Random Samplings

I recently saw the classic rock band Kansas in concert. However it was only two of the original members. This isn’t Kansas this is only part of Kansas. They should be called Wichita.

Tracey Gold, the actress who suffered from Anorexia when she was on Growing Pains is now hosting a reality show about people with eating disorders. It’s called Hunger Pains.

The members of Men at Work and Men Without Hats are forming a new band. It’s called Men Without Work.

Can a gay man wear a straight jacket? And if so, is it pastel?

Saw Bravo’s new reality show, The Real House Wives of Salt Lake City. What’s interesting is they are all married to the same guy.

I saw Mister Mister in concert. It was only the original lead singer. They are now called Mister.

If Sheryl Crow married Russell Crowe, would she keep her maiden name or add an E?

They say you should eat five fruits and vegetables and day. That’s a lot during the week and I don’t have the time for that. So on Sunday I eat 35 fruits and vegetables. Mondays are hell. I’m not regular, I’m congruent.

I went to the gym for the first time in years. I started working out and an employee said, “Sir, get off the coat rack.”

I bought the Ab-Slider. It rolls the best pizza dough.

Things I Am Thankful For - Conclusion

I am thankful that I know how to tell a joke and know a lot of them. I can’t stand when some dunce tries to tell me a joke and it takes the person ten fucking years to spit it out. And then they screw it up and have to start over again and again. As they drone on through what seems like an eternal hell, you are praying that the punch line is funny. But it never is and you already knew it anyway.

I am thankful my parents taught me manners and for the people who appreciate them. However, I swear to god, if I hold the door for some ignorant asshole one more time and they forget to say, “Thank You,” I will put them in a blender and push frappe’!

I am thankful for cameras on cell phones. When I am out drinking and get a girl’s phone number I always can snap a picture of what they look like so the next day I know whether to call them or not. However, women I meet have snapped my photo and they haven’t called me back. Bummer!

I am thankful that I am not a one upper. You know that type of person. Whatever you have done, they have done it better. If you drink 7-Up, they drink 8-up. If you said you have dated some beautiful women, they say that they have dated models that have walked the runways in France. (Oh, and the one upper is a fucking troglodyte.) If you say you saw Springsteen front row, they say they actually jumped up on stage and instead of getting thrown off, Clarence gave them his tambourine and they jammed with the E-Street Band! You all know the type of asshole I am talking about, unless you are that asshole. If that is the case I am sorry you have to read my blog, because you probably have published a 600 page, Pulitzer Prize winning novel.

I am thankful I have never wanted to be a mime. Well, I was a tap dancing mime for awhile and I was good. So good, you couldn’t hear my feet! Who becomes a mime anyway? How fucked up do you have to be to wear white make up on your face, a beret, a red scarf, a striped shirt and have Shields and Yarnell posters on your wall?

I am thankful that I know how to give a compliment and enjoy doing it. I would hate to be the guy who gives a compliment and it comes across insincere, perverted, creepy or like you are just trying to get down someone’s pants! Of course if the latter happens because of the compliments, I am not going to complain!

I am thankful that I have never been the new annoying person at any job I have worked. I am usually quiet when I start and once I get to know my co-workers I let them see my funny side. I can’t stand that asshole that is always “on” and thinks he knows everything. He needs to be popular even though he never has been and never will be. Oh, FYI, “We don’t give a fuck how it was done at your other job. So go into the corner, put a rope around your neck and I will come over and kick the chair out. Thank you, jerk off!”

I am thankful that I have a good sense of humor and it allows me to get away with saying things that other people can’t. It is a great feeling to tell someone who is an asshole that they are an asshole to their face and follow that up with the line, “I’m just joking,” which even though you aren’t, it seems like you are. It is even better when that asshole laughs and buys you a drink. “Thanks, for the beer. Asshole!”

I am thankful that I can be a dick, but I know I can be a dick. Because when that happens and you admit being a dick, then people don’t really think you are that much of a dick because you admitted it. I would hate to be the person who can be a dick, but doesn’t think they are a dick. When that happens you are then perceived of being even a bigger dick then you are!

A serious note. I am thankful for, well one thing, spell check and the green lines that show up if you wrote the sentence wrong. (Because grammatically, I am a fucking moron!) Actually, I am thankful for my friends and family and being able to express myself. I am thankful for those who read my blog, because without you, I couldn’t get gratification that my writing makes you laugh. So, happy Thanksgiving!

Things I Am Thankful For - Part 1

As Thanksgiving approaches, we need to reflect on what we are thankful for in life. That is what Thanksgiving is to me, because to be honest, I’m not a real big fan of turkey. It tends to be dry unless you add a shitload of gravy to it. I prefer the dark meat which is moister, but when ever I eat it, some health addicted fucker says, “That is the unhealthiest part of the bird!” Well, no shit Sherlock! But it tastes good so leave me alone.

My favorite part of the meal is stuffing. And I don’t mean that bullshit, gourmet kind with apples, raisons and walnuts. Just give me good ole’ stuffing and lots of it. Make me a turkey out of motherfucking Stovetop and I will be one happy camper!

So, here is what I am thankful for:

I am thankful that even though I am bald, my head looks good when I buzz it. I am glad that I don’t have a cantaloupe looking dome with bumps and veins all over it. Also I am glad that I don’t have a huge friggin’ head and I don’t look like the gay Mr. Clean being bald.

I am thankful that even though I am over forty years old, I can still dress hip and not look like a fucking fool! I’m glad that the word Dockers isn’t in my vocabulary and that I don’t look like I just walked off the golf course whenever I go out!

I am thankful that my generation got a chance to listen to so many different and eclectic types of music. It makes me happy that we had one hit wonders and they weren’t what was supposed to be the face of music to come. I am glad that the big hit makers weren’t groups like My Chemical Romance, Limp Bizcuit and what other group was here today gone tonight! Oh and I am glad that the rap I got to listen to was groups like N.W.A., Public Enemy and Westside Connection. (Groups that were angry, but made more of a statement than just calling out bitches and hoes!)

I am thankful that my parents taught me about art when I was younger. I know Degas paints ballerinas, Dali was a surrealist and Kandinski used geometrics in his art. Oh and I am glad that I don’t pretend that I know about art. (I hate the guy who raves about Monet at a party. Monet? Come on, you are a fucking dude! Hell Trix are for kids and water lilies are for women!)

I am thankful that even though my legs are skinny, I look all right in shorts. I would hate to be that guy that should never wear shorts but still does. I don’t need to see chubby, pale, tree trunk legs when I am at a restaurant! Oh and while you are at it lose the fucking Hawaiian shirt. (They should only be worn at a Buffet concert or if you are in Hawaii or Florida. I know you are on vacation in Cali, but it is November, so please get a fucking clue!)

I am thankful that my close friends have nicer and bigger cars than me. Because that means I never have to be the Designated Driver or have to worry about driving while intoxicated. So thank you my BMW and Infiniti owning friends. You have saved me having to do a field sobriety test…again!

I am thankful for the hair metal bands that still tour. It is great that you can see Poison, Warrant and Cinderella on the same bill for about twenty five bucks. It is also great that you can see lovely cougars with teased hair, tight jeans, cleavage in excess and those little socks that the girls wore in the ZZ Top videos!

I am thankful that my parents stressed me getting an education and to follow my dreams. I would hate to be living in a trailer park and eating spam and Velveeta every night with five inbred children. I am also glad that I am not married to a pregnant Carny who is about to give birth during her shift running the tiltawhirl!

I am thankful that I have a lot of friends. I would hate to be that creepy, lonely guy at the bar that strikes up a conversation with you and then annoys the crap out of you ten seconds later. I am also glad I am not lonely like that old man in the Pet Smart commercials. You know the one who is on the bus stop in the rain on Christmas and then gets home and his only company is his dog.

To be continued...

Blood Sucks - Conclusion

I’m waiting for the doctor and am thinking I will need some kind of surgery. Shit, am I going to find out that there is something major wrong with me? (I tend to be a hypochondriac occasionally. I got into a car accident once and hit my sternum and it hurt for weeks. I honestly thought I had sternum cancer, which there is no such thing as.) Then I’m thinking what if I die from this? I don’t have a will, so my cats will end up homeless.

I keep waiting for the doctor, still bleeding from my ass and still worrying to no extent. “What is wrong with me? Is this my last night on earth? Fuck, I got her some nice presents and I won’t even be able to see her expression on her face when she opens them. Damn, the doctor better get in here fast or I’m going to have a heart attack!”

So the doctor finally gets into see me and I think he is alarmed by the site of the blood, from my paranoia. He has me lay on my stomach and looks up my ass. “Is there any pain, Steve?” I don’t know what to say, even though there isn’t. Maybe a yes will change the situation. It will make things clearer and validate that I’m doing ok. But I need to be honest with him. I tell him, ‘No pain, which is odd because there is so much blood.”

“Well even though you are bleeding so much and there is no pain, which usually accompanies your condition, you have nothing to worry about. It is just a hemorrhoid. I’m going to put some gauze up there and when it clots, you are fine to go home.”

So I was on the bed with my girlfriend next to me. For three hours, on my stomach, in an ugly fucking hospital robe with a huge cotton ball up my ass! Nothing major, nothing drastic, it was nothing to worry about. It was something that a stool softener and salve will take care of. All the worry was gone, even when I kept seeing blood. Once you know where the blood is coming from, everything is fine. But before that moment, blood sucks!

Blood Sucks - Part 4

Let’s go back to Christmas Eve night. I am really worried because I have no idea what is wrong with me. So I go online. We all know the information highway has the answer to everything. I go to Web MD and type “Bloody Stool” into the web search box. Now, I don’t have “Bloody Stool” but figure that can lead me in the right direction. I see a listing for “Bright Red Blood,” which I have. The answer says “Hemorrhoids” or a bigger internal problem. Well seeing that I am in no pain, I figure the latter is the answer. Blood, blood and more blood started to run down my leg. And by now I am going crazy, thinking I’m going to die because I have something wrong with my insides.

Now I call my girlfriend and tell her I need to go to the Emergency Room. She asks me what is wrong, and I was hesitant to answer at first, because it is embarrassing. Finally I tell her, “My ass is bleeding!” She says, “What?” And I repeat to her, “My ass is bleeding and it is bleeding a lot.” Now she starts to worry and I have to go back online to find out what Hospital is covered by my insurance.

Now what really suck was that it was Christmas Eve and we had planned to spend a nice night together. We were going to have a nice dinner, I had bought green and red Christmas tree pasta, have some nice wine, open presents and then I was going to make my family’s traditional Christmas dessert, Cherries Jubilee. But instead she has to pick up her boyfriend who is hemorrhaging from his anus and take him to the fucking Emergency Room!

So we get to the Emergency Room and I tell the guy at the desk that my ass is bleeding. That thought of blood, blood and more blood flashes through his mind. His reply to me is, “Oh, it is either hemorrhoids or a prostate spring.” The blood threw this guy off and made him worry. I mean if I walked in and told him I had a gerbil up my ass he would have been fine. He would have given me a Habitrail and told me to wait for the doctor!

Fuck, I’m thinking to myself. Prostate, colon or some other internal organ is screwed up. All from the blood! I finally get in the waiting room and put on one of those ugly hospital robes. As I discard my clothes, I look at my jeans and see a huge blood stain on the back. (That really sucked because they were brand new.) Then I look at my boxers, my Christmas boxers with little Santa Clauses on them and they are covered. My thighs, my balls were totally covered too. I see all this blood and I can feel my heart beat and blood pressure rising to record levels, higher than an illiterate’s S.A.T. scores. And why, because of my fear of the crimson tide!

To be continued...

Blood Sucks - Part 3

I had a very scary situation with blood about six or seven years ago. Every once in awhile after you take a crap, you might wipe a little bit too hard. It may be you or it might have been the toilet paper you used. (You know the kind that feels like it is made of Plexiglas. That is why you should never steal TP from hotels.) Hell, it may have been something you ate, but you will see some red. Not alarming, it is just the nature of the dump trade. (I always like using the word dump, it makes me laugh. When I was a kid we called it bom bom. I have no idea why, and haven’t gotten around to asking my mom why we used such a stupid term.)

Well, I ended up wiping blood for about three days. I was a little worried, but I was regular so who can bitch. By the way they say you should eat five fruits and vegetables to become that way. But to be honest over the course of a week that is thirty five fruits and vegetables and I don’t have the time for that. So on Sunday I eat thirty five fruits and vegetables. Now, I’m not regular, I’m fucking congruent. Anyway, I bought some Preparation H and figured it would go away.

Fast forward a few nights later and it is Christmas Eve. I use the bathroom and wipe. First wipe no brown, just bright red. And I mean fucking bright red. Brighter than a heavy metal band member’s leather pants. Second, third, fourth wipe and more bright red. No pain, just red. What the fuck is wrong with me? I’m bleeding out my ass. Not something I’m familiar because I am pretty off limits down there. I mean hell I can’t even handle a suppository. And remember blood = worry, so I’m thinking what should I do.

Ok, I need to digress for a bit. I said down there is off limits but there was this one time years ago. I was living back East and my buddy owned a dry cleaner. One of his customers had tickets to a Phillies game, so we all went. The game got rained out and we were drinking before hand. We were pretty lit, with nowhere to go, so my buddy’s customer, who was married, suggests we go to an Asian Bath House and get massages. So we show up and go into our private rooms. This Asian lady is rubbing my back and then asks me, “You want happy ending? Fifteen dollar!” Well, I’m pretty loaded and was a single 25 year old guy so I figured what the fuck.

Then I notice I have no money, but knew one of my friends did. So I wrap up in a towel and run down to another of the private rooms. I barge in and there is my buddy getting a happy ending. He was like, “What are you doing, Cooper?” I told him taking some money out of his pants that were on the floor, and he couldn’t do a fucking thing about it right now. So I run back to my private room and give the lady my cash. As she is stroking me, she is also putting her finger, you know where. I would have told her to stop, but she is a professional so probably knows what she was doing. Plus I didn’t want to piss her off because my dick was in her hand and I didn’t want to get an Indian burn. Anyway she gets done and we all meet up at the car. I ask my friends, “Hey, did any of you get a finger up your ass?” And they were like, “No, dude, you must have gotten the bonus plan!”

To be continued...

Blood Sucks - Part 2

I think the fear of blood goes back to when you were a kid. Think about that statement. When you were little how many times would you fall down, get a bump or bruise, ignore it and keep playing? However, if you fell down and scraped yourself and saw just a trickle of blood you’d start bawling. But of course then the School Nurse or your mom would come rushing to your aid. “Oh my god, are you ok?” Then they would wipe your tears away, spray some anti-bacterial stuff on the scratch, throw a band aid on it and you would be better. But the attention and the reaction that you got from the sight of blood put a fear in us at a young age.

That fear of blood can consume you. Years ago I was in the passenger seat of my friend’s car and we were driving to the Jersey Shore. I was sipping on a plastic jug of iced tea and we were cruising down the Atlantic Expressway. We were surprised that there wasn’t much traffic and we were getting ready for a weekend of insanity and pure on debauchery. Suddenly a car stops out of nowhere, causing a chain reaction crash. My head slammed into the windshield, totally cracking the glass. On my way up, I smashed my lip into the dashboard. Although, somewhat shocked, I was fine.

I was fine until I got out of the car. I felt my lip and it felt moist and saw a little bit of blood. It was night time and I looked down at my shirt and it was very wet and sticky. The front of my shirt, and I hate to say this, but I was wearing a surgeon’s shirt, but hey it was the eighties, was mostly covered in liquid. At that moment I freaked the fuck out! I thought I had a serious injury and would have to be rushed to the hospital. Did the sight of blood cause this? Hell, yeah it did! My lip had a small scratch which made me over analyze the situation.

The “blood” on my shirt was actually iced tea from the jug that spilled all over me during the crash. If I had never seen that little dribble of blood from my lip, I would have been completely calm and fine. Yes, I would have cracked the windshield, but would have said, “Fuck it, everything is cool. Thank god I have such a hard head!”

To be continued...

Blood Sucks - Part 1

Blood sucks. Blood is the scariest thing a person can see. Your own blood, that is. Scarier then The Blair Witch Project, The Omen or The Exorcist. We may see blood on television or in the movies, but that doesn’t compare to seeing our own blood. (Plus we know that Hollywood stuff is syrup or maraschino cherry juice or some special effect.)

A broken bone hurts like a motherfucker, but it doesn’t scare you. Sure you get that stomach ache when you break or sprain something. You know the stomach ache I am talking about. The one that feels like you just got kicked in the balls, times four.

Actually I have never been kicked in the balls. I think that is another one of those Urban Legends just like the people who had their luggage ripped off on a trip. Yeah, this family was in Jamaica and when they got back to their hotel room, everything was gone. Everything that is, except for their toiletries and a camera. When they got back from vacation they developed the film. And in the photos were a bunch of Rastafarians waving to the Kodak with the people's tooth brushes shoved up their asses.

I've never been kicked in the crotch but did take a hockey ball there once. I was in Fourth grade and we were playing some Sixth graders in street hockey. It was cold as shit out and I was playing goalie, without a cup on. Now there are two kind of Mylec street hockey balls. One is for the summer which is orange and harder and one for winter that is blue and softer. Well like a bunch of fucking idiots we were playing with the blue one in twenty degree weather. A Sixth grader is about six feet away from me and winds up with a hard slap shot. The ball came right at me and hit me square in the package. I went down and out. Visions of kids I would never have passed before my eyes and I got that stomach ache. The one that makes you feel like you are going to puke up a locomotive.

When you break a bone, you know exactly what happened. You fucked up your arm or leg, but you have instant realization of what has happened. Your shin is sticking through your flesh or you can’t move a limb, but you suck it up and go to the hospital and know what you are dealing with.

Blood is a different thing. And I am not talking about a bloody nose or a bloody lip. Fuck that, I’m not even talking about a shaving cut. (However if you cut your lip shaving, that shit never stops bleeding.) All the above things are easy to fix. You grab some tissues, apply some pressure and it’s done. You might get alarmed for a second, but when you think about why you were alarmed you feel like a pussy and then the blood stops and you go on with life.

To be continued...

Marijuana and Me - Conclusion

OK, back to marijuana. Besides the medical stuff, California has some other really strong weed. Weed much stronger than that Sensimilla from my college days, which turned me into a whimpering, little bitch. I know a guy who buys weed that he says is hydroponic. The herbage is actually cultivated in a green house in a scientific way. It goes by names such as the chronic, the swag and the cush. Oh, and the buds are pretty! These buds are a huge and green and purple and actually look like a corsage. I could just imagine two stoners getting married and using this stuff for boutonnieres.

I did try the swag a few years back and it was a bad choice. I was out drinking and a buddy asked me if I wanted to smoke a little. What the hell it was the weekend, right? Wrong! I took two hits of this stuff and once again lost my mind! I remember sitting in the bar and the whole bar started to spin. I had to get out and get some fresh air, and then decided to walk home. I got one block down the street and literally couldn’t fucking walk. Thank god there was a bench on the corner. I collapsed on it and had to call my buddy to come get me and drive me home. Cowboy would have been proud of me!

I also tried it at Reggae on the River, a music festival in Humboldt County, better known as the “Weed Capital of America.” I was amazed when I got to the weekend event. People were just walking around with buds for sale, joints for sale, even care packages. (They consisted of Pot Brownies, Marijuana Rice Krispy treats and something called Goo Balls.) And you could haggle on price. It was like shopping for trinkets in Tijuana.

Let me tell you there was quite a lot of fucked up people there. I was mostly drinking but did eat a brownie one night. Not to say I got stoned, but a group of us were hanging and playing guitars and having a blast. But then I sort of freaked out, because the girl I was hitting on, her head suddenly appeared to be a goat’s head. (In retrospect, it made no sense because she was wearing a college sweatshirt, and we all know goats don’t do well on their S.A.T.s.)

So as you can see, I can’t handle marijuana that is why I don’t smoke that much. But to be honest, I wish I could enjoy it. Think about it. You don’t get a hangover, you don’t angry and you don’t get a beer belly from it. You might laugh a lot but remember laughter is the best medicine!

Marijuana and Me - Part 4

I live in California now. A place where marijuana has been legalized and I don’t have a problem with it. I love when people come out against this law and say how smoking pot can lead to health problems. Hey assholes, it is legalized for people who are in pain. If you want to outlaw something because it causes health problems, I have two words for you…junk food! Think about the shape the person is in who will scarf down Twinkies, Big Macs and Fresca! Tax the shit out of Kit Kats, Suzy-Q’s and Jolt Cola and see what will happen to our deficit! Oh and keep it away from the kids and throw out the video games and see how quick this country stops being the capital of obesity!

The funny thing about medical marijuana is how easy it is to get. Originally it was for people with glaucoma or very advanced cancer and it was for medicinal purpose. But now it is a sham. Someone can walk into a dispensary where there is a doctor on duty. The doctor asks what bothers you and then fills out a prescription card for you. I love when people can buy it after they say they suffer from anxiety! Guess what? Welcome to my life and almost everyone I knows lives. Just say you want to get high, that’s all. Or when the doctor asks you what you are suffering from, bang your hand on the fucking table and tell him your knuckles hurt.

The good thing about medical marijuana is the names they give to it. What creative marketing. (Actually it isn’t. Hell you could call this stuff bloody anal cyst and people would still buy it. “Hey man, pass the bong of retarded monkey feces. It is good shit!”)

Trainwreck, Purple Voodoo, Mango Og, Purple LA Confidential, White Widow, Purple Urkle, Old Skool, Snowcap. Cool fucking names and very seductive. Oh and they also have different varieties of food products now. You can get cookies, brownies, pizza, even tortillas with cannabis. Talk about killing two birds with one stone. You can get high and cure your munchies in one step. Damn, society has become lazy!

I know people who smoke this stuff everyday. And damn that is impressive. I tried some of this medical stuff and I did not feel any pain, except for my stomach from laughing so hard. Honestly, I don’t know how people can function on a daily basis when they spark up every morning. People work when they are stoned. I used to be a waiter and could never work that way, if I did it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. I would have been trying to take an order and then just start cracking up. And when I checked back to see how their food was, I would have been staring at their plate. “Hey, Dude. That looks good. You gonna eat that? Don’t bogart, man!”

Before I continue about marijuana I want to talk about something that recently showed up at a party I was at. (Interestingly at this get together a lot of people were passing around the medical marijuana. But I was a good boy and didn’t partake.) A friend of mine pulled out this tin. I looked like a very small shoe polish container or something that would hold Nivea face cream in it. He had purchased it at a gas station and it is totally legal. It was called Salvia.

If you aren’t familiar and I wasn’t either, Salvia is a psychoactive herb which can induce dissociate effects for a short time. So a friend of mine decides to try it. I was thinking, I might too, I mean it is legal after all. So I tell him that I will wait and see how it effects him before I smoke some.

I go out to get a beer from the patio and then I hear commotion from the kitchen. I run inside to see what is happening and the guy who tried this legal herb, Salvia is on the floor passed out and snoring like a baby who just had a good meal of breast milk. He is snoring away and everyone doesn’t know what to do. Is he in a coma? Should we call 911? It was a scary moment, but he finally woke up after five minutes and was fine. The person who wasn’t fine, was the guy who brought the Salvia to the party. The whole time this was going on he was thinking, “Holy shit, I’m going to jail for homicide by way of Salvia!”

To be continued...

Marijuana and Me - Part 3

The only other experience I had with California weed before I moved out west was with the same guy in college. He called himself The Cowboy, even though he grew up at the Jersey Shore. He wore a Stevie Ray Vaughn hat, western shirts, Wrangler jeans and boots. He told us that he had tripped acid over 65 times. Which he also informed us, makes you legally insane. Oh, and he was a big dude, so no one would ever fuck with him, especially after finding out LSD made him certifiably crazy! (One thing that blew was that he was one of the only guys in our dorm with a car but we were afraid to drive with him. He told us he would sometimes have flashbacks when driving and not be sure what color the traffic light was. Thanks, but no thanks. I will walk.)

Now I remember that night when I tried the California Sense for the second time. He walked by the open door of my room, popped his head in and asked if I wanted to get stoned. Why not, it was the weekend. So he gets his bong and packs it tight with that mind blowing product from California. We both take a few hits of it and then it hits me like a brick in the fucking head! I actually think I was nearly in a coma! Shit I was so fucking stoned, I broke out into a cold sweat and actually thought I was going to die. I saw the ghosts of semesters past and semesters present! And of course you start getting paranoid and weird thoughts go through you head. I kept thinking that it was either a dream or I was actually dead and stuck in Purgatory. And if I was dead, how embarrassed my parents would be when they found out their son died from smoking weed! Not the typical overdose. Not heroin, not cocaine, not too much alcohol, but weed! Who the fuck has ever died from that? (Oh, I don't know how someone can do heroin. I could never put a needle in my arm. Hell, I can even watch it on television when someone gets a needle put in their arm. Thank god I'm not diabetic and need insulin everyday.)

Needless to say, The Cowboy loved it. He laughed his ass of as I rolled up into a fetal position and drooled on my pillow. Every time we would be out somewhere he would have to tell the story of me being pale as a ghost and almost coming to the point of whimpering like a baby. Oh and whenever I would walk by his room and he was lighting up, he would say, “Hey Coop, wanna get stoned?” Then he would go into this crazy laugh that sounded like a mixture of a really high person and Satan.

I never smoked pot in college again after that, and thank god The Cowboy transferred the next semester, because that ended his constant, but well deserved ball busting of the whole situation.

To be continued...

Marijuana and Me - Part 2

The thing is, Jersey weed was cheap and not that strong. I remember in college when we would have a weekly smoke out night. What that was, was a bunch of us would go into a dorm room and put a towel under the door so no smoke could get out. Then we would load up bongs, bowls have some joints and just pass it around. See that, college is a team building and networking experience.

We had one guy in the dorm that would get real strong shit. Stuff we weren’t used to. He’d get Hash. Yup, Hash. We never had tried it and couldn’t believe how it was smoked. If you aren’t familiar, it is pretty much in a clay form. So you would put a little ball of it on a pin that was piercing through some cardboard and then put a glass over it. After it was lit, the glass would fill up and you would uncup it and inhale it. See that you do learn something new everyday if you try.

Now this guy would also bring something called Thai stick. I had no idea what it was back then, so I recently looked it up. Thai stick is buds of seedless marijuana which are skewered on stems and rumored to be dipped in opium. So we’d be passing that around, the hash in the glass around, some jersey shit weed around and having a grand old time! Then this guy pulls out something he called California Sensi. Good old California Sensimilla. (In the movie Caddyshack, that’s what Bill Murray is smoking with Chevy Chase. Murray says, “This is a hybrid. This is a cross, ah, of Bluegrass, Kentucky Bluegrass, Featherbed Bent, and Northern California Sensimilla. The amazing stuff about this is, that you can play 36 holes on it in the afternoon, take it home and just get stoned to the bejeezus-belt that night on this stuff.”) We had no fucking idea where he got it from, but it was amazing. This stuff was so strong it knocked all our socks off. I remember just lying on the floor and not being able to move. I lived in room 106 and had to stay the night in room 101 because I was fucking paralyzed.

To be continued...

Marijuana and Me - Part 1

Well, let us put it this way, I’m not a big marijuana smoker. It’s not that I have anything against it, it is just the fact I can’t handle it. Now I not saying I never have smoked it, because I have, but it is maybe a five times a year occurrence.

It was different when I was in college and high school. Oh, shit I just admitted I have smoked and inhaled it. Well, technically I never said I did inhale it, but if I didn’t I would be a fucking idiot. (I wouldn't get high and I would be wasting someone’s good doobage. Would be better off being pretensious and smoking a fucking clove cigarette! FYI, doobage is a word that I learned from the movie The Breakfast Club. Bender, played by Judd Nelson, said, “Ahab where’s my doobage!”)

Oh well, I guess I can’t run for President now. Cause I have tried the wacky tobacky. Plus I have so many skeletons in my closet, Dexter Morgan would tap me on my back and give me props and a hug. I mean, shit, you know how they have those mud slinging commercials around election time? They are usually about thirty seconds, but mine could be a fucking hour long documentary!

Anyway, back to marijuana. I think the reason I can’t handle the stuff is because I grew up in NJ and we would smoke the Jersey dirt weed. It was some leaves mixed with stems and seeds. (The funny thing is, when you would not clean your pot well, a seed would end up in your pipe and would pop just as you would inhale. It could scare the fucking shit out of you.) So I never really built up my tolerance for strong dope.

I will tell you one thing about cleaning weed back in the day. The best way to do it was by using the album Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon.” What was great about that was it opens like a double album, but only had one album in it. (So you wouldn’t have to worry about the second album falling out.) Basically, you would start off at the top of the opened album cover and drop your weed onto it. Then you would get a 3 x 5 card and scrape the weed so the seeds would all roll into the album crease. Fucking brilliant! Oh and you could hide your weed in the album and put it in the middle of all your other albums and your parents would never find it.

(FYI, it was also a good thing that Dark Side of the Moon was a great album to listen to when stoned. The one thing I never understood was when people said you could line it up in sync with The Wizard of Oz and they would perfectly match up. Well my question is, how would you know when it was actually in sync? Especially if you were stoned? I guess it is just one of those Urban Myths, like the one I heard growing up about a Philly Newscaster getting a gerbil stuck up his ass. What was amazing about that load of crap was that everyone you knew had a relative that worked at the hospital that he went to. And they all would name a different place where their relatives worked. So I’m guessing he went to ten fucking hospitals, because no doctor knew the correct approach to getting a rodent out of a bung hole! Oh, this is another reason I don’t smoke weed a lot, because I tend to over analyze stuff in my everyday life. So just think what I would be like stoned! Fuck, I could attempt to write a fortune cookie and it would end up as long as Crime and Punishment!)

To be continued...

The New Celebrity Fit Club - Conclusion

OK, here we go again! It is time to review the final four members of this stellar and award-winning cast! (Yes, I am mocking!)

Kaycee Stroh: Knock, knock. Who is there? Not a fucking clue who this person is. So once again, time to Wikipedia it.

I found out that she was in all the High School Musical movies. Now put it this way. I am over forty years old and have no children. If I knew who Kaycee was, that would be really fucking creepy! Creepier than that guy that sits down on the stool right next to you at the bar, when there is a bunch of other seats open. He could have sat anywhere, but no, he doesn't. The guy seems cool at first after small talk, but after a few pops he ends up being some misogynistic, racist jerk-off. So I am glad I had no idea who she was. (And why can't that creepy guy leave me alone?)

A funny thing about her is, she is a plus sized model and spokesperson for a certain clothing company called Torrid. So in my eyes if she is a representative for this company, why the fuck is she going on a show to lose weight? Basically she will lose a chunk of ass and a chunk of change!

Tanisha Thomas: Well I checked Wikipedia for her, because once again, not a fucking clue! How is this person a celebrity? She doesn’t even have a Wikipedia page about her. Now I did learn she was on a show called The Bad Girls Club. What kind of title is that? It reminds me of the movie Bad Boys. (Not the one with Will Smith and Martin Lawrence. The one from 1983, starring Sean Penn, Esai Morales and Ally Sheedy. It was about a boy’s prison, with one of the best scenes being Sean Penn beating the shit out of a guy with a pillow case full of soda cans.)

Well, here is what I know about The Bad Girls Club. (Well this is what I cut and pasted about it.) The show follows seven women with a number of mental, anger, personal and psychological problems - deemed "bad girls" - as they live together for four months.

That sounds like the feel good show of the year! But I still haven’t found out anything about Tanisha, except for the fact that she is fat and appears to be fucked in the head!

Jay M. Carrol: Honestly? Could not find a fucking thing about who this guy is. Googled him and some computer designer’s name came up. I believe he was on the show Project Runway. That’s great, a fat fashion designer. Well, at least the portly short sizes may be hipper now.

Sebastian Bach: When I heard he was going to be on this show, I was pretty astonished. I actually do dig his old band, Skid Row. They had some great songs back in the day and jammed hard.

He also starred in the stage production of Jekyll & Hyde and was on a classic VH1 show called Super Group. (Of course in that show he acted like a little bitch the whole time and didn’t want to change his image. He needed to keep on living in the 80's. I was actually hoping Ted Nugent who grab a cross boy and shut Sebastian up.)

That is why I am astonished he is on Celebrity Fit Club. Because that is a really big image change. How do you go from a long haired, tight jean wearing, sleeveless shirt stick figure, to someone that needs to lose a bunch of weight? It’s like going from Tommy Lee to David Crosby.

The sad thing is? I will end up watching this show and not even feel guilty for doing it!

The New Celebrity Fit Club - Part 2

So now let’s take a look at these other celebrities that will grace the screen and get yelled at by Dr. Harvey when they haven’t lost weight or act like a douche bag, just like Screech did one season.

Shar Jackson: Well, first off I had no idea who this was, so I had to Google her. Didn’t know that she was a she until I got the Google results. The name sounds like she could be a male rapper, a soap star or the offspring of Randy Jackson from American Idol.

She had small parts in Moesha and the Bernie Mac show and co-starred in the movie Good Burger. Are you fucking joking me? That makes her a celebrity? No, that makes her barely more than an extra with a speaking part. Oh, here is what makes her a celebrity. She is the Baby Mama to two of Federline’s kids. OK. It was bad enough that Federline rode the coat tails of someone to become a celebrity, but now someone is riding his coat tails? This is some kind of fucked Transitive Property in mathematics. You remember, if A=B and B=C, then A=C. So Spears=Federline, and Federline=Jackson, then Spears=Jackson? Don’t think so. Unlike the other two, Spears actually has some talent. We will look for this Char on Celebrity Rehab or some other show where she can get a role, because believe me, if she made a movie, it would go straight to Beta!

Bobby Brown: At first I thought it was the hot blonde Bobby Brown who starred in Warrant’s Cherry Pie Video. (That would be ironic, because she dated Warrant’s lead singer, Jani Lane. He also appeared on Celebrity Fit Club one season.) If it was her on the show, it would be sad, because no one could ever look at the video the same again. It would lose all it's sex appeal. (Just like when Kelly LeBrock was on the show. I can’t view Weird Science or The Woman in Red the way I used to!)

I then found out, it was Bobby Brown. Yes, the Bobby Brown who was in New Edition, was a pop superstar and was married to Whitney Houston. What the fuck happened to him? I guess His Prerogative was to eat a bunch of Twinkies and fast food! This guy was a huge, huge star. He was selling out arenas, but I guess now he is buying concessions from arenas! (In mass quanities!)

What I don’t understand is, how did he get overweight? He was always in great shape in his younger age. Putting on a great stage show and dancing up a storm! Talk about falling apart. Oh and he was a cocaine addict. What coke head becomes a fat ass? That is like getting the full experience of acid if you are color blind!

I can tell you this. I bet Whitney is laughing her ass off at him these days. (Which would be like throwing rocks at a glass house, because she is pretty fucked up too!) She probably is thinking to herself, “Try to hit me now jerk off, you aren’t nearly as quick as when you were in shape. I would go medieval on your ass, you bloated cow!”

Nicole Eggert: OK, she was a celebrity, but that was when cassette tapes were also popular. She was on Charles in Charge, and that worries me a bit. The reason for worry is she is going to be on Celebrity Fit Club and Willie Ames another co-star of that show, was also on it. So who is next? Scott Fucking Baio? If he becomes an adult sized Oompa Loompa, it will suck! Shit, he was Chachi. (And was way to good looking to date Joanie! She was a piece of slunk meat.)

Nicole was also on Baywatch. How does a woman who played a beach beauty go to being a beached whale? I mean shit, if she put on her old red bathing suit from that show, she would look like a tic who sucked to much blood about to explode! Put it this way, Hasselholff is 57 years old and you wouldn’t catch him dead on Fit Club! (And that fucker sits on the floor trying to eat cheeseburgers when he is hammered! You can Youtbe it.)

Oh a little known fact. Nicole went out with Corey Haim. That asshole should be on a VH1 show. I mean he isn’t a train wreck about to happen, he is one that has crashed and been rebuilt about ten times. (He is a young version of Gary Busey!)

To be continued…

The New Celebrity Fit Club

I recently read online the upcoming cast for the VH1 show called Celebrity Fit Club. The only reason I even acknowledged it was because of something I saw the other night.

I was at a bar for a drink and the girl three seats down from me had her thong showing. No big deal, we see that all the time. I mean if you go out and don’t get a underwear shot, something must be wrong. It is a trend these days just like a woman being with another woman was a few years ago. (In fact, I think that may have been a college prerequisite.)

But the problem with this thong viewing was, she, and I'm being honest, weighed over 250 pounds. She was huge and was showing herself off like Pamela Anderson at a USO tour. 250 and wearing a fucking thong! I never even knew they made sexy undies that big. (Of course in her case they weren't sexy.) I swear to god, her waist band was as big as the fucking Equator, and her ass crack wasn't a moon, it was a total eclipse.

I was in awe when I left, and when I came home I saw the listing for Celebrity Fit Club, and thought she may have been one of the participants. Because I don’t have a fucking clue who half the people who appear on it are.

So why do they call this show Celebrity Fit Club? Who on this show is a celebrity?

A person who was on it twice in the past seasons was Wendy, a.k.a. "The Snapple Lady." How is she a star? She did an ad campaign years ago for a drink that took off because people were tired of drinking soda. But hell, if she's on this show, why not find the Maytag Repair man and see if he's put on some weight. Shit, get the Pillsbury Doughboy on this program and have him do some sit ups, because everyone knows who he is. Oh, what is funny about Wendy is she used to hawk Diet Snapple. But you know she never drank it, because if she did, she may have shed some poundage and not spent two seasons on VH1.

So here is the new line-up. Kevin Federline, Shar Jackson, Bobby Brown, Nicole Eggert, Kaycee Stroh, Tanisha Thomas, Jay M. Carrol and Sebastian Bach.

Honestly, I only know who half of these people are and that is sad, because I am somewhat of an Idiot Savant when it comes to pop-culture shit. Hell, I can name all the members of the rock band The Cars, without even looking at the back of a CD cover. (Ric Ocasek, the late Benjamin Orr, Elliot Easton, Greg Hawkes and David Robinson.)

I can also name the cast of Welcome Back Kotter without checking Wikipedia. (Gabe Kaplan, Marcia Strassman, John Travolta, Robert Hegyeys, Ron Palillo and Lawrence Hilton-Jacobs.) So basically, I pretty much know my shit. (I also know that Deralee Scott played Hot Seat Totsee and Charles Fleishcer, the voice of Roger Rabbit, played Carvelli.)

Those let’s breakdown the cast of these celebrities and find out what makes them call themselves that. (Maybe they are D or F list celebrities, maybe I’ve lost my hipness.)

Kevin Federline – He was married to Brittany Spears and when she had her fucking melt down he really rose to the forefront. Celebrity? No. Tabloid fodder? Yes. He gained his fame for marrying and knocking up a pop star.

Hell, he even did a McDonald's commercial during the Super Bowl mocking his fame, but this does not make him a fucking celebrity!

Years ago he was on the cover of a magazine called Details and it really bothered me. And the title on the cover read, “Introducing Mr. Brittany Spears.” And to make things worse, was that he was holding her dog. A dog the media had talked about because it had a feud with Paris Hilton's dog. Who cares about these fucking dogs! Benji, Morris the Cat, Mr. Ed, they were celebrities! Not these small if you can call them dogs, more like rats with a rich mom, type of pets.

When I received that issue in the mail, I placed my anger into a letter to the editors of Details. It never got published, but here it is.

Guys from Details,
I have subscribed to your magazine for a few years. I also subscribe to Esquire, LA Magazine and Men’s Health. (Not Maxim. Because that’s for a guy who doesn’t have the balls to get Playboy instead.)
Recently I read the article by Kevin Gray about Desperate Housewives, which was an amazing piece of writing. It was upfront, with hints of sarcasm, but honesty was brilliant to me. So I read it and it reminded me why I subscribe to your magazine.
But then I looked back on the cover of that issue, and excuse the foul language, but I saw that cunt, Kevin Federline. A no talent motherfucker who has no right to privilege a cover of a magazine that Sean Penn, George Clooney and many others have been on. And it really disappointed me.
It’s a given, I'm a cynical fuck. But you guys really pissed me off having Federline’s wife, interrupting his talk with the writer. It took me back to seeing that piece of slunk meat named Bridgette Nielson disrespecting Public Enemy on Strange Love. And now you are treating K-Fed like he is some kind of royalty. Basically, he's a fucking dancer and she's waiting to be Paula Abdul in 10 years.
My point is, keep up your great work and publishing Kevin Gray's work, but don't be putting jerk-offs like Ferderline on the cover. (What's next, if Dustin Diamond marries Ashlee Simpson, are u gonna put Screech on the cover?) Sorry for the rant, but had to share me being pissed.

That was a letter from years ago, but as you see he isn’t and never has been a celebrity. Now he is just a fat ass hasbeen who is trying to make a comeback. (Like the rest of the new cast.)

To be continued...

More Mexico

I noticed that when you get back from a vacation you usually need another vacation. The reason is? Now you actually need some rest and relaxation. Basically when I got back from Puerta Vallarta my liver needed to either hibernate or at least take a hiatus.

I did get sick one night in Mexico. And for once in my life I didn't completely blame it on the food. I knew booze actually did play a part in it, but not a huge part.

Have you ever noticed that people usually don't do acknowledge that alcohol may have been part of the problem? They never act like booze may have helped to get them sick. You can be out, have fifteen beers, a martini, a gin and tonic and four shots of tequila, and then later have two pieces of pizza and end up getting sick. But of course you always say to your friends, "I think that pizza was bad. I don’t think that place uses fresh pepperoni. Something was funky because that slice made me vomit. And I never throw up from pizza. Even from that frozen Mama Celeste shit that you can get ten for ten bucks at the market."

You never say to yourself, "Hey, asshole, it wasn't the pizza! It was all the fucking booze you drank and mixed!"

In Mexico I deserved to get sick. After lots of Coronas and a few Tequila shooters, I actually bought a, as we call them in L.A., a Ghetto Dog off a little cart on the streets. Actually, I bought two of them. Now if you don't know, a Ghetto Dog is a hot dog wrapped in bacon, then topped with tomatoes and onions, with mayo, mustard and some other spicy sauce. They are the ones sold after sporting events. They are usually cooked on a shitty little flat grill that is placed on top of a shopping cart. Oh and there are always a bunch of little mexican kids running around as their mom hawks them.

It is not a good idea to eat them in the United States, and ordering them in another country that doesn't ever have health ratings on restaurants, is pretty fucking stupid. And I found that out later. I woke up with what felt like a block of Ball Park franks wrapped in bacon laying in my stomach. But hell, I must admit they were so good, actually they were amazing. I felt like Anthony Bourdain on an episode of No Reservations, so a little late night agony was worth it.

I did notice a few other things when on vacation in Mexico. One thing is, they have really small napkins, and it drove me crazy. These things were the size of one piece of toilet paper. Shit, you couldn't even wipe half your upper lip with one. It drove me up the fucking wall! I finally asked a waiter one night why they were so tiny. His answer was that they make bigger ones, but they are more expensive so they don't get ordered. That totally cracked me up. When I use a regular sized napkin, I only use one. But with these shitty little things I'd go through eight or nine at a sitting, and then would use a few more just on the principle that they were so fucking small! Oh well, so much for making the customer happy.

I also noticed in the town I stayed in, called Bucerias, which is twenty minutes from Puerto Vallarta, there are a ton of homeless dogs just walking around town. They aren't aggressive, they mind their own business, but it's just a weird site to see. Hell you'd never see a dog walking the streets in Asia, because if he did, he'd be gone in a minute, and end up being part of a Number 9 combo is some eatery. But damn, these dogs would walk around, and their dicks would just be flopping in the wind. Huge dicked dogs everywhere you looked. I mean, shit, these guys made Ron Jeremy look like a third grader. And the dogs would just walk into restaurants and lay down on the floor, and no one gave a shit. In fact, most of the staff would know who these canines were. It wasn't in every restaurant. Some places did have a sign that said, "No Dogs Allowed." Which didn't make sense to me because, dogs can't fucking read!

I also noticed that there was a ton of Canadians in Mexico. How could I tell? Just look at them. They looked fucking Canadian. The guys were chubby with sleeveless shirts, shorts, dark socks and sandals. Oh and when on the beach, their beer guts hung over their tight speedos, a.k.a. grape smugglers and their hairy backs were in full view.

The Canadian women I saw were all over 50. And they were wearing bikinis, which is really disgusting to see on their out of shape wrinkled bodies. And these women had corn rows in their hair. Hello, wake up and smell the Molson. Corn rows, unless of course you are a NBA star or a rapper, went out of style years ago. About the time, gee, I don't know, what year was Bo Derek in the movie 10? And all of these Canucks walked at a real slow pace, like they were window shopping. But the one problem was there weren’t any fucking windows around! It was at the beach. (I know that glass comes from sand, but come on folks.)

Ok, ok, maybe I am being a little harsh on Canadians, but it was just an observation. And to be honest, the ones I did talk to were very nice, and I never even heard one of them say the letter "A" after a comment. (So the hell with that stereotype.)

Mexico, damn what a fun time.

Tijuana

So I' recently went on vacation, trying to get a little R & R, also known as rest and relaxation, but in translation has the meaning of beer, women, and more beer. My destination was Mexico, Puerta Vallarta to be exact. It was the first time I flew to Mexico, but not my first time in Mexico.

When living in San Diego, I used to go to Tijuana a lot. You've heard of the place, it's where little children hawk boxes of Canal gum for two dollars a box but call them Chickley. (That is how Chicklet sounds in Spanish.) However, never let the little ones see any of your dinero, because if they do, they'll follow you around town like the rats following the Pied Piper.

The kids on the street of Tijuana are good at wheeling and dealing, but not as good as me! They try to give you an inflated price, like $3 for a little bracelet, but I know I can get the thing for $2. My friends tell me that the kids have a hard life and I should not barter with them. Fuck that! We are in a recession and every dollar counts. (I can be a jerk, but in fact, I am helping these kids learn business lessons.)

T.J. (the nickname for Tijuana) is also home of as I call him, The Donkey Zebra Man. Oh, and this is not an Urban Legend or Folklore like the Lochness Monster, Jersey Devil or Mexico’s own Chupa Cabra. This guy is the idiot who has painted a donkey with black and white stripes so it looks like a Zebra, and then asks if you want to get a picture, for a price, with this poor animal. Bad thing for me is, after a few cervezas I always end up asking the guy if he knows he got ripped off and thought he actually was buying a Zebra but got a Donkey instead. Then I proceed to tell the guy that his Zebra looks like a "fucking Donkey!" And he always looks at me with a dumbfounded look, and has not understood a word I've said and replies, with a “Huh?”"

Tijuana can be fun, but take my word for one thing, never go to a strip club called, "El Diablo." Oh, and one other thing you should never do; arm wrestle Eric Estrada, criticize Abe Vigoda or punch Carol Channing in the face.

So me and some buddies throw a bachelor party in T.J. One of the guys keeps insisting that we go to a Strip Club, and he is meaning ASAP! He wouldn't shut up about it, and then we saw it. A picture of a girl on this sign. And below her in bold letters, the name "El Diablo." (Which I believe in Spanish means the Devil.) We walk in and the place looked like something out of a David Lynch movie. It had low red painted ceilings, and with the heat they actually looked like they were sweating. A man with slicked back black hair and a sleazy moustache, (if he was in America he'd probably have been a Carny) led us to a booth so we could check out the dancers. There were five of them, just standing on stage. No shaking their asses, just standing in stillness. All of them were in their mid 30's to mid 40's, out of shape, unattractive and wearing not bikinis, but two piece black bathing suits that looked like they were from 1950. (They could have been swimmers at the Steel Pier in Atlantic City years ago.)

Oh, and the worst part? They all had bruises on their legs and arms. But from the looks on their faces, you could tell they loved their job. Ok, that was a joke. After looking at them, whenever I say my job sucks, I want to punch myself in the face. So we're at the booth and one of these troglodytes comes over and asks me to buy her a drink. Why the fuck would I buy her a drink? She's on the job and shouldn't do that when working. I told her, "No. Get your own. You probably get your beers free or discounted." (And they were serving 7 ounced bottles of Tecate, which I have never seen before or since.) So she figures out a drink is not an option, so changes her tune. She asks if I want a hand job for five bucks. Guess it would have been a good deal, but I wasn't interested. And damn, really was less interested after I saw her hands. They were all old looking and wrinkled. I would have felt like I was getting jerked off by Betty White.

As usual I digress. I think Betty White is pretty hot. In fact I used to fantasy I was having a four on one with the golden girls. Their hands would be all over me, all eight hands. It would be like I was getting taking advantage of by an old, grey, wrinkled octopus.

After all that went down, we decided to get the hell out of "El Diablo." The whole time I was there, in the back of my mind, I had a feeling that one of those bloodbath scenes you might see in a Tarantino movie could happen at any minute.

It did end up being a great night. It was cheap in comparison to what it would have cost in the US. Only downside? We never found the Donkey Show.

Nobody Walks in L.A. - Part 2

So, now you would get on the road and be driving around 10 mph hoping that your car would not get hit by a snow ball from some little piece of shit who was causing trouble. If they did hit you, you always had to worry about ending up skidding. I must admit, I did throw snowballs at cars occasionally when I was younger. So I guess I was a piece of shit. However, in my defense, I would only throw them at cars of people who underpaid me for shoveling their driveway. I would be out in the freezing cold shoveling away, so much physical work that I almost had a heart attack. (And I was eight. It was hard labor.) I would be working away, harder than a sweat shop employee, for hours on end and some bitch would give me two dollars! Two fucking dollars! Thanks for nothing! Just wait until your AMC Pacer rolls down my street!

By the way, I have a problem about people always saying how sweat shop employees have it so tough. I figure it this way. These kids are 5, 6 or 7 years old. So let’s say they make fifty cents an hour and work a fourteen hour day. That is seven dollars a day, multiply that by thirty days in a month and it comes out to over two hundred a month and over two thousand a month. That is pretty good fucking money for a First Grader. Hell, I didn’t make shit off my paper route, and these kids are making bank. (Oh, and their cost of living is much lower.)

Now when it comes to skidding, I personally don't remember whether you are supposed to go with the skid or against it, but it didn't really matter. What I do remember is this. Your mind went completely blank to those facts and all that crap you learned in Driver’s Education when it would happen.

I always wanted to go to a Driving School when I was older and had my license. I would walk up to the Instructor and I’d be wearing a Hawaiian Shirt and some checked pants and instead of glasses, I would be wearing those Tanning Booth bright plastic eye shades. I would drool when I would speak to him and tell him I had the “need for speed.” Then when we started driving I would light up a cigarette, and when he told me to put my hands in the 9 o’clock and 3 o’ clock position, I would say to him, “I don’t know how to tell time, so you can go fuck yourself!” That would be fun to me, but I have been construed as a little odd at times.

Anyway, when you were losing control of your car, all you thought was, "Holy shit! I am fucking skidding and am going to run into a tree!" But you never did. You may have soiled your pants, but would never crash your car into a Douglass Fir on the side of the road. We pulled through it and still got to work on time.

Hell, think about when there would be a huge snow storm. Most people wouldn’t be working and restaurants and supermarkets would be closed. So you would find your friend who had an SUV and everyone would pile into it and would hit the only bar that was open in town. You would get there and the place would be fucking packed! It seemed like everyone else has the same idea. And the best part of it? You knew that no one would get pulled over for drinking and driving because everyone driving home was swerving. (And could tell the cop it was from the conditions.)

To be continued...

Nobody Walks in L.A. - Part 1

Remember the song by the 80's group Missing Persons that said, "Nobody walks in L.A.?" Yup, Missing Persons, the group that was formed by Terry Bozzio, who actually played with Frank Zappa for years and was in the Prog Rock band named UK. M.P., which is what we called them back in the day, actually we didn't, I made that up, had his wife Dale Bozzio as the lead singer. Yeah, Dale Bozzio, the one with the platinum long hair with black streaks who wore metallic outfits that made her look like a stripper from some intergalactic pole dancing establishment located at exit 5 off the Milky Way.I heard that song the other day and they excluded to mention one thing...Nobody can fucking drive in L.A.! That's right I said. I grew up back East and people could drive. We dealt with all the conditions and we never had a problem with them.

Snow, now there is something that works well with an automobile. First off, you had to get all the snow off your windshield. So you would get one of those scraper things that you usually got at a gas station or from some insurance salesman that had some kind of advertising pitch on it. Oh, and they always had that fuzzy mitten thing on them. I guess to keep your hands warm. But of course you were already wearing gloves because it was -5 Fahrenheit, with the wind chill factor.

You had to love the wind chill factor. It always made your day worse. The Weather Person would say:
“Get ready for a cold day. Temperatures will be as low as 12. So bundle up!”
And then he would turn into the fucking devil. I swear his voice would go deeper and horns would pop out of his head.
“Yes, 12 degrees. But with an air stream blowing from the Northeast, these heavy gusts will make temperature with the wind chill factor, -10! So bundle up or your nose will freeze and fall off and both your legs will be amputated from the gangrene you will catch!”

But you would wake up and be get ready to brave the cold. Which when I was a kid was a great thing, because that usually meant you were going to miss school. The stupid thing was how they would tell you school was cancelled. It would be five in the morning and you would be up and listening to the radio, because if your number was announced, that meant snow ball fights and sledding all fucking day! Now when I was a kid and played in the cold my mother would put plastic bread bags on my feet before I put my boots on so my feet wouldn’t get wet. Smart move, Mom. Because wet feet lead to extreme coldness for the whole body and that can put a damper on the day. It is sort of like finding out someone you slept with had an STD. It ruins the whole experience.

So we would be up in the early morning darkness, praying that our School Snow Day number would be announced. Now I lived in the tri-state area, so basically, there were a lot of fucking schools. So the News person would start announcing every county and then follow it with a shitload of numbers:
“In Bucks County, the following school districts are closed…128, 129, 130, 131…”

It seemed to be an eternity. Numbers, numbers, counties and more fucking counties!”

Finally Camden County would be announced and I would be waiting for my number 551, to be called. My thoughts now are, they could have made it a lot easier. They could have just said:
“The only school district open today is 551! And that is your school district Steve Cooper. So while kids are making snowmen, you’re pathetic soul will be doing Mathematical tables. Oh and when kids are eating grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, your sorry ass will be eating a shitty hot ham and cheese sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil, served by some fat lady with a hair net! Tough break for you, shit head!”

Anyway, back to that fuzzy ice chipper. It was a pain in the ass trying to put your glove in that fucking thing that resembled a ghetto mink. It was always a real tight fit, because the chippers were made for the hands of a seven year old. Finally you would get it on, and chip away the ice and get ready to hit the road, with snow tires, chains and whatever other things the Pep Boys, you know, Manny, Moe and Jack came up with to line their pockets with cash.

To be continued...

Kids in Restaurants - Conclusion

The other night, I heard a kid say "shut up" to his mom. "Shut up," can you believe that? And Mommy Dearest didn't even acknowledge this misbehavior. Talking back should not be tolerated.

When I was little, my older brother said to my Mom, "If you don't like the heat in the kitchen, get out!" What did she do about it? She grabbed him by the arm, tossed him out onto the front porch, slammed the door, and said, "No, you get out!" Oh and two minutes later she threw him a suitcase. My brother, the poor bastard, was so busy bawling his eyes out, that he didn't even notice the suitcase was empty. May have seemed cruel, but it wasn't. And guess what? The poor bastard learned his lesson. And that lesson was, never, never, ever, ever fuck with Mom! Hell even I learned that lesson and I was an innocent bystander.

Parents should use threats. Oh and not idle threats, and if you Dr. Phil listening types have a problem with this, tough shit! Real threats are needed. Sure it sounds extreme, but I bet it would work. "You sit down and act like a grown up or do you know what? I'll sell you on the internet, that's what! I bet I can get at least 20,000 grand for a cute six year old like you on E-Bay."

I know it's good to be young at heart and acting your age, and that kids will be kids. The only thing restaurants workers are asking for is please be civilized. Where they work isn't a playground, so parents make your tots stop running around all over the place and make them sit the fuck down! They have a job to do, and don't want to have to maneuver through a fucking Romper Room obstacle course.

Don’t you love how I put the word fucking before Romper Room? Well, I do.

So, I am out the other night and I see this server carrying a big tray full of food and drinks, and I think he really didn’t want to be worried about Johnny Snot Nose doing laps around my legs. I mean, I'll be honest, when I was a server I once tried to drop a sizzling Fajita plate on a piss ant's head. But let me tell you, one thing about the youth of today, the fuckers are quick, so I missed!

Oh, the only thing that bothers me more than the pre-school brat who is all hopped up on caffeine and sugar from those nine Mountain Dews he has drank, is that baby. That crying fucking baby! "Wah, wah, wah, wah." Please, shut him up! I know newborns are restless, but after about ten minutes, they're just like a car alarm in the city. You want to take a bat to them.

Imagine the theme from the movie "Jaws." Duh nuh...duh nuh...duh nuh. "Coming to a restaurant soon, " duh nuh, duh nuh, duh nuh, duh nuh, "The crying baby!!!"

People do something, before I find a dingo and make him eat your baby! Take the kid outside, or pop a breast in his mouth, but if you do that, make sure you do it in the bathroom, because people don't need to be distracted by Little Jimmy sucking on a nipple. (You never want to look, but you always do. It ends up being embarrassing if you get caught. Plus in your mind it is like they added a side of areola to your Cobb Salad.) Oh and if you do it in public and have nice ones, it's not good for the restaurant, because most of the male customers will be eating while sporting a chubby. (It is great when this happens. Every guy ends up walking funny to the Men’s Room.)

But if all fails with the crying baby, go get a baby gun. But please remedy the situation before I come to wit's end and lose it. Because if I snap, look out! Remember, there's a soft spot on the back of a baby's head and I may have a soup spoon in hand. And one quick "whack" and Jimmy is going to be riding the short bus to school in the future. He'll be walking around, wearing a helmet and stuttering. He'll be saying, "You, you, yyyyou, should have sssstttopped me crying yyyyyears ago at that rrrrrrestaurant! Ththththanks alot, mmmmom and ddddad!"

Kids in Restaurants - Part 2

I want to set the record straight. My parents never hit me, but I never really got out of control. I didn't act up, because I wanted them to be proud of me, and most of all I had respect for them. Parents, your Elders, you respected them. Now....Screw that! Damn, things have changed.

I'm talking to my Server at my table at a restaurant, and at the table next to me this nine year old mutant of society grabs him by the back of my apron and says: "I need ranch dressing!"

He is talking to me about some mutual friends we have and this little wench interrupts us. Hey, you need more than Ranch dressing, you little inbred lady. You need to say the words "Excuse me" and "Please." Oh, and to make it worse, her mom, a little mousey fuck didn't say a damn thing. This woman was the type that if you were banging her, you'd be worrying about her kid trying to steal your socks. Then the kid would ask, "Are you my daddy?" Which you'd have to respond by saying, "No, you're father is at the state fair, eating a bologna sandwich and running the Tilt-A-Whirl. And, no we aren’t going to play Wii later!"

So this lady doesn't say a word. Not a fucking god damn thing. No attempt to correct this display of bad mannerism. She ignored it all. Hey guess what? Your daughter says she needs Ranch dressing? Guess again! She needs more than Ranch! What she needs is for you to teach her some fucking manners! Oh, and I need to take my server’s peppermill and smack it against her rude, bad genes head. And when I get done with that little rude pain in the ass, I'll need to beat you. Just on principle.

Is it that parents are afraid of their kids, or is it that many parents shouldn't be parents?

I am a Denny’s with a hangover. All I want is some Moons over Miami and a cup of coffee to ease my pain.

I would have gone to IHOP but am not a huge fan of their breakfasts. Things like the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘N Fruity combo and The Butterscotch Rocks Pancakes are just to damn sweet. I go out to eat to start my day off right, not to have dessert. You finish something at IHOP and you end up having such a major sugar rush. You are flying so high, that you feel like you were just on a bender with Andy Dick. Whatever happened to regular pancakes? I mean do we really need a Triple Fudge, Cookie Dough, Godiva Dark Chocolate, Snickers, Kit Kat, Rocky Road Ice Cream, Caramel Sauce, Pop Rocks, Charleston Chew and Tastycake Peanut Butter Tandycake topped hotcake?

Sitting at the table next to me, are two couples and a bunch of their siblings. Oh, and the little ones were banging away on the table with their silverware. Just banging away like there was no tomorrow. Bang, bang, bang, bang! Shit, I thought I was at a Stomp audition! Better yet, I thought I was listening to Neil Peart doing a fucking drum solo on a live Rush CD. And through this irritating and everlasting percussion impromptu, the parents didn't say a word. They didn't say a fucking thing! Not a "Be Quiet," not a "Calm Down," not even a "Shut Up!" They just ignored it all!

Well, hey thanks for reading Dr. Spock, folks! Oh, and thanks for my fucking headache not going away. But thanks for my relaxation, going away! I really needed this migraine just as I was getting my day started!

You need to break out of your trance and tell your kid to shut the fuck up! You need to put a stop to their craziness, before I take matters into my own hands! And honestly, I don't think you want to see those "Little Darlings" sitting across from you with a salad fork puncturing their retina.

Kids in Restaurants - Part 1

I have worked in restaurants on and off throughout my life and frequent them a lot. These days, I've noticed that kids control their parents, and not the other way around, and that makes me sad.

When I was a kid, I sat, ate, and behaved. It was a treat to go out to dinner, and if I acted up and became the brat from hell, guess what? I was going out to the car, being driven home, and would not be making a return to any dining establishment in the near future. Today, however, kids don't give a shit. They say: "Big deal, we're eating out at a nice restaurant. I don’t care. Hey, at least it's better than being at McDonalds!"
Nowadays, kids think fast food is a given, just something they deserve. And people wonder why so many kids are fat, flabby and out of shape. The answer is quite obvious! Fast food has become an alternative to cooking and that makes kids look down upon it. They figure, Mom didn’t want to cook tonight, so we are heading to the drive-thru.

Well, guess what? Fuck you children of the 2000's! I used to look forward to getting an "A" on my report card, so I could get a free cheeseburger at Mickey D's. Back in the late 70's, that was a goal to strive for an achievement, but now it doesn't mean shit! Ronald McDonald has become a lost face in the crowd. He's an outsider and has no relevance anymore. When I was younger, he was a role model, weird to be honest, but he was a type of role model. He rewarded children for doing well and even started the Ronald McDonald house for kids with cancer. In my eyes as a child, this guy should have won a fucking Humanitarian Award! But now, he doesn't mean crap. He is looked at as a red headed, poorly dressed, ugly shoe wearing, and a possibly child molesting, dork ass clown.

But I know he isn't that bad. He isn’t someone like the late Michael Jackson. He is just a misunderstood cat. He made a bad deal with a corporation. (He sold his soul to The Man!) But don't hold it against him. I want Ronald back. I want McDonald's to give a free burger for getting a good grade. (Hell, who knows I might take a class at night school, just to get something for free. Hell, call me cheap, but we are in a fucking recession!) The gratis cheeseburger is a compliment to us kids from the past. I want Ronny to stand for something, for a job well done. Bring him back, and while we're at it, bring along Grimace, the Hamburglar and Mayor McCheese.

Have to make a quick sidebar. I would have loved to seen the Hamburglar on an episode of the old HBO series, Oz. I wonder what gang he would have rolled with and whose bitch he would have been.

Kids go out for supper these days, and just go nuts. They act like characters from the book Lord of the Flies. (In fact, if I saw a kid out to dinner in a loin cloth, it wouldn’t surprise me.) And what sucks is parents these days don't have the balls to say anything about the sub-standard behavior. Society has deemed it inappropriate to be an authoritarian. If you yell at them, or spank them at all, people have a flash back to the 90's, and worry they might pull a Lyle and Eric Menendez on your ass. (Damn, you think for being a rich kid, that one Menendez would have had a much better hairpiece. Sy Sperling from the Hair Club for Men even laughs at him.)

Put it this way, if you have an uppity kid, instead of being thankful for being raised in a good environment, he'll blame you for his short comings. That is because everyone is a victim these days. Why thank you, Gloria Allred. And then he will plan to make up for that fact by shooting you or suing you. And if you try to discipline that child, and be a good parent, you always have that asshole sticking their nose in your business: "You really shouldn't treat your child like that. It's not good for them. It might leave emotional scars."


Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you shut the fuck up, Joyce Brothers, before I give you some scars of your own! Read some text books, ok? There is a difference between discipline and abuse. Discipline..."Don't do that or you'll get spanked." Abuse..."Next time it's not the Whiffle Ball bat, it's the Louisville Slugger!" So folks, don't worry about other people's kids, because as you do, your kid just bought an overcoat and went off to school with an Uzi.

Plight of the Pickled Egg Saleman - Conclusion

So you eventually find the Big Wig in the field! The big cheese when it comes to the craft of peddling the pickled egg. (Try to say that three times fast.) He tells you that he is going to retire and you are fucking ecstatic. This is your chance for the big time. You have the same feeling that a college player has when he gets drafted to the NFL or when a Triple A baseball player gets called up to the show. The future is yours and your dream is finally coming true! But there is a problem. This man who you want to learn the ropes from has a son. His son, in his dad’s eyes is a fucking idiot because he doesn’t want to take over the family business, and his dad wants him to carry on the pickled egg tradition. (But of course, no one else thinks the kid is an idiot, because who would actually want to do this type of sales? I’m sure being a Pickled Egg Salesman isn’t a profession that breaks the ice when trying to impress a lady.)

Now you need to convince the Egg Master that his son has no interest in carrying on the family name in the business world. (And his son is thankful, because you are helping him out, because deep down in his heart he wants to be a Plumber.) So you set up a meeting and you bring your A- game. You impart all the business knowledge that you have learned from the expensive and prestigious schooling you have had. You prove you are better than the Sham Wow guy when it comes to selling.

Oh, I am going to digress for a moment. What is the deal with the guy that pitches the Sham Wow? Is he a douchebag or what? His lines are pathetic:
“You’re gonna love my nuts” and “Linguini, Martini, Bikini…!”
Cut me a break moron. Oh, it gets better. This dunce got busted for beating up a prostitute in a Manhattan hotel room. What’s funny is, if you see his mug shot he looks like he got his ass kicked by her too. The reason why he beat her up? Because she bit his tongue when they were kissing! What a moron, he is. It’s a known fact you never make out with a hooker! I thought everyone knew that. Oh, and the moment he did that, he blew have of New York City by proxy!

So the Donald Trump of the egg world is impressed by you. He loves your passion and your fresh ideas about the industry. He takes you under his wing and imparts all his knowledge and wisdom to you. You are Ralph Macchio and he is Pat Morita! You have finally achieved your dream and are on cloud nine, when suddenly it happens! A Sal Manila breakout!

You are now thoroughly fucked! But weren’t you fucked from the beginning? I mean how many bars and restaurants sell pickled eggs? Just think of all the driving you would have to do and how many miles you would put on your car. And how much commission would you be able to make? I’m sure there isn’t a lot of room for a profitable mark up on your product. So people, my message to you is, if you have kids and they want to be a Pickled Egg Salesman, please discourage them. They would be better of selling Cutco cutlery door to door.

Plight of the Pickled Egg Salesman - Part 1

I was at a bar the other night and saw a jar of Pickled Eggs. Now, I have never tried a pickled egg before and to my knowledge, no one I know has ever tried one either. My assumption is that they must taste like, well a pickled egg. That does not sound very appetizing to me. As Cleveland from The Family Guy would say, “That’s nasty.”

The question I have is, who sells pickled eggs and how did they get into the business?

What would make someone choose that profession? Did some guy as a child strive to sell fucking pickled eggs to bars? Think about it. This guy is nine years old and in class the teacher asks the kids what they want to do when they get older. One kid says be the President. Another says be a Fireman. And yet another says be a Policeman. And this fool says he wants to sell pickled eggs. I could only imagine the Teacher’s response to this. (If it was a good teacher, the kid would have been signed up to Home Ec 101, ASAP!)

But hey, you have a dream, so you follow it! You go to college, major in Business with the long term career goal of selling pickled eggs. Then you graduate and start looking for jobs. But guess what? I bet it is always hard times in the pickled egg industry. It's some mean streets for the wannabe egg salesman. Think about it. You send out your resume, with the objective line stating:
“To have a prosperous, challenging and fulfilling career in the field of pickled egg sales.”

What company is taking that seriously? You could have graduated Magna fucking Cum-Laude from the Wharton School of Business, but most companies would laugh at you. You could be a god damn Rhodes Scholar, but you would be the butt of a joke that CEO’s would tell each other over a glass of Scotch forever.

OK. So now you need money to pay back your student loans. You could take a job in Pharmaceutical Sales, because you have the credentials. You went to an Ivy League school and graduated near the top of your class. It would be an ideal position. Great starting salary, good commission structure, company car, 401K, complete benefits and a short workday. Awesome fucking gig, huh? But guess what? It isn’t right for you, because you want to sell pickled eggs!

So what would the novice pickled eggs salesman do now? Would he try to find a mentor? Go in search of the most proficient pickled egg salesman who is a master closer? I’m sure there is the guru of pickled egg salesmen, but I think the reason he is, is because he is the only fucking pickled egg salesman out there! He has the monopoly on the business!

To be continued...

The Homeless - Conclusion

I was walking down the street the other day, being harassed by this gutterpup, and I asked him:
“Hey, if you're so hurting for money, why don't you try to get a job?"
His reply, "All that's available is minimum wage jobs, and I ain't no dishwasher!"
“Really?”, I thought. “Well, let's see. You're dressed in rags, you're missing teeth, you're drunk and you smell like urine. Damn, don't tell me...let me guess. Oh, OK, you're an ex-CEO who just went through corporate downsizing and bad investment advice. Hey, just be happy you didn’t invest with Madoff or work for AIG, because then you would be in a really bad situation!”

The guy I was chatting with then told me he couldn't get a good job because he didn't have an address. Gee, do you know why you don't have an address? Because you don’t have a fucking home and aren’t trying to get one, that's why! My feelings are, if you want to sit on your ass all day and ask for change, become a fucking toll booth collector!

What really can get me pissed are the young homeless. I see people in their mid 20's and they're asking me for money. I always see one guy walking around with his trench coat and just panhandling away. He asks for cash so he can buy some food. Oh, and of course as he is doing this he's smoking a cigarette. Hey, jerk off, put down the GPC, Player, Harley or what ever piece of shit you're smoking, (which by the way if you smoke a carton of those cheap smokes, I do think you'll get gum disease immediately) and use that money for some grub. Hell, I think it is fifty cent tacos at Del Taco these days. The best part about this guy is, one day he was walking around town with a rat on his shoulder. He had a white rat, perched on him. Hey, bet that looks good at a job interview. Rodents are always a selling point when you want to prove you're a dependable employee. (Of course this rat was probably a harder worker than the transient who he was hanging with.) So get your act together Willard and stop bugging me.

He's not the only younger bum I see. I love these kids who are wearing Doc Martins, have thousands of body piercings and have really expensive tattoos all over their bodies. They want my change? Guess what? It's not my job to finance the Goth Nation! So turn off the Cure music and get a paper route jerk-off! Hell, I'd rather see these guys sucking dick on Hollywood Boulevard, then give them some coinage. Oh, and who knows, maybe they'd run into some celebrity looking for someone to solicit. Some of these “stars” really need the press after that masterpiece that was supposed to be their comeback went straight to DVD, and TMZ is always looking for some story!

But just when I thought I have seen everything, something new arises. I had a homeless guy begging for change because his homeless babe was pregnant. And I was thinking, how did this guy get laid? He's homeless for Christ's sake! I know good looking guys with great jobs who can't get ass, and this derelict is laying pipe! What's his pick up line?"What do I do for a living? Uh, I'm a bum. I'm a bum who lives in a box. Actually, I have two boxes. It's a duplex."
I saw this situation and thought one word. Condoms! No. Make it two words. Don't fuck! Because I know my tax dollar will end up paying for his kid. But finally, I did look at his lady and gave her some change. What the hell, she did have a bum in the oven!

The Homeless - Part 2

So why is it that every homeless person has a story for you? And why do they think that you actually want to hear it? Like I have the time to listen! I know this guy has all the time in the world to tell his tale, because, well, he is fucking homeless!!! He has nowhere to go, except maybe down the alley to urinate, while I have things to do. Stories, stories and more fucking stories! Well hey, Hobo Joe, join the club and write a best seller about your downfall. Who knows, maybe you will become an F-list celebrity and end up on some shitty “celebrealty” show on VH1. Or maybe you can write a screenplay about your woes, because everybody in Los Angeles writes a screenplay. Oh and before, and before you ask, no you can't borrow my screenwriting software. Maybe one of your bum friends using the computer in the Public Library and helps smell the place up has Final Draft! Oh, and that story of yours? Sorry, I don't have the patience to listen.

"My name is Sheldon, and I just took the bus from Detroit and have no money. Can you help me out?"
No, I can’t. And to be honest, I don’t care. But here's some advice, Sheldon. Next time you plan a trip, allow for spending money. For Christ's sake, go to AAA or something, they have a lot of ways to save on your travels. I mean shit, Sheldon wants some sympathy. He actually wants sympathy from me? Damn, he's on vacation and I'm not. He should be giving me some change so I can plan a cruise.

Living in L.A., I've noticed there are the most untalented bums in America out here. I grew up back East, and damn the talent pool was great. These motherfuckers perfected their craft and you'd gladly give them some change. And they had to be good, top of their game because of the competition. Everyday was like the NFL pre-season trying to impress and make the team. Dudes just trying to keep their fucking job! One guy would have a picture frame over his head, and say, "I've been framed!" Another would have a sign that said, "I just want what America needs," and then he'd flip it over and it would say, "Change." I mean shit, these dudes were smooth. They would be gold medal winners in the Homeless games.

Best story I ever heard, though, and it was great, was in good ole' NYC. Shit, bums will do anything there. You can throw change at their feet and they'll dance for you. Just like the way Spider did it to bullets from Joe Pesci in the movie Goodfellas. Hell, a bum would jump through a flaming ring if the price was right. Shit, if you had lots a change and a big top, you could create a Bum Circus!

Anyway, back to the best homeless story I have ever heard. This guy comes up to me dressed in rags and starts saying how he came up to the city to work on his thesis, because he is a grad student, and he got jumped and the guys took everything. So he then goes on to say what they stole. His books, his TI-30 calculator, his glasses, his back pack, etc. And he says, he says he had to get the rags he was wearing from the shelter. It was a pretty touching story, but then he closed the deal. He pulled out a fake I.D. card from the University of Maryland. Now that is a bum who is trying. When you go to lengths of making bogus identification material, you get an "A" for effort. Of course I could tell it wasn’t real, because it reminded me of the ones I'd make when trying to get into bars when I was underage. (The bouncer would always laugh at me, and say, putting a picture, with typewriter typing and a piece of letterhead from a college through a laminating machine isn't cutting it.)

Well I ended up giving that guy with a great story some cash, even though I knew he was making everything up. Oh, and it's not that I'm totally cynical, and thought he was completely full of shit and a complete liar. I just found it odd that I saw him telling a parking meter the same story a few hours earlier.

Do you know what I also hate? I hate when these people ask for "spare change." "Got any spare change? Come on man, give me some spare change! Spare change, I need spare change!”
Actually, “no, I don’t.” I plan to use it all, so it's not "spare." But I do have a spare tire. Maybe you can go to Venice Beach, use it as a Hula Hoop and make a living entertaining people. You can be called “The Incredible Rubber Spinning Vagabond!” Hell you can now call yourself a Performance Artist.

To be continued...

The Homeless - Part 1

So I'm walking to a bar the other night. My favorite type of bar, which my friends and me call an Old Man's bar. You know the type. Dark and dingy, with a disgusting bathroom that hasn't been cleaned in twelve years and has that cloth paper towel dispenser that you pull on and it rolls around and basically recycles itself. A place you can still smoke in even though it's illegal, has piss beer on tap, but has a killer juke box. A place that has people who should have been extras in the flick, "Barfly," especially that real old timer named Schmidty who is tossing boilermakers using raw gut whiskey.

So I'm pumped to kick back and enjoy, when suddenly on my way some homeless guy approaches me. "You got fifty cents for a cup of joe?" He asks. ”Oh yeah, I do. Hey, guess what? I work so I can support your fucking coffee break! Hey I have an idea, why don't I give you a twenty spot, you can hit Starbucks and get a triple mocha, soy, caramel, wheat grass cappuccino? And then you can go to a titty bar and use the change to get a lap dance? Or hey, maybe I'll give you my credit card and you can go to a book store and get "Panhandling for Dummies, you fucking dunce!"

These street urchins are always asking me for money. And I'm thinking when did someone stamp ATM on my damn forehead? Do I look like a cash machine? No! But I do know that I have a big forehead, but the last time I looked it didn't say Bank of Cooper on it. Oh, and the best part, the best part is if you don't give them any coinage suddenly you're the jerk-off, the dickhead, the Big Bad Wolf. Shit, man I don’t want to huff and puff and blow their box down! But these guys look at me like I'm some kind of unsympathetic prick. And when you do deny them, they always have a come back, a polite comment that is said with total hate. They have their own language, and I think it's called Bumonics. They’ll say something like, "Have a good night," which when translated means "Screw you, Mr. Tight Pockets." Or they will say, "God bless you!" which means the same as "Have a good night." (Of course my response to "God bless you" is usually, "Yes he has blessed me more than you, because the last time I looked, I wasn't fucking homeless!")

This kind of shit drives me crazy. The other night I see a guy. And this is a big guy. This is a really big guy. Actually to be honest, a really, really big, fat fucking guy. Basically a Range Rover on feet. This guy could take the place of fifty sandbags and help stop a flood. And he has no shirt on. This Biggest Loser reject has no shirt on and is out in public! His flabby gut is hanging out, almost down to his knees and basically he was sweating butter and gravy. Oh, and to make it worse, he had no belt on, so his ass crack is in view for everyone to see. (Bon appettit to the people eating on the patio he was next to.) So then this sloppy motherfucker has the nerve to ask me for cash for food! For food! I'm thinking, "Dude, you've eaten enough!" Try a new path, you Louis Anderson/H.R. Puffenstuff hybrid! Re-organize and re-direct your bum marketing strategy. Ask people for a few bucks for Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers, and I'd bet you'd do a lot better. Hell, if the guy told me that is what he needed money for, I'd hook him up with a fiver and try to get him to meet Valerie Bertinelli!

To be continued...

Armenians (Conclusion)

Actually, I'm not mocking the Armenians. Because I am working on an Armenian Reality Show that I want to pitch. But it will be for American TV, not an Armenian TV channel. I don't know if you have ever seen Armenian TV, but it is so bad it is awesome. Almost all the commercials they run for restaurants or clubs seem to have Moby's song Play jamming in the background. (Oh, and I am sure they called for the rights to use it.)

I saw a video on Armenian TV and it was so bad, it was great. There was this chubby guy, with a full head of hair, full beard and of course the uni-brow dancing around. He looked like Sasquatch cutting a rug. And he was wearing a tight black button down shirt, chains a showing and tight black jeans. And he was really dancing hard and belting out the tunes. While belting out some garbled crap that I couldn't understand, he was in front of a Green Screen. And on the screen was all these random pictures, I guess he was trying to tell a story, but I was completely lost. The pictures kept flashing on for a few seconds then would be followed by another picture. There was Mount Rushmore, then an old Armenian lady, then a Mercedes, then a Cell Phone Store in a shopping center, then a Mercedes, a bottle of vodka, a Lexus, then a close up on him grooving. Then back to the pictures, an Armenian flag, a cigarette, a map of California with a star on Glendale, a Falafel...and I'm saying to myself, "What is this director thinking?" The video made those old crappy Mentos commercials look like the winner of the fucking Palme d' Or at the Cannes Film Festival!

That is why I am pitching my show to American TV. The show will follow in the footsteps of that old show on the Bravo network called, "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy." However, my show will be titled, "White Eye for the Armo Guy."

My first guest will be Armand or Edmund, not sure which one yet. And I will convince one of them that a leather jacket over a wife beater is not a fashion statement. Then I will instruct him to lose the Adidas sweat pants and loafers with no socks, because it just isn't cutting it. And finally, I will tell him to lose the Drakkar Noir, because it is not 1988 anymore!

I joke, I am not doing that show. But I am going to start producing Armenian porn, because from my visits to the Video Store, it seems they like the porn...a lot! I saw one of them walking out of the back room with that little privacy curtain and he had a stack of 8 pornos! 8 fucking pornos! And he wasn't even trying to be non-chalant! This guy had no shame. In fact, he was trying to find out if porno qualified for the rent one get one free promotion! 8 porns! And I'm thinking, geez, how many times can one jerk off in a weekend?

Sidebar here. I personally don't masturbate to porn. I'm such an Egotist at times, when I masturbate, I fantasize about myself masturbating. Maybe a little too much information, but fuck it, we're all friends here.

I do think the Armenian porn should be a success though. I've found my first Porn Star and his name is Ron Jeremyian. So look for our first project soon. It is called "Kiss My Fleshkabob!"