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.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)