps this is Darwin's revenge, or just more proof that he was right all along.
Given all of our technology, there is no reason why anyone should even be injured due to this storm. It's not like a fucking volcano or earthquake that has NO warning. I live in LA and I know about it, so no excuses should be accepted for personal injuries or death.
Again, if you live in the potential pathway of the storm Eileen, get the fuck out of the way or count to seven and we will meet you up in heaven - but do the rest of us a solid and videotape it for us. Cheers!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Stupid Dating Service
I saw an ad on TV the other day advertising a "Black Only" online dating service. In fact I think I was either watching Intervention or Celebrity Rehab - either way an interesting time slot to plug your company. It did however get me to thinking, why is there a need for "black people only" dating website?
I came to very few conclusions but here they are:
I have several friends, some of which are black. I don't think of them as black, I think of them as regular fucked up as the rest of us people. I disagree with the use of the "n" word - in the sense that it is politically correct for one black person to refer to another black person in that sense, but God forbid anybody else, not of color do it. That is a crock of shit, and needs to either be mutually accepted by all or cut out of the verbiage altogether.
If you ask a scientist if black is a color they will tell you "nope". So why call a website a "black only" website if it isn't a color at all? If it refers to a culture, then anyone south of the Mason Dixon line can join, regardless of their race, creed, color or the amount of teeth in their jowls.
Are black people colorblind and unable to delineate between a large white woman with good credit and a black woman? I'm going to go ahead and say no. Which leads to only one conclusion. There are some black folk who do not wish to integrate with any other race - and I thought that fucking issue went to bed with Rosa Parks. My bad.
What do you think would happen if a "white only" dating service was developed? The ACLU, Jesse Jackson and Maxine Waters would all over that shit like chicken at a picnic.
What if it went a step further and a "white supremacist" website popped up during the CBS evening news? There would be a fucking national outcry and a freeway named after the first guy to complain, or get shot.
I'm not racist, I think every race, religion and creed has its' fair share of assholes and fuckos. That said, they all have some of the finest minds, work ethic and morals as well. I dislike assholes, not colors. Oh yeah, stupid people too.
Let's not regress as a country in the name of the almighty dollar, or some secular vision that was hatched in a delusional state. If you want to date a person of color feel free. Just don't get caught being white on a "black only" sight.
I came to very few conclusions but here they are:
I have several friends, some of which are black. I don't think of them as black, I think of them as regular fucked up as the rest of us people. I disagree with the use of the "n" word - in the sense that it is politically correct for one black person to refer to another black person in that sense, but God forbid anybody else, not of color do it. That is a crock of shit, and needs to either be mutually accepted by all or cut out of the verbiage altogether.
If you ask a scientist if black is a color they will tell you "nope". So why call a website a "black only" website if it isn't a color at all? If it refers to a culture, then anyone south of the Mason Dixon line can join, regardless of their race, creed, color or the amount of teeth in their jowls.
Are black people colorblind and unable to delineate between a large white woman with good credit and a black woman? I'm going to go ahead and say no. Which leads to only one conclusion. There are some black folk who do not wish to integrate with any other race - and I thought that fucking issue went to bed with Rosa Parks. My bad.
What do you think would happen if a "white only" dating service was developed? The ACLU, Jesse Jackson and Maxine Waters would all over that shit like chicken at a picnic.
What if it went a step further and a "white supremacist" website popped up during the CBS evening news? There would be a fucking national outcry and a freeway named after the first guy to complain, or get shot.
I'm not racist, I think every race, religion and creed has its' fair share of assholes and fuckos. That said, they all have some of the finest minds, work ethic and morals as well. I dislike assholes, not colors. Oh yeah, stupid people too.
Let's not regress as a country in the name of the almighty dollar, or some secular vision that was hatched in a delusional state. If you want to date a person of color feel free. Just don't get caught being white on a "black only" sight.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Fuck the Studies
Fuck it. Why be a writer having to create or regale stories for the entertainment of people, most of whom I don't even fucking know? I decided I want to be one of those "scientists" that does these bullshit fucking studies which are debated on stupid talk shows.
And why not? Most if not all are government funded which means some fat kid with a somewhat compelling postulate can go to the head of some "prestigious" university and say "hey dude, lets study the effects of bleach exposure to the whooping crane". And some shit head, self indulgent, egomaniacal assfuck of a professor will say, "fuck Dudley, good idea".
So the paperwork is set into motion and boom, the study begins - and to what fucking end? Are folks going to stop using bleach where the Whooping Crane is indigenous? I'm going to go ahead and say no. So tell me what the fucking point is??
I saw a report on salt, you know that element the body cannot live without? Too much has for years been linked to heart disease and strokes. Now, Dudley's twin (metaphorically) brother has done a study and found that people who don't regulate their sodium intake are 56% less likely to suffer from the aforementioned conditions.
Now, having been an engineer for the past 20 years I know a thing or two about data presentation. I also have a background in DOE (design of experiments) and had to suffer working with tunnel visioned PhD's in a laboratory setting. These fuckers may be able to solve or create extensive quadratic equations but they can't assemble a peanut butter sandwich. Common sense is relative to ones own environment, but come on? How hard is it to put peanut butter on a slice of bread and then cover it with another piece of, well, you know, bread? But you expect the general public to believe their bullshit data, when another study will appear 6 months later stating the contrary.
I was in Starbucks waiting inline because California has an issue with drive thru coffee joints, and noticed a new sign on the wall saying that somehow some "Dudley" of the world has decided that during the processing of the beans a carcinogen is produced making coffee not entirely safe. Really? Who wants to live forever? If a cup of Starbucks is going to kill me then God please take me now.
High Fructose Corn syrup is my favorite though, primarily because it tastes like shit. Cereal was good when I was a kid, and after tasting a bowl of Trix with this new sweetner in it I almost vomited. Coca Cola is the best example, and I will spend twice the cash to buy the Mexican bottles of coke made with real sugar. Shit, even Pepsi has caught on to the fact that corn syrup sucks and have gone back to making American cans with real sugar called Throwback Pepsi.
All these studies and the FDA won't or can't force the cigarette companies to print bilingually that their product will cause cancer in more than lab rats? What good are they?
They are all full of shit so decide for yourself America and say a big Fuck You to all of the studies that come out claiming things are either good or bad for you. You decide!
And why not? Most if not all are government funded which means some fat kid with a somewhat compelling postulate can go to the head of some "prestigious" university and say "hey dude, lets study the effects of bleach exposure to the whooping crane". And some shit head, self indulgent, egomaniacal assfuck of a professor will say, "fuck Dudley, good idea".
So the paperwork is set into motion and boom, the study begins - and to what fucking end? Are folks going to stop using bleach where the Whooping Crane is indigenous? I'm going to go ahead and say no. So tell me what the fucking point is??
I saw a report on salt, you know that element the body cannot live without? Too much has for years been linked to heart disease and strokes. Now, Dudley's twin (metaphorically) brother has done a study and found that people who don't regulate their sodium intake are 56% less likely to suffer from the aforementioned conditions.
Now, having been an engineer for the past 20 years I know a thing or two about data presentation. I also have a background in DOE (design of experiments) and had to suffer working with tunnel visioned PhD's in a laboratory setting. These fuckers may be able to solve or create extensive quadratic equations but they can't assemble a peanut butter sandwich. Common sense is relative to ones own environment, but come on? How hard is it to put peanut butter on a slice of bread and then cover it with another piece of, well, you know, bread? But you expect the general public to believe their bullshit data, when another study will appear 6 months later stating the contrary.
I was in Starbucks waiting inline because California has an issue with drive thru coffee joints, and noticed a new sign on the wall saying that somehow some "Dudley" of the world has decided that during the processing of the beans a carcinogen is produced making coffee not entirely safe. Really? Who wants to live forever? If a cup of Starbucks is going to kill me then God please take me now.
High Fructose Corn syrup is my favorite though, primarily because it tastes like shit. Cereal was good when I was a kid, and after tasting a bowl of Trix with this new sweetner in it I almost vomited. Coca Cola is the best example, and I will spend twice the cash to buy the Mexican bottles of coke made with real sugar. Shit, even Pepsi has caught on to the fact that corn syrup sucks and have gone back to making American cans with real sugar called Throwback Pepsi.
All these studies and the FDA won't or can't force the cigarette companies to print bilingually that their product will cause cancer in more than lab rats? What good are they?
They are all full of shit so decide for yourself America and say a big Fuck You to all of the studies that come out claiming things are either good or bad for you. You decide!
Monday, August 22, 2011
Shrimp and Roofies
There is a somewhat infamous little restaurant / bar in Southern California where the food is 5 star quality, and the drinks are reasonably priced. I think a former mayor may own it, but that isn't important right now.
One night my girl and I decided to patronize this place as we were told they served some of the best steaks in town. The place is small, very small and is split between the bar area and the formal dining room. It is absolutely a locals hangout, as I can't imagine how a tourist would be enamored by the exterior of this place.
So we park and go in. Now, I have been in 100s of bars and liquor joints during my tenure on this planet but this place was fucking small. It appeared to be full with 11 people in it, although we did find room at the very end of the bar which curved around and was so close to the wall the two people sitting on the inside had to have the two towards the outside get up if they had to use the bathroom - which I found out happens a lot there.
We happened to take the two seats at the bar next to the two on the inside. Sitting on the inside was a nice middle aged couple who were obviously regulars at this place - because everybody knew their names and came to greet them upon arrival. The man, who I will call Bill kept having to get up and pee. Perhaps he was diabetic or had some other medical condition?
So we are chatting with Bill and his wife and decide to eat at the bar instead of waiting for one of the 12 tables in the dining area. I ordered the shrimp cocktail and a salad while the wife got a steak. She never eats all of hers so I knew I could get some of her kibble anyway.
Time goes by and we are drinking and enjoying meaningless smalltalk, as much as anyone possibly can - but it was not uncomfortable. Bill kept going into the bathroom, but I didn't want to pry and make shit awkward.
After a few Vodka rocks and Cokes I too had to pee. I walked into the bathroom and right behind me was Bill. Now picture a restroom which rivals that of a truck stop in Mexico - one urinal and one shitter, with no door. The shitter had no door. To make things worse the urinal is right in front of the shitter. In other words some one who was dropping a grumpy had to stare at the ass of whomever showed up to pee.
The other thing I found odd about this place was that the urinal was filled with ice. I was told it kept the piss smell down, but why the fuck would a third world shit house like this be concerned with the smell of piss when there had to be toxic spores and fungi in every crevice in that place? I would soon find out.
Upon entering the bathroom, which by the way has no exterior door from the bar, I immediately went to the urinal and did my business. Pissing on ice is awesome, let me tell you. You could eat asparagus every day of your life while taking antibiotics and never know it by the smell of your urine. It was neato.
Then when I'm done, I'm doing up my pants and Bill slides up next to me and says, "hey man, want a bump"? I haven't heard that since my bar music days. A bump of what"
I had to ask because in this day and age it could have been anything.
Cocaine Bill says. I got some really good shit, and like a typical small time, part time, dealer he was willing to let me have a taste for free. Not having done any coke since the late nineties, I said sure, why not?
So Bill proceeds to lay a line the size of Tibet across the top of the urinal. He said he would stand guard at the door and handed me a dollar bill rolled up.
Now I'm all about letting folks do what they want so long as they are not hurting anyone, but snorting coke from the top of the urinal was fucking questionable at best. I told bill there had to be a better option and he replies with, "that's why I have them keep the ice in there, no splashing".
Whatever, so I snorted the line and it was mediocre at best.
Then I returned to the bar with Bill to join our wives. Apparently Bill's wife had a similar conversation with my wife about a "bump". My wife is not a prude but is not into hard drugs, ever. She was polite and declined.
So dinner was served and being so close to Bill and his wife I heard all of his cell phone traffic and conversations he had with the bartender - who was definitely in on the game. Upon our return to the bar the bartender dashed into the bathroom and came out 30 seconds later, smiling and yakking a mile a minute.
After dinner I had to go outside to take a phone call, as it was too noisy in the bar. Apparently my girl had to use the restroom while I was out and my drink was left unprotected. I'm guessing that is when it happened - I was roofied.
For those of you who don't know what a roofie is allow me to explain it to you. It is a small pill that wipes your consciousness yet leaves your subconscious working, and in my case with the cocaine I had ingested, on overtime.
My wife is very sensitive to the energy people have and when we were done with dinner couldn't wait to get out of there. Something on her female radar just wasn't right.
We exchanged phone numbers with our new found friends, and politely left. When we got home things were a blur, and then I remember nothing.
We went to bed around midnight and by two in the morning I was awoken, sitting upright chewing my toenails, by my wife wanting to know what the fuck I was doing. I became conscious with a toe in my mouth, so what was I supposed to say?
I told her I needed some water and got up semi conscious at this point. I remember walking into the kitchen and getting into the fridge for some liquid. After that I am blank until the next morning.
The following morning we both laughed about the toenail thing, and how I haven't done that since I was a kid. We got up and I made breakfast while the wife paid some bills online.
No sooner than I had breakfast on the table I hear my wife in that tone no man ever wants to hear from a woman - fucking ever. That tone that says "fucker you are dead".
She asked me "who the fuck were you calling at 3am this morning"? I told her nobody, and I meant it. There are times when we as men are straight up caught and have to take the wrath of the crucifiction (metaphorically) from our spouses, but I was telling the truth. I was in bed at 3am.
"Not according to AT&T you weren't. Who do these phone numbers belong to"? As she read the numbers they were friends from Utah, Nevada and Oregon. All were innocent except the one that I spent 40 minutes on the phone with - my ex from 10 years earlier. How the fuck did that happen?
I still protested and was getting pissed off how my wife could question my word - but she had technology on her side.
So I called my ex and put her on speaker phone, surely to be vindicated. NOPE!
The ex answered and very politely explained the conversation we had wherein we spoke of my happiness and relationship with my wife. From the questions I was asking my wife was convinced I had seriously not remembered any of this, and therefore only paid a small penalty.
So be wary of kind strangers in little shit bars where the urinal has ice in it and the shrimp cocktail kicks ass.
One night my girl and I decided to patronize this place as we were told they served some of the best steaks in town. The place is small, very small and is split between the bar area and the formal dining room. It is absolutely a locals hangout, as I can't imagine how a tourist would be enamored by the exterior of this place.
So we park and go in. Now, I have been in 100s of bars and liquor joints during my tenure on this planet but this place was fucking small. It appeared to be full with 11 people in it, although we did find room at the very end of the bar which curved around and was so close to the wall the two people sitting on the inside had to have the two towards the outside get up if they had to use the bathroom - which I found out happens a lot there.
We happened to take the two seats at the bar next to the two on the inside. Sitting on the inside was a nice middle aged couple who were obviously regulars at this place - because everybody knew their names and came to greet them upon arrival. The man, who I will call Bill kept having to get up and pee. Perhaps he was diabetic or had some other medical condition?
So we are chatting with Bill and his wife and decide to eat at the bar instead of waiting for one of the 12 tables in the dining area. I ordered the shrimp cocktail and a salad while the wife got a steak. She never eats all of hers so I knew I could get some of her kibble anyway.
Time goes by and we are drinking and enjoying meaningless smalltalk, as much as anyone possibly can - but it was not uncomfortable. Bill kept going into the bathroom, but I didn't want to pry and make shit awkward.
After a few Vodka rocks and Cokes I too had to pee. I walked into the bathroom and right behind me was Bill. Now picture a restroom which rivals that of a truck stop in Mexico - one urinal and one shitter, with no door. The shitter had no door. To make things worse the urinal is right in front of the shitter. In other words some one who was dropping a grumpy had to stare at the ass of whomever showed up to pee.
The other thing I found odd about this place was that the urinal was filled with ice. I was told it kept the piss smell down, but why the fuck would a third world shit house like this be concerned with the smell of piss when there had to be toxic spores and fungi in every crevice in that place? I would soon find out.
Upon entering the bathroom, which by the way has no exterior door from the bar, I immediately went to the urinal and did my business. Pissing on ice is awesome, let me tell you. You could eat asparagus every day of your life while taking antibiotics and never know it by the smell of your urine. It was neato.
Then when I'm done, I'm doing up my pants and Bill slides up next to me and says, "hey man, want a bump"? I haven't heard that since my bar music days. A bump of what"
I had to ask because in this day and age it could have been anything.
Cocaine Bill says. I got some really good shit, and like a typical small time, part time, dealer he was willing to let me have a taste for free. Not having done any coke since the late nineties, I said sure, why not?
So Bill proceeds to lay a line the size of Tibet across the top of the urinal. He said he would stand guard at the door and handed me a dollar bill rolled up.
Now I'm all about letting folks do what they want so long as they are not hurting anyone, but snorting coke from the top of the urinal was fucking questionable at best. I told bill there had to be a better option and he replies with, "that's why I have them keep the ice in there, no splashing".
Whatever, so I snorted the line and it was mediocre at best.
Then I returned to the bar with Bill to join our wives. Apparently Bill's wife had a similar conversation with my wife about a "bump". My wife is not a prude but is not into hard drugs, ever. She was polite and declined.
So dinner was served and being so close to Bill and his wife I heard all of his cell phone traffic and conversations he had with the bartender - who was definitely in on the game. Upon our return to the bar the bartender dashed into the bathroom and came out 30 seconds later, smiling and yakking a mile a minute.
After dinner I had to go outside to take a phone call, as it was too noisy in the bar. Apparently my girl had to use the restroom while I was out and my drink was left unprotected. I'm guessing that is when it happened - I was roofied.
For those of you who don't know what a roofie is allow me to explain it to you. It is a small pill that wipes your consciousness yet leaves your subconscious working, and in my case with the cocaine I had ingested, on overtime.
My wife is very sensitive to the energy people have and when we were done with dinner couldn't wait to get out of there. Something on her female radar just wasn't right.
We exchanged phone numbers with our new found friends, and politely left. When we got home things were a blur, and then I remember nothing.
We went to bed around midnight and by two in the morning I was awoken, sitting upright chewing my toenails, by my wife wanting to know what the fuck I was doing. I became conscious with a toe in my mouth, so what was I supposed to say?
I told her I needed some water and got up semi conscious at this point. I remember walking into the kitchen and getting into the fridge for some liquid. After that I am blank until the next morning.
The following morning we both laughed about the toenail thing, and how I haven't done that since I was a kid. We got up and I made breakfast while the wife paid some bills online.
No sooner than I had breakfast on the table I hear my wife in that tone no man ever wants to hear from a woman - fucking ever. That tone that says "fucker you are dead".
She asked me "who the fuck were you calling at 3am this morning"? I told her nobody, and I meant it. There are times when we as men are straight up caught and have to take the wrath of the crucifiction (metaphorically) from our spouses, but I was telling the truth. I was in bed at 3am.
"Not according to AT&T you weren't. Who do these phone numbers belong to"? As she read the numbers they were friends from Utah, Nevada and Oregon. All were innocent except the one that I spent 40 minutes on the phone with - my ex from 10 years earlier. How the fuck did that happen?
I still protested and was getting pissed off how my wife could question my word - but she had technology on her side.
So I called my ex and put her on speaker phone, surely to be vindicated. NOPE!
The ex answered and very politely explained the conversation we had wherein we spoke of my happiness and relationship with my wife. From the questions I was asking my wife was convinced I had seriously not remembered any of this, and therefore only paid a small penalty.
So be wary of kind strangers in little shit bars where the urinal has ice in it and the shrimp cocktail kicks ass.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Blinker Fluid
I run 5 or 6 days a week. We are fortunate to have a running path within a block of our house that goes 2 miles in one direction and 1 mile in another direction. They are convenient because cars have to stop for you, unless you are at a major intersection / cross street. Then it can take a few minutes to cross, unless you "jaywalk", which I have been told in Burbank will get you a ticket - a big one.
Personally I have never seen anybody get one so to me it is an urban legend - until I get one.
But running the same path everyday is like running on my treadmill. It gets the job done but is boring and monotonous at best.
One day I took my daughter to the zoo and noticed an equestrian trail that runs next to the 5 freeway. Because it is an actual horse trail it is dirt, which is groomed daily. It has up and down hill grades which are not too extreme for the 20 mile a week runner which I am. There are trees and a large part of the trail borders a golf course which makes for a serene and entertaining environment simultaneously.
In other words I can be cruising along being one with nature and all, while some hack is throwing and breaking his golf clubs. For some reason this works for me - it takes my mind off the rythm of running, but in a good entertaining way,
So I'm making my way over to the park, which borders the trail around 4:30 Wednesday. I'm heading north on the access road and the park is on my left. I have my windows down, a cool breeze is blowing through my car and the tunes are going - it's a great fucking day.
As I approach the entrance to the parking area, which is not all that big, I see a woman in a piece of shit Sentra who doesn't have a blinker turned on, but because of the direction of her car at the entrance wants to pull out and go north as well.
I could tell she hesitated too long and would now have to wait for me to pull in before she could proceed. I also failed to use my blinker. This pissed her off, because as I pulled into the park entrance from the street her window was down and her mouth was moving. Axl was talking to me through my CD player and he is much more compelling to listen to than some random skank in piece of shit car who wants to verbally express herself to me - regardless of the subject matter.
Nonetheless, I turned Axl down and stopped right next to her, her mouth going a million miles per hour and I could tell by the look on her face she was not a happy camper. The conversation went something like this:
Crazy Bitch: How the fuck am I supposed to know you are turning left?
Me: My blinker (which as I stated before wasn't on)
Crazy Bitch: Your fucking blinker wasn't on.
Me: I am aware of that.
Crazy Bitch: Why didn't you have your turn signal on? I could have hit you.
This bitch was so fucking pissed off and one of my faults is assisting others in pissing themselves off.
Me: I am low on blinker fluid.
Crazy Bitch: That's your excuse? Your fluid is low? Isn't that irresponsible? Isn't that a part of being a safe driver? I carry extra fluid in my trunk, in fact I probably have some blinker fluid back there.
Me: Yup, thats all I got.
Crazy Bitch: You need to get to the store and get some before someone gets hurt.
Me: Thank you for reminding me of that. I will as soon as I'm done.
Crazy Bitch: You know it's stupid people like you that cause accidents....
Me: Me being low on blinker fluid makes me stupid?
Crazy Bitch: I'm just saying that I was going to pull out and would have hit you.
Me: Which would have sucked, and fucked up my afternoon of running, and also would have been your fault.
Crazy Bitch: My fault? Your blinker fluid is low. That's your fault.
Me: But because you are entering the roadway, you are forced to yield the right of way to cars which are already in the thoroughfare.
By this time there was another car behind her wanting to leave, which caused our heated exchange to come to a sudden end. As she pulled away she had some parting words for me:
Crazy Bitch: Get some fucking blinker fluid, asshole!
Once she was gone I was finally able to let myself laugh. Blinker fluid, really? And I'm the stupid one.
Personally I have never seen anybody get one so to me it is an urban legend - until I get one.
But running the same path everyday is like running on my treadmill. It gets the job done but is boring and monotonous at best.
One day I took my daughter to the zoo and noticed an equestrian trail that runs next to the 5 freeway. Because it is an actual horse trail it is dirt, which is groomed daily. It has up and down hill grades which are not too extreme for the 20 mile a week runner which I am. There are trees and a large part of the trail borders a golf course which makes for a serene and entertaining environment simultaneously.
In other words I can be cruising along being one with nature and all, while some hack is throwing and breaking his golf clubs. For some reason this works for me - it takes my mind off the rythm of running, but in a good entertaining way,
So I'm making my way over to the park, which borders the trail around 4:30 Wednesday. I'm heading north on the access road and the park is on my left. I have my windows down, a cool breeze is blowing through my car and the tunes are going - it's a great fucking day.
As I approach the entrance to the parking area, which is not all that big, I see a woman in a piece of shit Sentra who doesn't have a blinker turned on, but because of the direction of her car at the entrance wants to pull out and go north as well.
I could tell she hesitated too long and would now have to wait for me to pull in before she could proceed. I also failed to use my blinker. This pissed her off, because as I pulled into the park entrance from the street her window was down and her mouth was moving. Axl was talking to me through my CD player and he is much more compelling to listen to than some random skank in piece of shit car who wants to verbally express herself to me - regardless of the subject matter.
Nonetheless, I turned Axl down and stopped right next to her, her mouth going a million miles per hour and I could tell by the look on her face she was not a happy camper. The conversation went something like this:
Crazy Bitch: How the fuck am I supposed to know you are turning left?
Me: My blinker (which as I stated before wasn't on)
Crazy Bitch: Your fucking blinker wasn't on.
Me: I am aware of that.
Crazy Bitch: Why didn't you have your turn signal on? I could have hit you.
This bitch was so fucking pissed off and one of my faults is assisting others in pissing themselves off.
Me: I am low on blinker fluid.
Crazy Bitch: That's your excuse? Your fluid is low? Isn't that irresponsible? Isn't that a part of being a safe driver? I carry extra fluid in my trunk, in fact I probably have some blinker fluid back there.
Me: Yup, thats all I got.
Crazy Bitch: You need to get to the store and get some before someone gets hurt.
Me: Thank you for reminding me of that. I will as soon as I'm done.
Crazy Bitch: You know it's stupid people like you that cause accidents....
Me: Me being low on blinker fluid makes me stupid?
Crazy Bitch: I'm just saying that I was going to pull out and would have hit you.
Me: Which would have sucked, and fucked up my afternoon of running, and also would have been your fault.
Crazy Bitch: My fault? Your blinker fluid is low. That's your fault.
Me: But because you are entering the roadway, you are forced to yield the right of way to cars which are already in the thoroughfare.
By this time there was another car behind her wanting to leave, which caused our heated exchange to come to a sudden end. As she pulled away she had some parting words for me:
Crazy Bitch: Get some fucking blinker fluid, asshole!
Once she was gone I was finally able to let myself laugh. Blinker fluid, really? And I'm the stupid one.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Parking Nazi's
Most of you probably don't live in Burbank, California. If you do then you no doubt are abundantly aware of the parking Nazi's that patrol this town with an iron fist. I'm not referring to the parking meter folks, although I'm not sure how to delineate between them as they all drive these Jeep's, but the officers who are assigned to the residential areas.
These cats cruise the neighborhoods looking to give out $45 parking tickets. Why you ask would someone in a residential area get a $45 parking ticket in front of their own abode? Allow me to retort.
You see, in this fine city, which is a lot like Texas in the sense that it is physically located in Los Angeles county but doesn't consider itself a part of LA - as Texas is part of the US but wants to succeed.
So every Tuesday and Wednesday in our part of the world the streets are swept, or at least the sides of the streets are swept by this huge beast of a truck that is essentially a buffer on wheels. The East side on Wednesday's and the west side on Thursday's from 10am - 12pm.
Why it takes two hours to drive up the street is fucking beyond me. I'm guessing that the logistical ability of these fuckers is comparable to all utility people - they need a window. I'm thinking it needs to be a 5 story window and the drivers need to jump out of it.
So we have a neighbor who just moved here from Colorado, and doesn't really know anyone here. He is a quiet Zen-Budhist who for the most part keeps to himself. We talk on occasion and he is a nice guy. He also didn't read the signs.
Now in his defense the signs are placed about every third or fourth house which state no parking between the specified hours. Having out of state plates when I first moved in to Burbank I had the pleasure of dealing with these assholes on one occasion when the midget officer who needed a step stool to place the ticket on my windshield showed up - and placed a ticket on my windshield.
I received the ticket at exactly 10:02am - two fucking minutes after the "ban". I saw her writing the ticket and ran out to plead my case. This is how I know that these folks are Nazi's because they have selective hearing. I think the only word this woman heard me say to her, and I talked a lot, was cocksucker. Probably not my best move because these fucking Nazi's are a part of the Burbank police department.
Oh well, I already had the ticket and a prompt 15 days to pay it. I was so pissed off it took me a few days to properly think things through.
When I was working in Texas (consulting) I drove my car down from Utah, which obviously had Utah plates on it. I was in the Dallas metro area and they love them some toll roads down there.
When going through the toll road stations, you either have a card which is read and charged to your credit card, or you slow down and throw some coins in the bin and that buys you clearance. If you choose to go through the "card" lane at full speed the camera takes a photo of the back of your car.
I'm from fucking Utah, what the hell do I care if they have pictures of my car. Utah doesn't give a hot fuck about tollway violations in Texas. So for the better part of 8 months I abused the Texas tollways every chance I got. No problems.
So after receiving my parking ticket with my Utah plates in Burbank, I applied the same logic. What can they possibly do to me?
So I go to register my car at the DMV to get my California plates, which are ugly as fuck, and thought oh shit. I'm going to get hit with this monster $300 "you didn't pay the fine so you are going to pay it now" bill.
Nope. Nothing, Nada, Zip, Zilch, the big donut hole. Apparently the state DMV is not a collection agency for the fine city of Burbank. No harm, no foul.
So two days ago when I tried to intervene on the part of my new neighbor who also received a parking ticket at 10:02, the parking Nazi said to fuck right off. He had already printed it out and couldn't "take it back". He said if only I had asked him a nanosecond before he would have not issues it. What a crock of civil servant shit.
Nonetheless I thought about my own experience, and passed it along to my neighbor. "Don't pay the ticket" I told him. I regaled him with my story and told him there was nothing to worry about. They can't take away your birthday, Christmas or commence any punishment.
It almost makes me want to keep my cars registered in Nevada, and get weekly tickets just to see that midget have to climb out of her fucking jeep, and climb back in.
These cats cruise the neighborhoods looking to give out $45 parking tickets. Why you ask would someone in a residential area get a $45 parking ticket in front of their own abode? Allow me to retort.
You see, in this fine city, which is a lot like Texas in the sense that it is physically located in Los Angeles county but doesn't consider itself a part of LA - as Texas is part of the US but wants to succeed.
So every Tuesday and Wednesday in our part of the world the streets are swept, or at least the sides of the streets are swept by this huge beast of a truck that is essentially a buffer on wheels. The East side on Wednesday's and the west side on Thursday's from 10am - 12pm.
Why it takes two hours to drive up the street is fucking beyond me. I'm guessing that the logistical ability of these fuckers is comparable to all utility people - they need a window. I'm thinking it needs to be a 5 story window and the drivers need to jump out of it.
So we have a neighbor who just moved here from Colorado, and doesn't really know anyone here. He is a quiet Zen-Budhist who for the most part keeps to himself. We talk on occasion and he is a nice guy. He also didn't read the signs.
Now in his defense the signs are placed about every third or fourth house which state no parking between the specified hours. Having out of state plates when I first moved in to Burbank I had the pleasure of dealing with these assholes on one occasion when the midget officer who needed a step stool to place the ticket on my windshield showed up - and placed a ticket on my windshield.
I received the ticket at exactly 10:02am - two fucking minutes after the "ban". I saw her writing the ticket and ran out to plead my case. This is how I know that these folks are Nazi's because they have selective hearing. I think the only word this woman heard me say to her, and I talked a lot, was cocksucker. Probably not my best move because these fucking Nazi's are a part of the Burbank police department.
Oh well, I already had the ticket and a prompt 15 days to pay it. I was so pissed off it took me a few days to properly think things through.
When I was working in Texas (consulting) I drove my car down from Utah, which obviously had Utah plates on it. I was in the Dallas metro area and they love them some toll roads down there.
When going through the toll road stations, you either have a card which is read and charged to your credit card, or you slow down and throw some coins in the bin and that buys you clearance. If you choose to go through the "card" lane at full speed the camera takes a photo of the back of your car.
I'm from fucking Utah, what the hell do I care if they have pictures of my car. Utah doesn't give a hot fuck about tollway violations in Texas. So for the better part of 8 months I abused the Texas tollways every chance I got. No problems.
So after receiving my parking ticket with my Utah plates in Burbank, I applied the same logic. What can they possibly do to me?
So I go to register my car at the DMV to get my California plates, which are ugly as fuck, and thought oh shit. I'm going to get hit with this monster $300 "you didn't pay the fine so you are going to pay it now" bill.
Nope. Nothing, Nada, Zip, Zilch, the big donut hole. Apparently the state DMV is not a collection agency for the fine city of Burbank. No harm, no foul.
So two days ago when I tried to intervene on the part of my new neighbor who also received a parking ticket at 10:02, the parking Nazi said to fuck right off. He had already printed it out and couldn't "take it back". He said if only I had asked him a nanosecond before he would have not issues it. What a crock of civil servant shit.
Nonetheless I thought about my own experience, and passed it along to my neighbor. "Don't pay the ticket" I told him. I regaled him with my story and told him there was nothing to worry about. They can't take away your birthday, Christmas or commence any punishment.
It almost makes me want to keep my cars registered in Nevada, and get weekly tickets just to see that midget have to climb out of her fucking jeep, and climb back in.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Costco on Saturday
We had to head to Costco to not only get some food, but I needed another pair of glasses because of the night of the No HO HO. They were left on the sidewalk when the girls were eating cake off the sidewalk.
So we waited in line to get a cart and this 20 something foreign chick tries to cut in front of us. I grabbed the cart and gave her a shitty look, then we walked in the store.
This bitch must have been in a hurry because she ran into the back of my foot twice with her cart. The first time I let it go because there was so much traffic in front of us. In other words I couldn't go any faster without mowing over a blue hair couple.
The second time she hit my leg it actually hurt, like she did it on purpose. So I turned around and said "really"? That's when it all started. She promptly told me to get the fuck out of her way. So now I'm pissed - some illegal telling me to get the fuck out of her way and being disrespectful in front of all of these old people.
I asked her where the fuck she would like me to go, and she said "fucking move".
So we proceeded onward when out of nowhere a woman with crazy eyes - you know the kind that looks like she has been smoking meth for a month and the whites of her eyes are way bigger than the iris. She looks like the shit had permanently been scared out of her.
I can only assume this was the ugly girls momma, and momma went old testament on me screaming at me in multiple languages while a huge crowd stood around us. I was already mad and told the lady to get the fuck out of my face, Still she continued to berate me in her hybrid english / arabic psychobabble.
Finally, a Costco male employee showed up and I told him this crazy woman won't shut up and leave us alone. She tried to tell him that I had pushed her daughter and assaulted her. He looked around at the crowd that had followed the entire medley, and I reminded him that all was on video and we could go watch it and she would probably go to jail as a result.
The employee looked at the crazy eyed woman and told her that she cannot attack other customers. So we walk towards the pharmacy and as we are leaving I hear the young ugly bitch say "fuck you, cracker".
Cracker? What the fuck does that even mean? Is that some sort of insult, and if so it would help if she used insults I could comprehend. But whatever, they went one direction we went to the pharmacy to drop off a prescription to fill while we shopped. Costco is a big place, and busy as hell on Saturday, but that little voice in my head told me this was far from over.
We dropped the script off and was told it would take 30 minutes to fill. We had shopping to do anyways so on we went. Walking up and down the isles because we had no list, and were out of pretty much everything all was going fine - until we got to the "store" end of the first frozen food isle. There she was, the 20 something smartass calling me "cracker".
I stared her down as I walked by and my girl told me to just leave it alone. Just as I turn around from hearing that, here comes the crazy eyed bitch - yelling and screaming at me. My girl told the smart ass bitch to shut up and leave it alone. Then the 20 year old told my girl to fuck off. All this time the geriatric crazy eyed lady was back yelling at me in her hybrid psychobabble.
By this time a huge crowd had assembled. My girl is ready to kill this 20 something smart ass, but holds her tongue. I can't, I'm just not made that way. While this old bitch is screaming that I am scaring her daughter I am pushing my cart through the crowd that was watching the entire event unfold - away from both of them.
Then, my girl can't hold it anymore. She goes up to the 20 something and tells her to shut the fuck up. I was so proud of her - a woman defending her man. This went on for two isles while I pushed my cart away from this crazy fucking bitch. I'm ready to pick up grandma and toss her into the freezer to cool off. She was fucking insane.
Finally, a few Costco employees showed up and I'm assuming they talked to some of the onlookers and knew we had done nothing but tell them to fuck off.
"You are scaring my daughter" this cockeyed bitch was screaming at me, while I am pushing my cart away from her telling her "you fucking scare me< you crazy fucking bitch". All the while the 20 something is yelling calling us "crackers" - whatever that means.
We finally got to the corner and made our way away from these two psycho women. We continued our shopping and went to the checkout line, where I scanned the coffee and went to the coffee bean grinding machine to grind my beans. Last time I forgot to grind them and because my girl hates coffee using the food processor no longer an option.
The grinding station has two grinders and an older couple arrived about the same time I did. They had apparently witnessed at least one of the episodes with these foreign fucking heretics and the woman commended me on my behavior. Her husband said he would have put the cock eyed bitch through the wall, and could have gotten away with it because of his age.
He said I was too young and in shape to be hitting old, cock-eyed women without going to jail. I agreed. As a veteran he then thanked me for making the comment "go the fuck back to your newly liberated country" I made to this woman during the second exchange. Apparently I wasn't the only person who had an issue with these fucking asshole immigrants.
Can anyone tell me what "cracker" means?
So we waited in line to get a cart and this 20 something foreign chick tries to cut in front of us. I grabbed the cart and gave her a shitty look, then we walked in the store.
This bitch must have been in a hurry because she ran into the back of my foot twice with her cart. The first time I let it go because there was so much traffic in front of us. In other words I couldn't go any faster without mowing over a blue hair couple.
The second time she hit my leg it actually hurt, like she did it on purpose. So I turned around and said "really"? That's when it all started. She promptly told me to get the fuck out of her way. So now I'm pissed - some illegal telling me to get the fuck out of her way and being disrespectful in front of all of these old people.
I asked her where the fuck she would like me to go, and she said "fucking move".
So we proceeded onward when out of nowhere a woman with crazy eyes - you know the kind that looks like she has been smoking meth for a month and the whites of her eyes are way bigger than the iris. She looks like the shit had permanently been scared out of her.
I can only assume this was the ugly girls momma, and momma went old testament on me screaming at me in multiple languages while a huge crowd stood around us. I was already mad and told the lady to get the fuck out of my face, Still she continued to berate me in her hybrid english / arabic psychobabble.
Finally, a Costco male employee showed up and I told him this crazy woman won't shut up and leave us alone. She tried to tell him that I had pushed her daughter and assaulted her. He looked around at the crowd that had followed the entire medley, and I reminded him that all was on video and we could go watch it and she would probably go to jail as a result.
The employee looked at the crazy eyed woman and told her that she cannot attack other customers. So we walk towards the pharmacy and as we are leaving I hear the young ugly bitch say "fuck you, cracker".
Cracker? What the fuck does that even mean? Is that some sort of insult, and if so it would help if she used insults I could comprehend. But whatever, they went one direction we went to the pharmacy to drop off a prescription to fill while we shopped. Costco is a big place, and busy as hell on Saturday, but that little voice in my head told me this was far from over.
We dropped the script off and was told it would take 30 minutes to fill. We had shopping to do anyways so on we went. Walking up and down the isles because we had no list, and were out of pretty much everything all was going fine - until we got to the "store" end of the first frozen food isle. There she was, the 20 something smartass calling me "cracker".
I stared her down as I walked by and my girl told me to just leave it alone. Just as I turn around from hearing that, here comes the crazy eyed bitch - yelling and screaming at me. My girl told the smart ass bitch to shut up and leave it alone. Then the 20 year old told my girl to fuck off. All this time the geriatric crazy eyed lady was back yelling at me in her hybrid psychobabble.
By this time a huge crowd had assembled. My girl is ready to kill this 20 something smart ass, but holds her tongue. I can't, I'm just not made that way. While this old bitch is screaming that I am scaring her daughter I am pushing my cart through the crowd that was watching the entire event unfold - away from both of them.
Then, my girl can't hold it anymore. She goes up to the 20 something and tells her to shut the fuck up. I was so proud of her - a woman defending her man. This went on for two isles while I pushed my cart away from this crazy fucking bitch. I'm ready to pick up grandma and toss her into the freezer to cool off. She was fucking insane.
Finally, a few Costco employees showed up and I'm assuming they talked to some of the onlookers and knew we had done nothing but tell them to fuck off.
"You are scaring my daughter" this cockeyed bitch was screaming at me, while I am pushing my cart away from her telling her "you fucking scare me< you crazy fucking bitch". All the while the 20 something is yelling calling us "crackers" - whatever that means.
We finally got to the corner and made our way away from these two psycho women. We continued our shopping and went to the checkout line, where I scanned the coffee and went to the coffee bean grinding machine to grind my beans. Last time I forgot to grind them and because my girl hates coffee using the food processor no longer an option.
The grinding station has two grinders and an older couple arrived about the same time I did. They had apparently witnessed at least one of the episodes with these foreign fucking heretics and the woman commended me on my behavior. Her husband said he would have put the cock eyed bitch through the wall, and could have gotten away with it because of his age.
He said I was too young and in shape to be hitting old, cock-eyed women without going to jail. I agreed. As a veteran he then thanked me for making the comment "go the fuck back to your newly liberated country" I made to this woman during the second exchange. Apparently I wasn't the only person who had an issue with these fucking asshole immigrants.
Can anyone tell me what "cracker" means?
Friday, August 12, 2011
Smoking Chief
I just recently found out that the president smokes - cigarettes. Am I just oblivious to the daily happenings of the world and its' most powerful man? Or is it more a matter of I don't give a fuck?
The presidents' PR people must be fucking phenomenal when it comes to keeping that shit quiet. I wonder if there is one secret service agent who is rolling at all times with a pack of Newports and no less than 2 Zippo's?
How many TMZ reporters /camera hacks have been water boarded into giving up their video of the Commander in Chief dragging down 2 packs a day? Harvey Levin probably has a direct line to the white house and gets a sick pay day each time Obama flames up in public.
It would make sense, given tobacco is a gateway substance that Barry is hitting the bong too. And not just any bong, but some solid gold number with his stoned smiling face engraved into the base - probably a gift from the Saudi's along with a huge bindle of their kindest opium for those really hard days when he can't be on the golf course and is actively fucking up the economy.
I also wonder how much a photo of the leader of the free world dragging a dugan and sucking down a 40 out of a brown paper bag is worth? I'll bet the Secret Service has a budget in excess of 5 million to try to maintain this secret - most of which goes to Harvey Levin.
Didn't the first lady initiate a program to keep school kids from getting fat? A program that would keep kids off junk food as well as getting them off of their fat asses to go out and play instead of surfing the net for porn? How's that working out?
All she had to do was teach these fat bastards how to smoke - I mean if it is good enough for the leader of the free world it should be good enough for them, right?
And not the killer kind ganja, oh no - that would be wrong. How would you fit a bong in one of those school lunch bags anyway? Besides that it would just make them hungry and crave video games. Nope, school kids must stick to smokes, diet cokes, red bulls and interweb porn.
Smoking is not a crime or a sin, unless you are Mormon. If you are going to smoke, smoke. If not quit - but if you will hide a habit as benign as tobacco use, what else is this cat doing behind the oval office doors?
The presidents' PR people must be fucking phenomenal when it comes to keeping that shit quiet. I wonder if there is one secret service agent who is rolling at all times with a pack of Newports and no less than 2 Zippo's?
How many TMZ reporters /camera hacks have been water boarded into giving up their video of the Commander in Chief dragging down 2 packs a day? Harvey Levin probably has a direct line to the white house and gets a sick pay day each time Obama flames up in public.
It would make sense, given tobacco is a gateway substance that Barry is hitting the bong too. And not just any bong, but some solid gold number with his stoned smiling face engraved into the base - probably a gift from the Saudi's along with a huge bindle of their kindest opium for those really hard days when he can't be on the golf course and is actively fucking up the economy.
I also wonder how much a photo of the leader of the free world dragging a dugan and sucking down a 40 out of a brown paper bag is worth? I'll bet the Secret Service has a budget in excess of 5 million to try to maintain this secret - most of which goes to Harvey Levin.
Didn't the first lady initiate a program to keep school kids from getting fat? A program that would keep kids off junk food as well as getting them off of their fat asses to go out and play instead of surfing the net for porn? How's that working out?
All she had to do was teach these fat bastards how to smoke - I mean if it is good enough for the leader of the free world it should be good enough for them, right?
And not the killer kind ganja, oh no - that would be wrong. How would you fit a bong in one of those school lunch bags anyway? Besides that it would just make them hungry and crave video games. Nope, school kids must stick to smokes, diet cokes, red bulls and interweb porn.
Smoking is not a crime or a sin, unless you are Mormon. If you are going to smoke, smoke. If not quit - but if you will hide a habit as benign as tobacco use, what else is this cat doing behind the oval office doors?
Thursday, August 11, 2011
How to find a lost drunk friend - in Vegas
There is no doubt most of us have had to deal with fucked up people before. Not the multiple personality, Sybil kind of fucked up - the drunk person who drank themselves retarded, and then turned left and headed straight to unconsciousness. That passed out state where the spins fail to make you sick.
Most of you have probably been that person at one point or another.
We all know that one guy who, once wasted, becomes Mr. Unpredictable. I know a guy in Vegas who is the nicest, sweetest most big hearted dude you could know - until he gets drunk. This dude who I will call Nick has a destination between wasted and passed out - Blackout.
Nick has lost his car before. He has been woken up by sprinklers in the early morning. He has been thrown in jail and when he called his buddy to get him out, he had no idea why he was there.
Nick's friends have physically lost him before - literally. As in where the fuck did this dude go? His car is in the parking lot, he isn't home. Maybe he took off with some girl? Nope. Nick, for some unknown reason began to meander toward where he used to live and passed out on the sidewalk. His friends found him face down on their way home (lucky for Nick they all live relatively close together).
We had a similar experience this last weekend in Vegas.
Our buddy Aaron was with us at the bar, and had hooked up with one of his buddies who he grew up with in Lancaster, California. His friend had moved to Vegas and thanks to Facebook, everybody knew we were in town.
Toward the end of the night Aaron had told a friend of mine he was going to go drink more, which he couldn't possibly do, at another bar with his friend. Then, he was gone. No bye, see ya, fuck you - nothing.
When we got home a half hour or so later, Aaron's friend's car was in front of Steph's house. There is no parking on the street overnight in Steph's neighborhood - so the car stuck out.
We went into the house and found Aaron's buddy ready to leave. When asked where Aaron was he just shrugged and said he walked out the front door a while ago.
I had to ask why - and was told my daughter and her friend who had come into town to see us were awoken by Aaron and his buddy when they showed up at the house (Aaron was beyond wasted).
Anybody who knows Aaron knows he is a huge Dodger fan. Aaron had a Dodger t-shirt on this night and my daughter, along with her friend talked so much shit to Aaron about the Dodgers, even though neither one of them follow baseball, that Aaron left.
Aaron came over to Vegas with me, in my car so he couldn't drive anywhere. His buddy was still at the house, so wherever Aaron went he walked.
My wife Candi knew how to locate Aaron. She knew he was wasted and passed out somewhere. Candi also knows that Aaron snores like a freight train - especially when he is wasted.
So while Steph and I are flipping out throwing our shoes on and grabbing our phones, Candi goes outside the courtyard of Steph's house and walks out to the sidewalk - and listens. Listens for the unmistakeable sound of Aaron snoring.
It takes her all of 3 seconds to hear him, and hone in on him passed out at the top of the driveway next door. Aaron is cuddled up against a Michelin tire on an SUV - and half of his body is underneath the front bumper.
Candi told me to get my camera and get some video, as Aaron was semi conscious but didn't want to move. I got my camera, and then the keys to the SUV to turn on the headlights so I could record the experience.
Out of respect for Aaron I will not post the video. I will say that Aaron may be the funniest hammered guy ever, in the history of guys getting hammered. It took me 45 minutes to get him to agree to go into the house, the entire time he is laying on the concrete.
I figured, because Aaron is a big man that Steph would have to help me get him inside. I was so wrong. Once dude decided to get up, he let go of that tire and got up and walked like he was totally sober.
Let this be a lesson to those of you who find yourselves in the position of seeking out a lost guy who is shit faced. Listen for the sound of drunk snoring!
Most of you have probably been that person at one point or another.
We all know that one guy who, once wasted, becomes Mr. Unpredictable. I know a guy in Vegas who is the nicest, sweetest most big hearted dude you could know - until he gets drunk. This dude who I will call Nick has a destination between wasted and passed out - Blackout.
Nick has lost his car before. He has been woken up by sprinklers in the early morning. He has been thrown in jail and when he called his buddy to get him out, he had no idea why he was there.
Nick's friends have physically lost him before - literally. As in where the fuck did this dude go? His car is in the parking lot, he isn't home. Maybe he took off with some girl? Nope. Nick, for some unknown reason began to meander toward where he used to live and passed out on the sidewalk. His friends found him face down on their way home (lucky for Nick they all live relatively close together).
We had a similar experience this last weekend in Vegas.
Our buddy Aaron was with us at the bar, and had hooked up with one of his buddies who he grew up with in Lancaster, California. His friend had moved to Vegas and thanks to Facebook, everybody knew we were in town.
Toward the end of the night Aaron had told a friend of mine he was going to go drink more, which he couldn't possibly do, at another bar with his friend. Then, he was gone. No bye, see ya, fuck you - nothing.
When we got home a half hour or so later, Aaron's friend's car was in front of Steph's house. There is no parking on the street overnight in Steph's neighborhood - so the car stuck out.
We went into the house and found Aaron's buddy ready to leave. When asked where Aaron was he just shrugged and said he walked out the front door a while ago.
I had to ask why - and was told my daughter and her friend who had come into town to see us were awoken by Aaron and his buddy when they showed up at the house (Aaron was beyond wasted).
Anybody who knows Aaron knows he is a huge Dodger fan. Aaron had a Dodger t-shirt on this night and my daughter, along with her friend talked so much shit to Aaron about the Dodgers, even though neither one of them follow baseball, that Aaron left.
Aaron came over to Vegas with me, in my car so he couldn't drive anywhere. His buddy was still at the house, so wherever Aaron went he walked.
My wife Candi knew how to locate Aaron. She knew he was wasted and passed out somewhere. Candi also knows that Aaron snores like a freight train - especially when he is wasted.
So while Steph and I are flipping out throwing our shoes on and grabbing our phones, Candi goes outside the courtyard of Steph's house and walks out to the sidewalk - and listens. Listens for the unmistakeable sound of Aaron snoring.
It takes her all of 3 seconds to hear him, and hone in on him passed out at the top of the driveway next door. Aaron is cuddled up against a Michelin tire on an SUV - and half of his body is underneath the front bumper.
Candi told me to get my camera and get some video, as Aaron was semi conscious but didn't want to move. I got my camera, and then the keys to the SUV to turn on the headlights so I could record the experience.
Out of respect for Aaron I will not post the video. I will say that Aaron may be the funniest hammered guy ever, in the history of guys getting hammered. It took me 45 minutes to get him to agree to go into the house, the entire time he is laying on the concrete.
I figured, because Aaron is a big man that Steph would have to help me get him inside. I was so wrong. Once dude decided to get up, he let go of that tire and got up and walked like he was totally sober.
Let this be a lesson to those of you who find yourselves in the position of seeking out a lost guy who is shit faced. Listen for the sound of drunk snoring!
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
The perils of the Shell - Part 1
When we go to Vegas we don't go to the strip. We don't gamble and we don't do the tourist thing. Why? Mainly because I lived there for a few years, and nobody I know likes to gamble. Football sportsbetting during the playoffs is fun making 5 dollar cards and hoping for an opening touchdown during the kickoff.
Nonetheless, we go to Vegas to visit my best friend Stephan and visit a locals only (almost) restaurant and bar. The food is second to only the 5 star places on the strip, and you don't have to deal with anyone obnoxious. In the 5 years I have patronized this establishment, I have never seen a fight or physical altercation. The staff is amazing and the place has a Cheers atmosphere, with a bartender named Jared who is a modern day Sam Malone.
Jared has become a great friend and we hang out with him on his houseboat occasionally. Steph is there at least once a week and everybody knows him, and for the most part, me by name.
Vegas bars NEVER close so you can imagine how hammered people can get there. We were no different. I have never been to Vegas (Half Shell is the bar) and not walked out of there normal, EVER. We have walked home, called cabs, caught rides with friends - never have I been stranded there.
My wife is beautiful, and all the dudes were looking but all were courteous to both her and her BFF Crystal. We had a tab going each night, but got in kind of late Friday at 11PM and left the bar at 3. Nothing really unusual happened.
But, Saturday was a different story. We knew where we were going and what our goal was - to get shit faced. The two day hangover, I hate my fucking life kind of shit faced. The kind of shit faced where you swear off drinking for at least a month, and follow through with it.
So Stephan, Aaron, Candi, Crystal and myself are sitting at the bar chugging vodka and red bulls every 3 minutes. Aaron is a big man, I weigh 200 pounds and Steph is 195. We drank two bottles of Jagermeister, two liters of Grey Goose and several exotic drinks designed by Jared to empty your guts. Needless to say we were hammered. Oh did I mention the case of Corona's we killed too?
Aaron caught up with one of his buddies who lives in Vegas, and was so drunk forgot to say goodbye, at least to me. He just disappeared telling Steph and Crystal they were headed to another bar. Aaron needed NO more booze.
So Candi, Steph, Crystal and myself left to drive home. Yes, I know Steph shouldn't have been driving - but I am not law enforcement and he has never had a DUI. I'm guessing he knows when he is out of control. I was wrong.
We piled in his Suburban and got halfway home (which is only 2 miles from the bar) when Vrystal discovered she had left her phone on the bar. Steph called Jared and it was still there, so we turned around and headed back. Being the gentlemen we are we walked up the back stairs while the girls stayed in the truck. Steph left it running because even at 2:30am in Vegas it is still 103 degrees.
We said thank you to Jared and grabbed the phone while making our way back to the stairs. At the top of the stairs I noticed something wrong, very wrong. It took Steph a few steps to figure it out - the Suburban was gone. Now the parking lot to Half Shell shares a parking lot with a strip mall which houses another bar.
After a few minutes of looking Steph saw his headlights on halfway across the parking lot. Score, we found it. Crystal is doing the splits on the hood and Candi is taking pictures of her. Both are laughing so hard we could hear them from 100 yards away.
So Steph and I run toward the truck and Crystal decides to get into the truck and play that stupid game where you get to the door, and the driver moves the truck forward 5 feet. Then, Crystal tells us to get in again and we both fall for the same shit again. Meanwhile, Candi is 50 feet away taking pictures and laughing her ass off. I knew this was going to go bad,so I pulled out my camera and let Steph play the stupid game with Crystal alone.
After another 4 or 5 tries to get into his truck, Steph jumps on the hood and Crystal takes off. Candi and I are laughing so hard we can't get our cameras to work. Steph is holding onto the windshield wipers and climbs his was up to the luggage rack - I assume to maintain a better grip.
Crystal was doing at least 30 MPH in this parking lot making random turns and hitting the brakes. She wasn't trying to hurt him, but when you are as drunk as we were, roof surfing in a parking lot (empty) is funny as hell.
After I caught my breath I was able to capture two minutes of video of this chaos. The lights at night are shitty so the quality is not worth posting. Actually, I have to ask those involved if it is ok, and I am in the process of doing that.
Steph never fell off and Candi almost tossed her cookies laughing so hard. We finally got in the truck and headed home - where we found Aaron, my daughter, her friend and his buddy. All I am going to say in todays edition is that Aaron came as close to humping a tire as anyone I have ever seen. More on that and Aaron's inebriated dribble tomorrow.
Nonetheless, we go to Vegas to visit my best friend Stephan and visit a locals only (almost) restaurant and bar. The food is second to only the 5 star places on the strip, and you don't have to deal with anyone obnoxious. In the 5 years I have patronized this establishment, I have never seen a fight or physical altercation. The staff is amazing and the place has a Cheers atmosphere, with a bartender named Jared who is a modern day Sam Malone.
Jared has become a great friend and we hang out with him on his houseboat occasionally. Steph is there at least once a week and everybody knows him, and for the most part, me by name.
Vegas bars NEVER close so you can imagine how hammered people can get there. We were no different. I have never been to Vegas (Half Shell is the bar) and not walked out of there normal, EVER. We have walked home, called cabs, caught rides with friends - never have I been stranded there.
My wife is beautiful, and all the dudes were looking but all were courteous to both her and her BFF Crystal. We had a tab going each night, but got in kind of late Friday at 11PM and left the bar at 3. Nothing really unusual happened.
But, Saturday was a different story. We knew where we were going and what our goal was - to get shit faced. The two day hangover, I hate my fucking life kind of shit faced. The kind of shit faced where you swear off drinking for at least a month, and follow through with it.
So Stephan, Aaron, Candi, Crystal and myself are sitting at the bar chugging vodka and red bulls every 3 minutes. Aaron is a big man, I weigh 200 pounds and Steph is 195. We drank two bottles of Jagermeister, two liters of Grey Goose and several exotic drinks designed by Jared to empty your guts. Needless to say we were hammered. Oh did I mention the case of Corona's we killed too?
Aaron caught up with one of his buddies who lives in Vegas, and was so drunk forgot to say goodbye, at least to me. He just disappeared telling Steph and Crystal they were headed to another bar. Aaron needed NO more booze.
So Candi, Steph, Crystal and myself left to drive home. Yes, I know Steph shouldn't have been driving - but I am not law enforcement and he has never had a DUI. I'm guessing he knows when he is out of control. I was wrong.
We piled in his Suburban and got halfway home (which is only 2 miles from the bar) when Vrystal discovered she had left her phone on the bar. Steph called Jared and it was still there, so we turned around and headed back. Being the gentlemen we are we walked up the back stairs while the girls stayed in the truck. Steph left it running because even at 2:30am in Vegas it is still 103 degrees.
We said thank you to Jared and grabbed the phone while making our way back to the stairs. At the top of the stairs I noticed something wrong, very wrong. It took Steph a few steps to figure it out - the Suburban was gone. Now the parking lot to Half Shell shares a parking lot with a strip mall which houses another bar.
After a few minutes of looking Steph saw his headlights on halfway across the parking lot. Score, we found it. Crystal is doing the splits on the hood and Candi is taking pictures of her. Both are laughing so hard we could hear them from 100 yards away.
So Steph and I run toward the truck and Crystal decides to get into the truck and play that stupid game where you get to the door, and the driver moves the truck forward 5 feet. Then, Crystal tells us to get in again and we both fall for the same shit again. Meanwhile, Candi is 50 feet away taking pictures and laughing her ass off. I knew this was going to go bad,so I pulled out my camera and let Steph play the stupid game with Crystal alone.
After another 4 or 5 tries to get into his truck, Steph jumps on the hood and Crystal takes off. Candi and I are laughing so hard we can't get our cameras to work. Steph is holding onto the windshield wipers and climbs his was up to the luggage rack - I assume to maintain a better grip.
Crystal was doing at least 30 MPH in this parking lot making random turns and hitting the brakes. She wasn't trying to hurt him, but when you are as drunk as we were, roof surfing in a parking lot (empty) is funny as hell.
After I caught my breath I was able to capture two minutes of video of this chaos. The lights at night are shitty so the quality is not worth posting. Actually, I have to ask those involved if it is ok, and I am in the process of doing that.
Steph never fell off and Candi almost tossed her cookies laughing so hard. We finally got in the truck and headed home - where we found Aaron, my daughter, her friend and his buddy. All I am going to say in todays edition is that Aaron came as close to humping a tire as anyone I have ever seen. More on that and Aaron's inebriated dribble tomorrow.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Never leave Vegas on a Sunday - EVER!
We went to Vegas for the weekend. Having lived in Vegas and commuting back and forth to LA I have made the drive several hundred times. I have made the mistake of leaving Vegas on a Sunday afternoon and having it take 8 hours to get back, which includes the irritation of the 210. Nothing I have ever experienced even comes close to the chaos that was last nights journey.
We have made the trip enough times to know NOT to leave during the core daytime hours. From 9am - 6pm the drive is a joke. Too many people, too many accidents and not enough rest area attendants to clean up the terrible aim hung over (male) tourists develop during their stay.
So we leave around 7pm. The weather had started to cool and based on my experience traffic would not be a problem. It wasn't a holiday weekend, the Superbowl or any other occasion which would create a shitty drive home. I was so wrong.
The traffic began to slow toward the top of the first pass once you hit California. Typically if traffic is going to fucking suck it begins before the state line is even crossed. Not this time.
My wife and her girlfriend had left about 10 minutes before Aaron and myself. Aaron was still drunk, or exceptionally hung over from the night(s) before - and he was content to sit back and sleep, or rest his eyes as he put it.
Toward the top of the hill traffic slowed to 25 or 30 mph - which when you are clicking along at 85 or 90 is crawling. Because my wife was ahead of us I decided to put in a call and find out what the hell was causing the delay - and how long it would last.
Si I called, and the wife said they were in it too - traffic was crawling at this point and at times we were literally stopped for 30 to 60 seconds on the freeway. Completely fucking stopped. I had bought and consumed a Red Bull to maintain my senses when we gassed up to leave.That magic elixir of salt, caffeine, taurine and bubbles makes its' way through me life the bullet train.
Having said that it is not uncommon for me (when alone) to travel between LA and Vegas without stopping. Maybe it's a little game I play with myself? Perhaps a test in discipline? Whatever it is I have never had to pee so bad my bladder hurt.
The stop and go shit kept up for another 25 or so miles and then traffic resumed 65 mph. Not exactly breaking any laws but clicking along ok. And it remained ok until we passed the rest area. Then, it fucking stopped again.
The traffic would come to a complete stop, stay stopped for a while and then begin to creep along at maybe 5mph. I had to pee so bad my bladder hurt. My bladder has NEVER hurt and it was hurting. I kept telling myself I could make it to the next rest stop, and on we went.
Because Aaron was so wrecked from the weekend (resting his eyes) he wasn't in the talking mode. I needed to be distracted from my bladder which I thought was going to rupture so music was out of the question. I needed some sports talk radio.
I turned the radio on and began to look for a station. It was dark by this point and AM radio works much better when it isn't fighting with the sun. I kept pushing the seek button and when I would get a station to tune in, there would be a fucking commercial. I would wait for the commercial to get over to find out it was Mexican blues radio hour, or some asshole reading childrens stories, or whatever.
I kept looking, scanning the radio and Aaron hasn't said shit to me. I was fairly focused on driving and distracting myself from the pain in my groin I didn't see Aaron on his phone. Apparently he felt compelled to complain about my radio station button pushing on Facebook.
So my phone rings and it's my wife and she tells me, "Aaron is sick of you pushing the radio station buttons - it's driving him crazy". I hung up the phone with her and looked over at him resting his eyes. "What the fuck is that about" I asked him? He starts laughing and says "what"? You have to put on Facebook you are being driven crazy instead of telling me who is sitting right next to you - especially because I am the one with happy fingers looking for a fucking radio station to take my mind off my bladder which had reached the critical zone? He just laughs.
Meanwhile between the stop and go other drivers are beginning to realize the effects of too many cars in one place. Families are pulling over into the emergency lane / median / shoulder and running into the desert, having to relieve themselves. Several dudes didn't even care that they were in plain sight right next to their car letting the urine fly.
Other cars with obviously extra important people in them were racing up the median / shoulder at 40 or 50 mph (while the rest of us in the road were either crawling os completely fucking stopped) only to find them selves slamming on their brakes because some guy parked his car on the median to pee. The super, extra important folks were now forced to get back into regular traffic because they could go no further in the emergency lane. Now the fun starts.
All of the people who had been passed by these super important assholes have a decent memory, and were NOT letting the E-Lane fuckers back in. I heard screaming and yelling and what I thought was a guy get out of his car and start beating on the window of the guy in front of him - for what I don't know.
After seeing all of these people relieving themselves on the side of the road I decided to pull off at the next exit, get to the top of the ramp, get back on the downhill ramp and then pull over to pee. It was a fucking eternity til the next exit. Oh sure the sign said it was 8 miles, but when I'm averaging MAYBE 4 miles an hour that is 2 hours - unacceptable.
I am still looking for sports talk radio, for that matter any talk radio station to distract me from the immense pain coming from my bladder. Finally, a station comes in. A medical "call in and ask the doctor" show. Anything was better than nothing. Anything was better than having to drive by dudes pissing on the side of the road and coveting their relief. The only thing worse would have been if it started to rain, or so I thought.
The radio show, now back from commercial had the doctor host inviting folks to call in and discuss their medical problems with him. The first call I hear this fucker take is from the mother of a bedwetting child. I was wrong, this was worse than rain.
Finally my exit came and I sped down the shoulder at 75 mph, passing cars like they were standing still - because, they pretty much were. I get to the top of the ramp and proceed over the highway to the on ramp and what do I see? Two cops having a conference. There were some 18 wheeler trucks parked there as well, but the cops watched me pull up, get out of the car and pee.
I had shut the headlights off (courtesy thing) and have never urinated for so long, ever. It was a good 30 seconds before I noticed how hard the wind was blowing in my face. It then took about 10 more seconds before I realized the wind was causing me to piss on my feet, flip flops and all. But when you have to pee that bad, you just don't give a hot fuck what you are pissing on, so long as you are pissing.
The cops must have understood because I stood there a good two and a half minutes emptying my bladder, and they didn't spot light me or harass me or cite me. I'm pretty sure they noticed which way the wind was blowing, and it was blowing hard, and that was probably entertainment enough for them.
Once I had relieved myself (which was very close to a religious experience) I jumped back in the car with a new determination to make it home. Traffic was so slow that when I merged back into traffic I was behind the same car I was when I exited to pee.
The wife and I keep texting back and forth with her giving me updates on why the traffic is so bad. We had seen cops with their little lights on cruising up the left hand median so I am expecting at some point to see a full on, multiple fatality, body parts across the highway, jaws of life trying to separate what used to be two cars - and all the wife kept telling me was there was nothing.
How could nothing cause all of this chaos? There were people who just said "fuck it" and pulled off the freeway into the desert and slept in their cars. Little kids were running around these parked cars in the wind probably trying not to piss on themselves. Something was causing this - but the wife reported nothing back.
We figured out we were only about 5 miles behind her, which at the pace we were driving I could have run and caught up with her.
And so it went, and went, and went until we got to the Agriculture Check point.
You see, here in California where we love to waste money and resources, there is a "checkpoint" that divides the 2 lanes of freeway into 4 or 5 lanes that must stop and answer the following question - "Do you have any fruits or vegetables with you"? A simple "nope" and you are on your way.
Osama Bin Laden could have driven though this checkpoint with a banana on his dashboard and not been questioned or even stopped.
Some times the people who work there just wave you through. No hi, bye, fuck you - nothing.
What had happened was somebody called in sick, or got drunk on their lunch or something because there was only one lane officially "open". There were cars going through every lane (I think there are a total of 6) and nobody was stopping. Everyone around me was speeding up, because we knew once we were through that fucking joke of a checkpoint - we were home, or at least back to 90 on our way home.
It took me from 7pm until 3:30am to get from Henderson to Burbank, and never again will I leave Vegas on Sunday.
The hi-lights from this weekend are coming tomorrow. I have video from both nights. Stay tuned..........
We have made the trip enough times to know NOT to leave during the core daytime hours. From 9am - 6pm the drive is a joke. Too many people, too many accidents and not enough rest area attendants to clean up the terrible aim hung over (male) tourists develop during their stay.
So we leave around 7pm. The weather had started to cool and based on my experience traffic would not be a problem. It wasn't a holiday weekend, the Superbowl or any other occasion which would create a shitty drive home. I was so wrong.
The traffic began to slow toward the top of the first pass once you hit California. Typically if traffic is going to fucking suck it begins before the state line is even crossed. Not this time.
My wife and her girlfriend had left about 10 minutes before Aaron and myself. Aaron was still drunk, or exceptionally hung over from the night(s) before - and he was content to sit back and sleep, or rest his eyes as he put it.
Toward the top of the hill traffic slowed to 25 or 30 mph - which when you are clicking along at 85 or 90 is crawling. Because my wife was ahead of us I decided to put in a call and find out what the hell was causing the delay - and how long it would last.
Si I called, and the wife said they were in it too - traffic was crawling at this point and at times we were literally stopped for 30 to 60 seconds on the freeway. Completely fucking stopped. I had bought and consumed a Red Bull to maintain my senses when we gassed up to leave.That magic elixir of salt, caffeine, taurine and bubbles makes its' way through me life the bullet train.
Having said that it is not uncommon for me (when alone) to travel between LA and Vegas without stopping. Maybe it's a little game I play with myself? Perhaps a test in discipline? Whatever it is I have never had to pee so bad my bladder hurt.
The stop and go shit kept up for another 25 or so miles and then traffic resumed 65 mph. Not exactly breaking any laws but clicking along ok. And it remained ok until we passed the rest area. Then, it fucking stopped again.
The traffic would come to a complete stop, stay stopped for a while and then begin to creep along at maybe 5mph. I had to pee so bad my bladder hurt. My bladder has NEVER hurt and it was hurting. I kept telling myself I could make it to the next rest stop, and on we went.
Because Aaron was so wrecked from the weekend (resting his eyes) he wasn't in the talking mode. I needed to be distracted from my bladder which I thought was going to rupture so music was out of the question. I needed some sports talk radio.
I turned the radio on and began to look for a station. It was dark by this point and AM radio works much better when it isn't fighting with the sun. I kept pushing the seek button and when I would get a station to tune in, there would be a fucking commercial. I would wait for the commercial to get over to find out it was Mexican blues radio hour, or some asshole reading childrens stories, or whatever.
I kept looking, scanning the radio and Aaron hasn't said shit to me. I was fairly focused on driving and distracting myself from the pain in my groin I didn't see Aaron on his phone. Apparently he felt compelled to complain about my radio station button pushing on Facebook.
So my phone rings and it's my wife and she tells me, "Aaron is sick of you pushing the radio station buttons - it's driving him crazy". I hung up the phone with her and looked over at him resting his eyes. "What the fuck is that about" I asked him? He starts laughing and says "what"? You have to put on Facebook you are being driven crazy instead of telling me who is sitting right next to you - especially because I am the one with happy fingers looking for a fucking radio station to take my mind off my bladder which had reached the critical zone? He just laughs.
Meanwhile between the stop and go other drivers are beginning to realize the effects of too many cars in one place. Families are pulling over into the emergency lane / median / shoulder and running into the desert, having to relieve themselves. Several dudes didn't even care that they were in plain sight right next to their car letting the urine fly.
Other cars with obviously extra important people in them were racing up the median / shoulder at 40 or 50 mph (while the rest of us in the road were either crawling os completely fucking stopped) only to find them selves slamming on their brakes because some guy parked his car on the median to pee. The super, extra important folks were now forced to get back into regular traffic because they could go no further in the emergency lane. Now the fun starts.
All of the people who had been passed by these super important assholes have a decent memory, and were NOT letting the E-Lane fuckers back in. I heard screaming and yelling and what I thought was a guy get out of his car and start beating on the window of the guy in front of him - for what I don't know.
After seeing all of these people relieving themselves on the side of the road I decided to pull off at the next exit, get to the top of the ramp, get back on the downhill ramp and then pull over to pee. It was a fucking eternity til the next exit. Oh sure the sign said it was 8 miles, but when I'm averaging MAYBE 4 miles an hour that is 2 hours - unacceptable.
I am still looking for sports talk radio, for that matter any talk radio station to distract me from the immense pain coming from my bladder. Finally, a station comes in. A medical "call in and ask the doctor" show. Anything was better than nothing. Anything was better than having to drive by dudes pissing on the side of the road and coveting their relief. The only thing worse would have been if it started to rain, or so I thought.
The radio show, now back from commercial had the doctor host inviting folks to call in and discuss their medical problems with him. The first call I hear this fucker take is from the mother of a bedwetting child. I was wrong, this was worse than rain.
Finally my exit came and I sped down the shoulder at 75 mph, passing cars like they were standing still - because, they pretty much were. I get to the top of the ramp and proceed over the highway to the on ramp and what do I see? Two cops having a conference. There were some 18 wheeler trucks parked there as well, but the cops watched me pull up, get out of the car and pee.
I had shut the headlights off (courtesy thing) and have never urinated for so long, ever. It was a good 30 seconds before I noticed how hard the wind was blowing in my face. It then took about 10 more seconds before I realized the wind was causing me to piss on my feet, flip flops and all. But when you have to pee that bad, you just don't give a hot fuck what you are pissing on, so long as you are pissing.
The cops must have understood because I stood there a good two and a half minutes emptying my bladder, and they didn't spot light me or harass me or cite me. I'm pretty sure they noticed which way the wind was blowing, and it was blowing hard, and that was probably entertainment enough for them.
Once I had relieved myself (which was very close to a religious experience) I jumped back in the car with a new determination to make it home. Traffic was so slow that when I merged back into traffic I was behind the same car I was when I exited to pee.
The wife and I keep texting back and forth with her giving me updates on why the traffic is so bad. We had seen cops with their little lights on cruising up the left hand median so I am expecting at some point to see a full on, multiple fatality, body parts across the highway, jaws of life trying to separate what used to be two cars - and all the wife kept telling me was there was nothing.
How could nothing cause all of this chaos? There were people who just said "fuck it" and pulled off the freeway into the desert and slept in their cars. Little kids were running around these parked cars in the wind probably trying not to piss on themselves. Something was causing this - but the wife reported nothing back.
We figured out we were only about 5 miles behind her, which at the pace we were driving I could have run and caught up with her.
And so it went, and went, and went until we got to the Agriculture Check point.
You see, here in California where we love to waste money and resources, there is a "checkpoint" that divides the 2 lanes of freeway into 4 or 5 lanes that must stop and answer the following question - "Do you have any fruits or vegetables with you"? A simple "nope" and you are on your way.
Osama Bin Laden could have driven though this checkpoint with a banana on his dashboard and not been questioned or even stopped.
Some times the people who work there just wave you through. No hi, bye, fuck you - nothing.
What had happened was somebody called in sick, or got drunk on their lunch or something because there was only one lane officially "open". There were cars going through every lane (I think there are a total of 6) and nobody was stopping. Everyone around me was speeding up, because we knew once we were through that fucking joke of a checkpoint - we were home, or at least back to 90 on our way home.
It took me from 7pm until 3:30am to get from Henderson to Burbank, and never again will I leave Vegas on Sunday.
The hi-lights from this weekend are coming tomorrow. I have video from both nights. Stay tuned..........
Friday, August 5, 2011
Bears 2 - Humans 0
I apologize for doing another bear story in the same week, but this was just too good to let go by without some commentary.
I read a report about a group of British "adventurists" (British Schools Exploring Society) ages 16-25 that go to obscure parts of the planet to see the sights. These cats decided to trek on over to Norway, more specifically the Svalbard Islands which is a few miles off the coast of Norway.
Now, to be fair this is allegedly a very picturesque place. Why these dudes went is unknown to me. What is know to me is the brochure put out by the tourism department of Norway and or the Islands themselves. The islands are touted as being home to 3,000 polar bears, 2,500 humans.
Now I'm not Aristotle but I can do long division. The odds of running into one of these bears is better than winning a Keno game in Vegas.
So this group of "adventurists" get to the island and set up their camp. I'm going to go ahead and guess the Polar bears were looking at these dummies like a McDonalds that just opened.
It's unclear as to how much time went by before the Polar Bears made their order, er, attacked 4 of these tourists. The report says 3 campers were injured, one dead - which is a nice way of saying the slow guy became a human McNugget. Polar bears eat what they kill, and most times they are hungry.
My buddy Steph in Vegas says the number one cause of death (for humans) is stupidity. How ironic that aside from thumbs, our ability to reason that was installed in us gets some of us killed. I'm sure there is a stupid factor in there somewhere, but neither Darwin nor Steph are big on complex mathematical equations.
If you are going to venture into an environment where your status as top of the food chain is compromised - hedge your bets and take a gun. If you are going to hang with Polar bears, take a BIG gun. Off to Vegas, have a great weekend!
I read a report about a group of British "adventurists" (British Schools Exploring Society) ages 16-25 that go to obscure parts of the planet to see the sights. These cats decided to trek on over to Norway, more specifically the Svalbard Islands which is a few miles off the coast of Norway.
Now, to be fair this is allegedly a very picturesque place. Why these dudes went is unknown to me. What is know to me is the brochure put out by the tourism department of Norway and or the Islands themselves. The islands are touted as being home to 3,000 polar bears, 2,500 humans.
Now I'm not Aristotle but I can do long division. The odds of running into one of these bears is better than winning a Keno game in Vegas.
So this group of "adventurists" get to the island and set up their camp. I'm going to go ahead and guess the Polar bears were looking at these dummies like a McDonalds that just opened.
It's unclear as to how much time went by before the Polar Bears made their order, er, attacked 4 of these tourists. The report says 3 campers were injured, one dead - which is a nice way of saying the slow guy became a human McNugget. Polar bears eat what they kill, and most times they are hungry.
My buddy Steph in Vegas says the number one cause of death (for humans) is stupidity. How ironic that aside from thumbs, our ability to reason that was installed in us gets some of us killed. I'm sure there is a stupid factor in there somewhere, but neither Darwin nor Steph are big on complex mathematical equations.
If you are going to venture into an environment where your status as top of the food chain is compromised - hedge your bets and take a gun. If you are going to hang with Polar bears, take a BIG gun. Off to Vegas, have a great weekend!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Costco Olympics
There are of course the regular olympics, special olympics, celebrity olympics (I made that up, sort of) but nothing for the elderly, geriatric or antiquated.
I am proposing that an Olympics be developed, and sponsored by Costco which features women with blue hair, and men with little or no hair over the age of 68, or whatever the official retirement age is. This compelling to me for several reasons.
Have you ever been to Costco during the week, between the hours of say 11 and 3? It is tantamount to visiting a retirement home cafeteria - without the handlers. I made the mistake of visiting a Costco to pick up my glasses during a weekday, and thought I might get a few things while we were there. MISTAKE!
You see, in Costco, there are samples of various products at the end of almost every isle, and additional sample stands in the middle of some of the frozen food and fresh meat and cheese isles.
What I saw fucking scared the shit out of me. Not because I realize one day I will be one of these simple minded, grumpy old bastards. It's not because I saw an elderly couple shopping together and discussing their personal experiences with adult diapers. It's because these fuckers who were there on this day were straight mean. And not just mean to me or the wife, hell we didn't exist in their wrinkled universe. These folks had one thing on their mind, free grub.
These so called fragile, elderly, allegedly gentle grandparents were medieval, and they were there for one reason and one reason only - FREE KIBBLE.
It didn't matter whether it was cookie dough ice cream, vitamin supplements mixed with water, sausages or my personal favorite to observe - beef jerky. It was like football practice drills in that store.
The wife and I were strolling down the main isle when we were asked to try some peanut butter and crackers. Nobody else was at the stand and the kid looked bored stiff, so I figured what the hell? "Sure, I'll try some" I said to the kid. The wife doesn't do peanut butter so it was just a single sample this kid handed me.
I no sooner had that chunky goo in my mouth when some old cat who had to be pushing 90 came rolling up in one of those electric carts. He ran into the back of my legs, which didn't hurt but surprised the hell out of me. Then, out ouf nowhere this old bastard yells at this poor kid, "where the hell is my sample , boy"?
I was pissed and horrified at the same time. Here this old fucker is trying to get through me - not by me or around me mind you, but through me. I was confused as to whether or not I should say something to him. And what to say to him should I decide to let the dude have it. I mean he is absolutely my elder and I was raised to respect my elders - my Dad would have my ass if I was disrespectful to an old guy. But this asshole had pole vaulted over the line of decency.
My wife knew what I was thinking and told me to just shut up and move on. So we walked away. But Costco is smart because they put shit like peanut butter next to a beverage isle. Of course the beverage isle has its' own little sample station set up, and I had to have something to drink as my mouth was about stuck shut from the rusty, chunky peanut butter (which sucked by the way).
We stopped at the beverage stand and what did we find? Vitamin powder mixed with water. Not the yummy Flintstones type of vitamins, this shit tasted like a truckload of assholes. The only redeeming quality it had was that it was wet. Just as I'm choking this nasty shit down my gullet here comes Old Hoyt (my pet name for him) in his electric Lazyboy ramming into me again. This time I couldn't hold my tongue - I turned around and told this old fucker to feel free to stop running into my ass.
Foyt looked at me like I was the AntiChrist, and i started regretting being so abrupt with the old guy. Then he opened his mouth to me, and began yelling at me. Yelling every obscenity I could have thought up, and some I had never heard put together before.
Now when old folks yell, they tend to spit as well (a lot). So along with being chastised brutally by a geriatric delinquent, I'm also getting showered with saliva that could be considered antique spit.
My wife is laughing her ass off and I'm essentially speechless. What can I say to an old guy that won't piss off the crowd that had gathered to hear this old fucker scream at me? But God was looking out for me, because about 30 seconds into what had to be his second or third "motherfucker" his partial came flying out.
Yup, his dentures failed him and saved me any additional humiliation. Because he was sitting in his electric stroller his teeth landed on the sample table, spilling several cups of this vitamin shit drink.
Both of us were laughing at this point (hard) because this old bastard didn't miss a beat yelling at me - it was just now nobody could understand a word he was saying and the amount of spit he was emitting went up exponentially.
We left and walked toward the meat department where we could hear another argument in progress. As we neared the table where the coveted sausages were being given away, we could hear these two old ladies going at it - apparently over who was going to get the last package of chicken apple sausages.
As I listened to the argument, it became obvious that these two women had come together and were related. Ones daughter had married the others son. And how proud their kids must be that their mothers were publicly humiliating themselves over 4 bucks worth of chicken and apples.
Just because there was an argument didn't mean these old folks were listening. Shit, time isn't on their side and aside from my wife and I nobody really gave a hot fuck what was being said - so long as they got their kibble samples.
I watched old men with canes moving faster than Shaquille up and down the court, pushing their way through old women and children not giving a fuck who got in their way. If this is what happens when free food is at stake I would hate to see these old fuckers on Viagra.
Hoyt (as I named him) kept chasing us around the store, which forced us to leave earlier than I had wanted to. It was quite entertaining and educational. I had no idea these dudes could move this fast.
So if you have a free afternoon and a Costco nearby, I highly recommend spending an hour watching old people fight over free kibble! Have a great weekend!
I am proposing that an Olympics be developed, and sponsored by Costco which features women with blue hair, and men with little or no hair over the age of 68, or whatever the official retirement age is. This compelling to me for several reasons.
Have you ever been to Costco during the week, between the hours of say 11 and 3? It is tantamount to visiting a retirement home cafeteria - without the handlers. I made the mistake of visiting a Costco to pick up my glasses during a weekday, and thought I might get a few things while we were there. MISTAKE!
You see, in Costco, there are samples of various products at the end of almost every isle, and additional sample stands in the middle of some of the frozen food and fresh meat and cheese isles.
What I saw fucking scared the shit out of me. Not because I realize one day I will be one of these simple minded, grumpy old bastards. It's not because I saw an elderly couple shopping together and discussing their personal experiences with adult diapers. It's because these fuckers who were there on this day were straight mean. And not just mean to me or the wife, hell we didn't exist in their wrinkled universe. These folks had one thing on their mind, free grub.
These so called fragile, elderly, allegedly gentle grandparents were medieval, and they were there for one reason and one reason only - FREE KIBBLE.
It didn't matter whether it was cookie dough ice cream, vitamin supplements mixed with water, sausages or my personal favorite to observe - beef jerky. It was like football practice drills in that store.
The wife and I were strolling down the main isle when we were asked to try some peanut butter and crackers. Nobody else was at the stand and the kid looked bored stiff, so I figured what the hell? "Sure, I'll try some" I said to the kid. The wife doesn't do peanut butter so it was just a single sample this kid handed me.
I no sooner had that chunky goo in my mouth when some old cat who had to be pushing 90 came rolling up in one of those electric carts. He ran into the back of my legs, which didn't hurt but surprised the hell out of me. Then, out ouf nowhere this old bastard yells at this poor kid, "where the hell is my sample , boy"?
I was pissed and horrified at the same time. Here this old fucker is trying to get through me - not by me or around me mind you, but through me. I was confused as to whether or not I should say something to him. And what to say to him should I decide to let the dude have it. I mean he is absolutely my elder and I was raised to respect my elders - my Dad would have my ass if I was disrespectful to an old guy. But this asshole had pole vaulted over the line of decency.
My wife knew what I was thinking and told me to just shut up and move on. So we walked away. But Costco is smart because they put shit like peanut butter next to a beverage isle. Of course the beverage isle has its' own little sample station set up, and I had to have something to drink as my mouth was about stuck shut from the rusty, chunky peanut butter (which sucked by the way).
We stopped at the beverage stand and what did we find? Vitamin powder mixed with water. Not the yummy Flintstones type of vitamins, this shit tasted like a truckload of assholes. The only redeeming quality it had was that it was wet. Just as I'm choking this nasty shit down my gullet here comes Old Hoyt (my pet name for him) in his electric Lazyboy ramming into me again. This time I couldn't hold my tongue - I turned around and told this old fucker to feel free to stop running into my ass.
Foyt looked at me like I was the AntiChrist, and i started regretting being so abrupt with the old guy. Then he opened his mouth to me, and began yelling at me. Yelling every obscenity I could have thought up, and some I had never heard put together before.
Now when old folks yell, they tend to spit as well (a lot). So along with being chastised brutally by a geriatric delinquent, I'm also getting showered with saliva that could be considered antique spit.
My wife is laughing her ass off and I'm essentially speechless. What can I say to an old guy that won't piss off the crowd that had gathered to hear this old fucker scream at me? But God was looking out for me, because about 30 seconds into what had to be his second or third "motherfucker" his partial came flying out.
Yup, his dentures failed him and saved me any additional humiliation. Because he was sitting in his electric stroller his teeth landed on the sample table, spilling several cups of this vitamin shit drink.
Both of us were laughing at this point (hard) because this old bastard didn't miss a beat yelling at me - it was just now nobody could understand a word he was saying and the amount of spit he was emitting went up exponentially.
We left and walked toward the meat department where we could hear another argument in progress. As we neared the table where the coveted sausages were being given away, we could hear these two old ladies going at it - apparently over who was going to get the last package of chicken apple sausages.
As I listened to the argument, it became obvious that these two women had come together and were related. Ones daughter had married the others son. And how proud their kids must be that their mothers were publicly humiliating themselves over 4 bucks worth of chicken and apples.
Just because there was an argument didn't mean these old folks were listening. Shit, time isn't on their side and aside from my wife and I nobody really gave a hot fuck what was being said - so long as they got their kibble samples.
I watched old men with canes moving faster than Shaquille up and down the court, pushing their way through old women and children not giving a fuck who got in their way. If this is what happens when free food is at stake I would hate to see these old fuckers on Viagra.
Hoyt (as I named him) kept chasing us around the store, which forced us to leave earlier than I had wanted to. It was quite entertaining and educational. I had no idea these dudes could move this fast.
So if you have a free afternoon and a Costco nearby, I highly recommend spending an hour watching old people fight over free kibble! Have a great weekend!
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
The Lotto Store
Growing up in Utah and Oregon, there were no lotteries to be played. If you wanted to gamble you headed to Nevada - which isn't all that far from either State. Here in California, things are different.
The local liquor store is an existing dichotomy in and of itself. A Hispanic named store, in a predominantly white neighborhood that is owned by Koreans. It is also the most popular place in Burbank to purchase lottery tickets.
Back in February this store sold a $10,000,000.00 winning ticket, and since then the place has been a fucking circus to patronize.
I don't play the lottery so I have limited knowledge of how the scam works. I assume it is similar to what the mob called "running numbers". It was, and perhaps still is profitable and the government, state and local, hate competition.
Essentially what I'm saying is the state can do it and that's ok - if someone else does it that's bad. The reasons the government listed for "running numbers" being bad was primarily it was catering to poor people who couldn't afford to lose.
I'm not sure if the state of California has been to this store lately, but a large portion of their customers are hanging outside of the building drinking liquor from a paper bag waiting for the power ball numbers to manifest themselves.
The idea that the lottery helps pay for schools via the income it provides is stupid. I have lived in Vegas (Henderson) and their schools are way nicer - as are their parks, roads, rest stops and police cars.
Yup, their police cars are immaculate in Henderson, Nevada. Here in LA, they don't even bother to wash them, pull the dents or paint them. Hell, I saw a CHP cruiser with duct tape holding the bumper up while driving down the freeway one day. The lotto obviously doesn't work here in California.
However, it's here and I assume because the state is STILL broke it isn't going anywhere. That sucks.
Our little neighborhood store is convenient and the owners friendly. However, when the lotto gets above 20 million I don't even bother going in any more. Here is how it usually goes:
I walk in and there are 4 or 5 folks waiting inline a fair distance apart from one another with lotto tickets in their grubby little hands. I go back and get my soda and wait. The person at the head of the line is cashing in their winnings and this dude looks like he just woke up and crawled out of the clothing recycle bin in the parking lot.
He changes in his winners, which amount to maybe 8 bucks for, you guessed it - more lotto tickets. This is not a quick process as there are so many colors and types to choose from. Each one a different way to casually lose your cash. So the waiting continues as this cat decides, changes his mind, and decides again which tickets to get.
Finally dude has all of his tickets, and I think I am one step closer to getting the fuck out of this wannabe casino. Uh uh, nope, no way. Why? Because this fucker saved a nickel to scratch off his cards and repeat the process all over again. 10 minutes later, he is broke and leaves.
So it goes, each customer with their stupid lotto tickets hoping to win a few bucks and change their lives. Like 35 bucks ever changed anyones life anyway.
15 minutes later I finally make it to the register, the coveted front of the line. There is a line behind me several people deep. A plethora of socio-economic types all waiting for me to buy my soda and get the fuck out of their way.
Then it dawns on me, perhaps I should be a time waster too. I mean shit, I just wasted 20 minutes of my life I can't get back watching people throw their cash away. Maybe there is something to all of thi s lotto shit I have yet to discover?
So, I did it. I purchased a scratch off $5.00 ticket - but slowly, methodically. I closed my eyes and visualized myself winning a million dollars. There were so many different cards to choose from, so many pretty colors. But, in the end, I am an NFL whore so I bought a San Francisco 49ers card - for three reasons. First, they didn't have a Pittsburgh Steelers card. Second, I hate the Chargers and it was between them and the Niners. Third, my wife loves the 49ers so I figured I can't lose.
It had taken me a good 2 minutes to decide which card to buy, and I decided I had wasted enough time of the folks behind me so I paid for my soda and card and went to leave the store.
On my way out I see the dude who had played and lost, apparently everything he had. He was hanging in the shaded corner outside the door and looked up at me, soda in one hand and ticket in the other.
He asks me, "how did you do"? I replied I didn't know because I hadn't scratched off whatever one scratches off to see if you have won. I asked him how he did, only out of courtesy because he lost all of his, eventually. I suspect most people do. Then he did something I didn't see coming. He said, "hey brother, can you help me out"? Obviously he wanted cash.
So I dig through my pockets and scrape together some loose change. This is when he grew some balls, and asked me for the lotto ticket instead of money. He went on to say it was only the second of the month and he had just blown his entire disability or social security check - on lotto tickets.
Fuck it, I gave it to him and he says to me, "God bless you".
It's been said, don't hate the player, hate the game. Nonetheless, it warmed my cockles to give him the card. Maybe it will change his life?
The local liquor store is an existing dichotomy in and of itself. A Hispanic named store, in a predominantly white neighborhood that is owned by Koreans. It is also the most popular place in Burbank to purchase lottery tickets.
Back in February this store sold a $10,000,000.00 winning ticket, and since then the place has been a fucking circus to patronize.
I don't play the lottery so I have limited knowledge of how the scam works. I assume it is similar to what the mob called "running numbers". It was, and perhaps still is profitable and the government, state and local, hate competition.
Essentially what I'm saying is the state can do it and that's ok - if someone else does it that's bad. The reasons the government listed for "running numbers" being bad was primarily it was catering to poor people who couldn't afford to lose.
I'm not sure if the state of California has been to this store lately, but a large portion of their customers are hanging outside of the building drinking liquor from a paper bag waiting for the power ball numbers to manifest themselves.
The idea that the lottery helps pay for schools via the income it provides is stupid. I have lived in Vegas (Henderson) and their schools are way nicer - as are their parks, roads, rest stops and police cars.
Yup, their police cars are immaculate in Henderson, Nevada. Here in LA, they don't even bother to wash them, pull the dents or paint them. Hell, I saw a CHP cruiser with duct tape holding the bumper up while driving down the freeway one day. The lotto obviously doesn't work here in California.
However, it's here and I assume because the state is STILL broke it isn't going anywhere. That sucks.
Our little neighborhood store is convenient and the owners friendly. However, when the lotto gets above 20 million I don't even bother going in any more. Here is how it usually goes:
I walk in and there are 4 or 5 folks waiting inline a fair distance apart from one another with lotto tickets in their grubby little hands. I go back and get my soda and wait. The person at the head of the line is cashing in their winnings and this dude looks like he just woke up and crawled out of the clothing recycle bin in the parking lot.
He changes in his winners, which amount to maybe 8 bucks for, you guessed it - more lotto tickets. This is not a quick process as there are so many colors and types to choose from. Each one a different way to casually lose your cash. So the waiting continues as this cat decides, changes his mind, and decides again which tickets to get.
Finally dude has all of his tickets, and I think I am one step closer to getting the fuck out of this wannabe casino. Uh uh, nope, no way. Why? Because this fucker saved a nickel to scratch off his cards and repeat the process all over again. 10 minutes later, he is broke and leaves.
So it goes, each customer with their stupid lotto tickets hoping to win a few bucks and change their lives. Like 35 bucks ever changed anyones life anyway.
15 minutes later I finally make it to the register, the coveted front of the line. There is a line behind me several people deep. A plethora of socio-economic types all waiting for me to buy my soda and get the fuck out of their way.
Then it dawns on me, perhaps I should be a time waster too. I mean shit, I just wasted 20 minutes of my life I can't get back watching people throw their cash away. Maybe there is something to all of thi s lotto shit I have yet to discover?
So, I did it. I purchased a scratch off $5.00 ticket - but slowly, methodically. I closed my eyes and visualized myself winning a million dollars. There were so many different cards to choose from, so many pretty colors. But, in the end, I am an NFL whore so I bought a San Francisco 49ers card - for three reasons. First, they didn't have a Pittsburgh Steelers card. Second, I hate the Chargers and it was between them and the Niners. Third, my wife loves the 49ers so I figured I can't lose.
It had taken me a good 2 minutes to decide which card to buy, and I decided I had wasted enough time of the folks behind me so I paid for my soda and card and went to leave the store.
On my way out I see the dude who had played and lost, apparently everything he had. He was hanging in the shaded corner outside the door and looked up at me, soda in one hand and ticket in the other.
He asks me, "how did you do"? I replied I didn't know because I hadn't scratched off whatever one scratches off to see if you have won. I asked him how he did, only out of courtesy because he lost all of his, eventually. I suspect most people do. Then he did something I didn't see coming. He said, "hey brother, can you help me out"? Obviously he wanted cash.
So I dig through my pockets and scrape together some loose change. This is when he grew some balls, and asked me for the lotto ticket instead of money. He went on to say it was only the second of the month and he had just blown his entire disability or social security check - on lotto tickets.
Fuck it, I gave it to him and he says to me, "God bless you".
It's been said, don't hate the player, hate the game. Nonetheless, it warmed my cockles to give him the card. Maybe it will change his life?
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Coupon Hoarders
You ever been stuck at the grocery store behind one of these fucking coupon freaks? You know, the ones with their little spreadsheets and folders and hi-lighter pens trying to get their kibble for free - or as close to free as they can? They usually handwrite checks too, just to waste as much time as possible.
I have, and it fucking sucks.
A few weeks ago the wife and I stopped by a specific grocery store (which rhymes with smalbertsons)because they had Absolut Half Gallons on sale. She knew this because of a mailer, so I suppose to a certain degree we are guilty of a similar practice. Although, I have never seen a coupon for good vodka, EVER.
We meander up to the lines which are at least 7 people deep at each check-out except for this lane on the far side. It had only one woman in it. She was the earthy type 60 something that 20 years before would have been referred to as a granola chick. Luckily she showered that day, because I ran our cart with its' precious cargo of vodka and cherry limeade in it.
When I turned the corner I was astounded, neh, fucking dumbfounded. This granola nug had two baskets, one full of hot dogs and the other full of milk. The carts were so full the hot dogs kept hitting the floor, and each time the nug would go back and get another "non-bruised"package.
Either way, what difference does it make anyway? The checkout girl kept swiping those wieners and all was moving along. Then, when the hot dogs had been scanned the milk began. I was looking around at the lines which were now well into the isles and NOBODY was getting in behind us.
What do they know that I didn't? Even checkout girl was rolling her eyes at the nugs constant correcting of the pricing of the hotdogs and milk. Then, when all of the nugs shit was scanned I learned why NOBODY in their right fucking mind would get behind one of these fucking coupon toting, spread sheet checking offing freaks.
Out comes the bag, or purse or whatever the term is for a device that is about to waste the next 30 minutes of my life. Inside this fucking bag was coupons, and not a few, or even 10. This bitch had hundreds, perhaps thousands of coupons - all for milk and hot dogs. Every one of those fuckers had to be scanned.
Now being the curious soul that I am I looked at her total which was shown to be like $680.00. Who needs that kind of hot dog and milk supply other than maybe a Mormon family reunion?
So the scanning begins, at first I thought it would go along fairly smoothly and couldn't possibly take that much longer. Shit, we had already been there for 15 minutes - but I kept noticing shoppers looking to check out would walk by and see the dreaded bag this chick had, and run for the fucking hills.
The scanning then comes to a complete halt - one of the coupons was folded or creased and couldn't be read by the UPC scanner. This I found is a huge roadblock, as the checker (between rolling her eyes) has to manually punch in all those numbers. And there were a stack of these at least 8 inches tall, and that was just one folder. There were two or three more.
After reading the Enquirer, Star and People magazines I happened to look up at the nugs total amount owed and it was down to like $250. Not bad, if she didn't have to waste my fucking afternoon. It gets worse because as I ran out of shit to read (I will not read soap opera digest - EVER) the nug decides to begin speaking to me between her ordering the poor cashier around.
The nug proceeds to engage me in conversation - ME the dude and his wife whose time is being obliterated for hot dogs and milk. I had to know, I had to ask - why would anybody need that many fucking hot dogs, and that much milk without a box of cereal in sight?
The nug said that she thought the world was going to shit and she could buy (or so I thought) these items to sustain her and whatever coven she belonged to in the event all utilities and services were cut off. You know, anarchy and that sort of shit?
I pondered what she was saying, and as my wife is urging me to shut up under her breath (you know the kind where there is no look, just clenched teeth and words?) but I can't help myself.
I asked her how long milk would keep.It has an expiration date and the nug says "I freeze it". Again, I was fucking shocked. Who the fuck freezes milk?
Yup she said I freeze it and it will stay good for years. Now I'm interested in her survival theory. I suppose one could survive on milk and hot dogs, but who the fuck would want to? They weren't Nathan's or even Ball Park Franks.
So then the logical part of my head kicks in, and this is where the wife is now kicking me in the shin - which is code for "shut the fuck up".
I asked the nug, "If the world goes that far to shit there won't be any electricity for your freezer. Your milk and wienies will last a day, maybe two in the shade but that's it. You can't barter with rotten hot dogs and blue cheese".
At this point the nug was irritated, so I went back to look at her amount owed on the monitor. Again, all I can say is fucking SHOCKED! The amount now says the store owes the nug cash, and the checkout girl is still scanning and manually inputting coupons. This wasn't about food storage, this bitch was making money from getting the right "products" at the grocery store. I had to ask the checkout girl, "you guys give money back on coupon deals"?
She said "no, it just shows a negative number. We don't actually pay people or issue credits". So the next obvious question I asked is "why are you still scanning coupons then? This nug is obviously getting all of this kibble free"?
The poor checkout girl said (after the nug had left without paying a dime) that there are several of these "extreme" coupon people, and it's a competition between them who can get the largest "virtual" credit.
Until recently, I thought this was just a few freaks in SoCal being creative - until my wife told me there is a TV show dedicated to the phenomenon. Now I get it.
So, if you see a person in the checkout line with at least two carts and a funny black book / bag - fucking run because you will not get those 30 minutes back.
I have, and it fucking sucks.
A few weeks ago the wife and I stopped by a specific grocery store (which rhymes with smalbertsons)because they had Absolut Half Gallons on sale. She knew this because of a mailer, so I suppose to a certain degree we are guilty of a similar practice. Although, I have never seen a coupon for good vodka, EVER.
We meander up to the lines which are at least 7 people deep at each check-out except for this lane on the far side. It had only one woman in it. She was the earthy type 60 something that 20 years before would have been referred to as a granola chick. Luckily she showered that day, because I ran our cart with its' precious cargo of vodka and cherry limeade in it.
When I turned the corner I was astounded, neh, fucking dumbfounded. This granola nug had two baskets, one full of hot dogs and the other full of milk. The carts were so full the hot dogs kept hitting the floor, and each time the nug would go back and get another "non-bruised"package.
Either way, what difference does it make anyway? The checkout girl kept swiping those wieners and all was moving along. Then, when the hot dogs had been scanned the milk began. I was looking around at the lines which were now well into the isles and NOBODY was getting in behind us.
What do they know that I didn't? Even checkout girl was rolling her eyes at the nugs constant correcting of the pricing of the hotdogs and milk. Then, when all of the nugs shit was scanned I learned why NOBODY in their right fucking mind would get behind one of these fucking coupon toting, spread sheet checking offing freaks.
Out comes the bag, or purse or whatever the term is for a device that is about to waste the next 30 minutes of my life. Inside this fucking bag was coupons, and not a few, or even 10. This bitch had hundreds, perhaps thousands of coupons - all for milk and hot dogs. Every one of those fuckers had to be scanned.
Now being the curious soul that I am I looked at her total which was shown to be like $680.00. Who needs that kind of hot dog and milk supply other than maybe a Mormon family reunion?
So the scanning begins, at first I thought it would go along fairly smoothly and couldn't possibly take that much longer. Shit, we had already been there for 15 minutes - but I kept noticing shoppers looking to check out would walk by and see the dreaded bag this chick had, and run for the fucking hills.
The scanning then comes to a complete halt - one of the coupons was folded or creased and couldn't be read by the UPC scanner. This I found is a huge roadblock, as the checker (between rolling her eyes) has to manually punch in all those numbers. And there were a stack of these at least 8 inches tall, and that was just one folder. There were two or three more.
After reading the Enquirer, Star and People magazines I happened to look up at the nugs total amount owed and it was down to like $250. Not bad, if she didn't have to waste my fucking afternoon. It gets worse because as I ran out of shit to read (I will not read soap opera digest - EVER) the nug decides to begin speaking to me between her ordering the poor cashier around.
The nug proceeds to engage me in conversation - ME the dude and his wife whose time is being obliterated for hot dogs and milk. I had to know, I had to ask - why would anybody need that many fucking hot dogs, and that much milk without a box of cereal in sight?
The nug said that she thought the world was going to shit and she could buy (or so I thought) these items to sustain her and whatever coven she belonged to in the event all utilities and services were cut off. You know, anarchy and that sort of shit?
I pondered what she was saying, and as my wife is urging me to shut up under her breath (you know the kind where there is no look, just clenched teeth and words?) but I can't help myself.
I asked her how long milk would keep.It has an expiration date and the nug says "I freeze it". Again, I was fucking shocked. Who the fuck freezes milk?
Yup she said I freeze it and it will stay good for years. Now I'm interested in her survival theory. I suppose one could survive on milk and hot dogs, but who the fuck would want to? They weren't Nathan's or even Ball Park Franks.
So then the logical part of my head kicks in, and this is where the wife is now kicking me in the shin - which is code for "shut the fuck up".
I asked the nug, "If the world goes that far to shit there won't be any electricity for your freezer. Your milk and wienies will last a day, maybe two in the shade but that's it. You can't barter with rotten hot dogs and blue cheese".
At this point the nug was irritated, so I went back to look at her amount owed on the monitor. Again, all I can say is fucking SHOCKED! The amount now says the store owes the nug cash, and the checkout girl is still scanning and manually inputting coupons. This wasn't about food storage, this bitch was making money from getting the right "products" at the grocery store. I had to ask the checkout girl, "you guys give money back on coupon deals"?
She said "no, it just shows a negative number. We don't actually pay people or issue credits". So the next obvious question I asked is "why are you still scanning coupons then? This nug is obviously getting all of this kibble free"?
The poor checkout girl said (after the nug had left without paying a dime) that there are several of these "extreme" coupon people, and it's a competition between them who can get the largest "virtual" credit.
Until recently, I thought this was just a few freaks in SoCal being creative - until my wife told me there is a TV show dedicated to the phenomenon. Now I get it.
So, if you see a person in the checkout line with at least two carts and a funny black book / bag - fucking run because you will not get those 30 minutes back.
Monday, August 1, 2011
The Garbage Dicks
As many of you know we live here in Burbank, California. Lucky for us our trash pick up day is on Monday - you know how all of the weekend garbage starts to stink when it hangs out too long? Well, not us, not on our street - unless you don't follow the rules.
Oh yes, there are rules set by the assholes who pick up the trash, green waste and recycle-ables (3 different trucks at 3 different times). Don't follow the rules, you win your trash, recycle-ables and green waste back.
When we first moved here I had no idea it was such a complicated process to get your trash picked up. Shit, it's just garbage. But there is not only a protocol to how when and where you put your cans out by the curb - there are also the creatures of the night who like to come and dig for aluminum cans, glass and plastic in the "blue" cans.
So the first few weeks of garbage pick up go by and all is good. I put the cans out, the next morning dude in the truck, with his fully automated robotic arm comes and picks up my trash and dumps it into the back of his truck.
Now there are warning signs both on the cans and the trucks saying basically don't try to put the wrong shit in the wrong can, or else. We know. We watch. We have video of your trash going into our trucks.
Sure you do - and my dog has wings growing out his ass......dummies.
Nonetheless this is probably just a deterrent to keep people from throwing dead bodies, by products from meth labs and dog poop away.
So one Sunday night during last October, I go to put my trash cans out to the curb during halftime of the Sunday Night NFL game. And there it was, the fuckers from across the street had their shitty little cars parked ass to bumper in front of my house - which left no room for my cans. I looked across the street and the 10 families that share that duplex had everybody home. Shit, they had cars parked on their lawn.
I'm not about to miss a game due to my cop neighbors inability to navigate his own fucking driveway, so I left the cans inside my yard and thought I would move them out to the curb later on, after some of the cars left.
The game ends and none of the fucking cars had left. So I went for a run for 45 minutes or so, still nobody is leaving. I resolved that I would have to get up at the ass crack of dawn and go out to move the cans out to the street.
So the wife sets the alarm (which is the absolute worst way to be awoken from blissful slumber) on her iphone and leaves it on my side of the bed - you know to fucking wake ME up at 6 am.
I throw on the flip flops and drag my ass to the curb and there are no spaces for my cans - not fucking one! So I put them out next to the door of my asshole cop neighbors car and mosey back inside to make some coffee.
10 minutes later I hear the robotic arm of the garbage truck making its' hydraulic noises as it makes its way down the street.Then it gets to my house, and no robot noise. Just the sound of a truck idling. I figured no big deal because of the way the cans were put out into the street and Mr. refuse collector had to actually get out of his truck to adjust the cans. On with my day I went.
Around 5pm I got home and thought I would bring the cans in while I had the gate open and the dogs were inside the house. What do I find?
A note, or form attached to my cans informing me not only had my garbage not emptied, but I was put on notice for not having the cans in the correct place. Luckily, there was a phone number for me to call and complain - which I did the next morning.
It should be mentioned that I left the cans out, albeit closer to the curb, where they are supposed to be - WHEN THERE ISN'T A FUCKING CAR IN MY WAY.
I called the number on the form which had a circle written in pen around the reason why my trash was not picked up. It read something like " the cans must be at least 16" from the curb". My cans were on the drivers side of the car that took the place where my cans are supposed to be.They literally blocked the asshole who parked there (the cop across the street) from entering his car without moving my cans.
I explained to the woman on the phone what my dilemma was and she said they would have someone come and empty my cans later that day (Tuesday).
So I take off for a meeting and come back to find another note/ form on my cans, and they are still not emptied. This time the form had a circle around the reason which read "the cans must be 18" from any car".
How the fuck am I supposed to control how close some asshole parks to my garbage cans when they are on the street?
So again I call the phone number, and get told the same stupid shit. She says, "we can't get there until tomorrow morning". Ok, so I make sure I space these fuckers a foot apart (there are 5 of them) and measure exactly 16" away from the curb (with a tape measure). I even took a picture with my cell phone in case there was any doubt.
By Tuesday night the garbage in the house was full and needed to go out. So I walk it out to the curb and because the garbage has yet to be picked up, the bag of trash I put in left the top open about 4 inches. No big deal right?
So the following morning I am at home when the garbage guy comes and open the door to watch this fucker, just to make sure he takes the trash. The dude pulls up, takes one look at the garbage can with it's lid open about 4 inches and gets out of his truck with his notice book in hand. He obviously hadn't seen me - yet, and begins to write another notice.
I ran down our drive way going "you are taking that, right"? Dude says to me, "I can't". I said why the fuck not? He says "if the lid is open we aren't allowed to dump the cans. It makes a mess on the street".
I replied - dude the can wouldn't be full and the lid stuck up if you would have just emptied it two fucking days ago, when you were supposed to.
He hands me the notice, and while I'm telling him how fucking retarded he is he gets in his truck and drives away. This is Wednesday.....
Now on Wednesdays in our neighborhood, there is no parking on the east side of the streets so the street sweepers can clean the gutters. I live on the east side of the street, hence my garbage can is on the east side of the street. So as I'm dialing the phone number to complain, which I now have on fucking speed dial the traffic police show up and want to give my garbage can a citation for being parked in a no park zone.
I told the woman my story, and after she was done laughing her ass off, she made a call and within 10 minutes my trash was picked up - no questions.
In LA, it all comes down to who you know. Even where trash is concerned.
Oh yes, there are rules set by the assholes who pick up the trash, green waste and recycle-ables (3 different trucks at 3 different times). Don't follow the rules, you win your trash, recycle-ables and green waste back.
When we first moved here I had no idea it was such a complicated process to get your trash picked up. Shit, it's just garbage. But there is not only a protocol to how when and where you put your cans out by the curb - there are also the creatures of the night who like to come and dig for aluminum cans, glass and plastic in the "blue" cans.
So the first few weeks of garbage pick up go by and all is good. I put the cans out, the next morning dude in the truck, with his fully automated robotic arm comes and picks up my trash and dumps it into the back of his truck.
Now there are warning signs both on the cans and the trucks saying basically don't try to put the wrong shit in the wrong can, or else. We know. We watch. We have video of your trash going into our trucks.
Sure you do - and my dog has wings growing out his ass......dummies.
Nonetheless this is probably just a deterrent to keep people from throwing dead bodies, by products from meth labs and dog poop away.
So one Sunday night during last October, I go to put my trash cans out to the curb during halftime of the Sunday Night NFL game. And there it was, the fuckers from across the street had their shitty little cars parked ass to bumper in front of my house - which left no room for my cans. I looked across the street and the 10 families that share that duplex had everybody home. Shit, they had cars parked on their lawn.
I'm not about to miss a game due to my cop neighbors inability to navigate his own fucking driveway, so I left the cans inside my yard and thought I would move them out to the curb later on, after some of the cars left.
The game ends and none of the fucking cars had left. So I went for a run for 45 minutes or so, still nobody is leaving. I resolved that I would have to get up at the ass crack of dawn and go out to move the cans out to the street.
So the wife sets the alarm (which is the absolute worst way to be awoken from blissful slumber) on her iphone and leaves it on my side of the bed - you know to fucking wake ME up at 6 am.
I throw on the flip flops and drag my ass to the curb and there are no spaces for my cans - not fucking one! So I put them out next to the door of my asshole cop neighbors car and mosey back inside to make some coffee.
10 minutes later I hear the robotic arm of the garbage truck making its' hydraulic noises as it makes its way down the street.Then it gets to my house, and no robot noise. Just the sound of a truck idling. I figured no big deal because of the way the cans were put out into the street and Mr. refuse collector had to actually get out of his truck to adjust the cans. On with my day I went.
Around 5pm I got home and thought I would bring the cans in while I had the gate open and the dogs were inside the house. What do I find?
A note, or form attached to my cans informing me not only had my garbage not emptied, but I was put on notice for not having the cans in the correct place. Luckily, there was a phone number for me to call and complain - which I did the next morning.
It should be mentioned that I left the cans out, albeit closer to the curb, where they are supposed to be - WHEN THERE ISN'T A FUCKING CAR IN MY WAY.
I called the number on the form which had a circle written in pen around the reason why my trash was not picked up. It read something like " the cans must be at least 16" from the curb". My cans were on the drivers side of the car that took the place where my cans are supposed to be.They literally blocked the asshole who parked there (the cop across the street) from entering his car without moving my cans.
I explained to the woman on the phone what my dilemma was and she said they would have someone come and empty my cans later that day (Tuesday).
So I take off for a meeting and come back to find another note/ form on my cans, and they are still not emptied. This time the form had a circle around the reason which read "the cans must be 18" from any car".
How the fuck am I supposed to control how close some asshole parks to my garbage cans when they are on the street?
So again I call the phone number, and get told the same stupid shit. She says, "we can't get there until tomorrow morning". Ok, so I make sure I space these fuckers a foot apart (there are 5 of them) and measure exactly 16" away from the curb (with a tape measure). I even took a picture with my cell phone in case there was any doubt.
By Tuesday night the garbage in the house was full and needed to go out. So I walk it out to the curb and because the garbage has yet to be picked up, the bag of trash I put in left the top open about 4 inches. No big deal right?
So the following morning I am at home when the garbage guy comes and open the door to watch this fucker, just to make sure he takes the trash. The dude pulls up, takes one look at the garbage can with it's lid open about 4 inches and gets out of his truck with his notice book in hand. He obviously hadn't seen me - yet, and begins to write another notice.
I ran down our drive way going "you are taking that, right"? Dude says to me, "I can't". I said why the fuck not? He says "if the lid is open we aren't allowed to dump the cans. It makes a mess on the street".
I replied - dude the can wouldn't be full and the lid stuck up if you would have just emptied it two fucking days ago, when you were supposed to.
He hands me the notice, and while I'm telling him how fucking retarded he is he gets in his truck and drives away. This is Wednesday.....
Now on Wednesdays in our neighborhood, there is no parking on the east side of the streets so the street sweepers can clean the gutters. I live on the east side of the street, hence my garbage can is on the east side of the street. So as I'm dialing the phone number to complain, which I now have on fucking speed dial the traffic police show up and want to give my garbage can a citation for being parked in a no park zone.
I told the woman my story, and after she was done laughing her ass off, she made a call and within 10 minutes my trash was picked up - no questions.
In LA, it all comes down to who you know. Even where trash is concerned.
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