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Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Paris Needs a Timeout

Oh Paris... Oh Paris...

And I’m not talking about the City of Light. I’m talking about the selfish, self-centered, not-that-pretty, wispy voiced, celebutard who thinks she shits gold pellets and pees crystal clean urine.

Let’s get the facts straight: It WAS her purse. It WAS her cocaine.

She needs a timeout. Prison. And most importantly she needs the world to stop feeding her overblown ego. Has she ever contributed anything worthwhile to society?

The dumb ass bitch craves media, along with cocaine and marihuana.

Obviously her last stint in the pokey wasn’t long enough and it didn’t teach her any kind of human lesson.

I do remember her media tour immediately following her incarceration where she cried and vowed to be a better person. If I also remember correctly she found Jesus while sitting on her cot in her non-designer prison garb while being forced to go without her fake fingernails, without makeup, without hair extensions, and without her twitter account. Well blah, blah, blah... it was all a crock of crap. The next time Jesus visits her he should slap her silly.

It’s time for Paris to learn once and for all that she is not above everybody else, and she needs to pay the price for her illegal activities. If a “commoner” gets caught with cocaine in her purse she’s convicted and incarcerated before she could utter in a fake irritating voice “ it wasn’t my purse.”

Paris... you need prison. And the prison matron needs a new kitty cat. And that kitty cat is you. Meow.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

The Silent Facebook Wars

Facebook can be wonderful. Facebook can be annoying. Facebook can sometimes gives me a perverse laugh.

It’s been wonderful collecting Facebook friends like I used to collect baseball cards. Some are treasured and valued and some I couldn’t care less about though I’m glad they’re there just in case they someday increase in value.

It’s annoying when a Facebook friend cannot stop posting stupid messages. Does anybody really care what you had for dinner or what you’re watching on TV or that you’ve just had a mind blowing bowel movement?

And then there’s the silent Facebook wars...

Oh yes, someone posts something and someone takes personal offense and ultimately un-friends that Facebook friend. And the un-friended friend doesn’t even realize they’ve been un-friended because they have so many friends on Facebook that one less Facebook friend isn’t even noticed. But the person who did the un-friending feels totally triumphant because they clicked that “delete friend” button like the were detonating a nuclear bomb. Pow! Un-friended!

Recently I noticed I’d been twice un-friended, and being in an investigative mood I decided to determine who had the audacity to un-friend me.

After careful examination I discovered the two fools who were stupid enough to partake in the silent Facebook war against me. Neither of them were Facebook friends I deemed wonderful; she was more a nuisance and he was a freaking fanatic.

It seems during Michael Jackson’s anniversary week I posted a simple wall post saying I didn’t think he was the king. She took offense and replied to my post saying Jackson was brilliant, a superstar, the King of Pop. Well one post lead to another and “pedophile” and “drug abuse” were mentioned. The bitch un-friended me.

I could say I was saddened to see her gone, but the truth is I was so friggin’ tired of reading her stupid posts about how she was trying to lose weight by sweating to the oldies at boot camp while her other posts raved about all the food she was cooking (enough to feed a third world country) and how she devoured all the cream sauces and brownies and cakes and pork chops.

And I could say I was saddened to see him gone, but he couldn’t stop posting how much he loved Michael Jackson and it kind of scared me. I think he must’ve partaken in a little too much “Jesus Juice” while he amused himself with a white glove. He obviously read my Michael Jackson post and got his boxer briefs in a tiny uproar.

To both of them I say beat it.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Little Swimmers

Over the years I’ve sadly become quite immune to bad behavior, but once in a while I read about someone behaving badly which sends a jolt up my spine and I cannot help but wonder, “What the fuck were they thinking?"

And that was my reaction when I read the story of 31 year old Michael Kevin Lallana of Newport Beach, CA who ejaculated into a water bottle that was on his co-worker’s desk. He didn’t do it once. He did it twice in two different bottles to the same co-worker. Wow, his aim must be like an expert archer. The top of a water bottle is not that big...uhm, did his little willie get stuck or did it fit nicely in the opening or did he have to use a little KY to prevent plastic water bottle burn?

After drinking the sperm tainted water from both bottles the co-worker, a woman, had an aftertaste that lingered (didn’t she ever hear of mouthwash?)... and then she felt sick... and then she decided that the water wasn’t naturally fresh and sent it to a private lab to be tested.

Lallana’s little swimmers were identified via DNA testing and he was promptly arrested.

I’m happy to report she did not become pregnant.

Did Lallana think that because she’d ingested his sperm they were now dating?

Was it an act of hate or an act of lust or an act of unrequited love or is he just a pervert?

Is the crime considered rape?

Maybe water bottle companies will now be forced to have locked caps that only the person drinking has the code to open? It might be expensive, but it’d be sperm-preventive like a condom. Hey, that could be a new industry! Bottle Condoms Caps for the “I leave my open bottles of water all over the place without proper supervision” drinker.

As for Lallana I’m sure there must be websites or fetish clubs he could have joined devoted to people who like gulping sperm flavored water bottles. I’m curious to know what he was thinking as he shot his ejaculate into the bottle. Was he thinking he’s “the man”?

I’ve worked with people whom I’ve never thought that highly of nor have I loathed enough to jerk off in their water bottle. I guess I think too highly of my sperm, my little swimmers, my potential progeny to waste on co-workers. I save them for special occasions.

Monday, August 16, 2010

A Black Cloud

I was quite amused by Jet Blue’s Steven Slater’s dramatic “fuck you” to horrible customers and his slide to freedom... and unemployment. What a way to go! He’s a hero to all customer service workers, and to some customers too.

I’m certain the bitchy lady who hit him in the head with her luggage was the final straw of years of being abused by customers who cling mightily to the “the customer is always right no matter what” mantra. The truth is some customers can be the most ill mannered arrogant assholes.

Years ago I worked in this horrible mall restaurant called Jimmy’s On The Mall whose main ingredient was lots and lots of MSG. I nicknamed the place “MSG Palace.” There was always an ambulance being called for some old person thinking they were having a heart attack when they were actually having an allergic reaction to all that MSG.

One time a regular customer insisted the baked potato wasn’t hot enough. He rubbed the potato all over his face to prove to me that it wasn’t hot to his standard. He then insisted I rub the potato over my freshly washed cheeks and chin. I declined.

I microwaved that potato until it was so hot it would’ve blistered his wrinkled mean old lips and scorched his devil tongue.

Then there was the time a woman ordered a cordial and insisted it be served in a wine glass and filled to the brim. When the bartender refused she went ballistic. Can we say “alcoholic”?

Then there was the couple that ordered one cup of coffee and when I wasn’t looking would pass it back and forth, and then keep asking for refills. They ordered decaf and after I caught on to their game I gave them regular coffee. Pleasant dreams, cheap bitches.

Just the other day I was at my favorite outdoor cafe and there was a car blocking the driveway and a truck trying to get in the driveway. I yelled for whoever owned the car to move it so the truck could get by. The owner of the car - who happened to be the cafe’s dimwitted manager - was so pissed that I would even suggest she move her car she became aggressive towards me.

As our heated argument was winding down I told her she didn’t need to be so selfish and all she had to do was move her car. That only set her off again. She said I was character assassinating her. I almost fell over laughing in her face, which only pissed her off more.

Maybe she was trying to be all Jet Blue Steven Slater with me? Maybe she thought if he could be a hero she could too? It didn’t work. With everyone watching her crass behavior and laughing at her she looked like an absolute fool, a black cloud on a sunny day, a fucking total bitch.

It would’ve been nice if she quit. Maybe she will. Or maybe she’ll get fired. One can only hope.

It just goes to show that some customers are scum and some customer service reps are scum too. But not Steven Slater.

Monday, August 09, 2010

Keep Off The Grass

This past weekend’s road adventure brought me to the San Fernando Valley to the San Fernando Mission. It’s a beautiful mission and within its compound lies the Bob Hope Memorial Garden where Mr. Hope was entombed on July 22, 2005.

I stood in front of the tomb and wanted desperately to crack a joke, a Bob Hope joke, but I couldn’t remember any.

Beside him is the tomb for Delores Hope, though she’s not there yet.

While standing there I was overcome with this feeling that he, Bob, his tomb, looked lonely. I leaned down and whispered, “Hey Mr. Hope, don’t despair, the old girl’s pushing a hundred so it won’t be too long. I promise.”

As I backed up I wandered around the garden wondering if when I die will Los Angeles create a memorial garden for me. I tend to doubt it, and that’s okay because I really don’t want people walking through my memorial garden who never knew me personally and whispering idiotic things at me and about me. And let’s not even talk about the dogs and birds and insects and vermin that’d be pissing and shitting all over my eternal plot of land.

So there I was in the garden looking around when a security guard snapped his fingers at me. I ignored him. He snapped again. I ignored him again. He came towards me.

The security guard was on his cell phone having a conversation. Was it with Bob Hope? Was it with Delores Hope?

He approached and snapped his fingers again. I looked into his vacant eyes and asked him if he was snapping at me or was that part of his conversation. He pulled the phone away from his lopsided ear long enough to tell me that I couldn’t walk on the grass, and then he pointed at a little sign snuggled in the grass that indeed told me to keep off the grass.

Why have grass if you can’t walk on it? Isn't that what it’s there for?


This reminds me of a neighbor I had when I lived back in suburban Boston. His name is Tony M. and he is a total bastard, the meanest motherfucker the earth has ever seen. He was always yelling at the neighborhood kids who dared step foot on his grass.

Tony M. is way old and like Delores he’s nearing death, and all I can say is when he finally dies (and spends eternity in hell) I hope the people who buy his house have a dozen kids who roll all over lawn, tearing up every blade of precious grass.

I’ve decided I want to be cremated.

Monday, August 02, 2010

Sheriff Joe and His Tiny...

What makes someone full of hatred?

I’ve been reading about Maricopa County, Arizona Sheriff Joe Arpaio and his hateful ideas and hateful behavior and his hateful rants. His latest campaign against immigration is shameful. I think he needs to be water-boarded.

It’s exhausting to think that someone so old (he was born June 4, 1932) can be so horrible and dangerous.

I’ve thought about it and can only come to one conclusion as to why he’s the way he is. It’s because he has a tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny peen. Yup, a shriveled little penis that makes the seven dwarves look like they’re hung like an Arabian Horse.

His poor old wife must be so frustrated. Her g-spot is a virginal as her wedding night, and her cherry, after all these years, is only dented.

I bet you he probably drives a huge big ass car/truck/SUV.

I heard a Mexican drug cartel allegedly put out a one million dollar bounty on his head today. We can only hope.