Fucking Bitter, Angry Guy

Fucking Accidental Hero

Yeah, look. No one wants to hear the truth about this James Kim situation.

But I’m going to give it to you anyway.

First and foremost, it’s a fucking sad tale no matter how you slice it. A 35 year-old guy is dead and his wife and two little kids have to continue to live. I’m sure there are more heartbreaking tales out there, but this one is a rough one. I think even the most jaded and bitter and angry of us would concede that this is a tragedy.

But that doesn’t mean we should all start wallpapering the Web and the bricks-and-mortar universe with “James Kim is a hero” banners. I’m not going to get super-technical about the definition of a hero. I will say that if it helps James’ family and friends or anyone else moved by the story to think of him as a hero, by all means go ahead and believe. You deserve at least that much.

For the rest of us (the jaded and dispassionate), I’m going to do the unthinkable and second-guess some of the decisions made by James and (presumably) Kati leading up to and through the conclusion of their terrifying ordeal.

Yes, yes, it is easy to Monday Morning Quarterback a situation like this. And it’s probably not fair. But my blog isn’t about being fair. In that way it has much in common with life.

You don’t drive late at night, in the dark, in inclement weather when you’re not familiar with the area. Especially with two little kids. You spend the night in a motel (or in the parking lot of the Denny’s you just ate at if you have to) and wait until you have daylight to make your trek across the mountains. I know it’s easy to say that now but I don’t know anyone who would have signed off on such an ambitious journey in unpredictable weather at night. That would seem to be the biggest mistake of all.

When you’re fucking lost in your car and know (as we all know when it happens) that you’re only getting more lost, stop the fucking car. At night, in the snow, in an unfamiliar area is the last fucking place you want to start winging it, map or not. I don’t care if it’s a AAA map, a BLM map or fucking Yahoo Maps, you don’t risk it. Stop the fucking car. Turn around and backtrack, even if it’s at only 3 mph in reverse. Maybe you’ll get lucky and back right into another car. That would be a miracle. Get your ass back to the last main road you traveled or as close to it as possible.

If you’ve fucked up so badly or had something disastrous happen and now find yourself absolutely stuck in the fucking snow in the middle of nowhere, you have to fucking wait it out no matter what. I know. I know.

This would be the hardest part for me, no doubt. No food, freezing your ass off. Two tiny kids crying and scared. Wife on your ass. Or just terrified of the unknown. But you can’t do it. Small journeys out for snow to make water and whatever berries or wood you can get your hands on. Dust off the top of your car. Maybe, MAYBE short journeys defined by counting out 500 or 1,000 steps in all directions from your car to get a look at the area and maybe hang other attention-getting shit for searchers. That’s it. Otherwise, stay in your fucking car.

I noticed the media didn’t report on whether or not he was sexually assaulted before (or after) he froze to death. I think that’s shoddy journalism. Whenever a child goes missing and is eventually found, we always hear about whether or not the victim was sexually assaulted. Are they saying that because he was 35, he wasn’t attractive enough to some sick fuck roaming the mountains? Was it because he was Asian-American?

And why didn’t anyone mention what he and the family had to eat at Denny’s that final night? I’d like to know that.

I can’t say James Kim is a hero. But I can’t blame others who want to say he’s a hero.

In the end, his (and his wife’s) mistakes will definitely serve as fine examples of what not to do in similar circumstances and prevent others from making the same fatal errors in the future.

That’s not really heroic either but it’s better than nothing.

Fucking Jazz Music

Jazz music sucks.

Alleged jazz enthusiasts are full of shit.

Anyone who isn’t black or over 96 years of age and claims to love jazz is a fucking liar. A poser. A phony.

I pity the single, 20- or 30-something white guy who brings his “date” home and fires up the fucking Miles Davis CD to show his sophistication. Who the fuck are you kidding?

Hey, dipshit, she’d rather listen to the fucking Black Eyed Peas. Even the fucking Oakridge Boys.

And she just sits there and sips her shitty merlot (90 points according to BevMo!) and nods her head for an hour and a half to songs that seem to have neither a beginning nor an end. It’s just raping her eardrums and she’s smiling and nodding her head like a fucking lemming.

“This is so nice.”

Sure it is.

Don’t tell me about how Jazz is the foundation for rock. I don’t give a shit. It’s fucking boring.

There a couple dozen way-too-long horn solos. There’s the requisite and fucking repetitive bass chords that just DROP into the fucking song for no apparent reason and add nothing to the composition other than to remind you that there’s a guy with virtually no musical talent who was willing to spend a shit load of money to stand upright holding a fucking tree-sized instrument.

And don’t forget the constant droning of the retard rat-a-tat-tatting the fucking cymbals.

Yeah, that’s interesting.

“Oh, you like Jazz?”

“Yes, I like Jazz.”

“Me too. Do you like Acid Jazz? Or are you into Free Jazz?”

“No, actually I dig Latin Jazz.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Yeah, fuck you.

Fucking New Hampshire Boy

I’m sitting at an airport bar the other day and some fucking Howdy Doody mother fucker pulls up a stool next to me.

This little cocksucker went about 5’ 3”, 135 lbs. tops and was all teeth and hair and had a 70s gay-porn style moustache. He was wearing a black-and-white checked sweater with a white collared shirt poking out the top and some kind of black slacks.

He wanted to be my friend.

He ordered a beer and I had a hard time placing his accent. At first I immediately pegged him as Bostonian but it was distorted and sort of hillbillyish.

Turns out he’s from NH.

That figured.

So he starts with his small talk. Where you from? Where you going? What are you doing here? I answer. He’s not really interested in my answers. He’s out of town and has an agenda to tell the world how great he has it.

He starts by telling me about all the incredible virtues of The Granite State. How nice it is this time of year. What a great spread he has there and blah, blah, blah.

He was doing all the talking. Telling me about how great it is to live out in the country and what a wonderful place it is to raise kids. He’s basically selling me on his life. He’s 34 and has five kids ages whatever to whatever and his wife LOVES being a stay-at-home mom. He commutes into the city, “only” an hour and half each way.

I nod my head, the whole time thinking that this stupid fuck is clueless that at this very minute his wife is on all fours taking it in the poop chute from Rusty the fucking local handyman. Of course she’s happy.

While you’re out “busting your ass” selling straws and napkins and other small-margin restaurant supplies, she’s fucking anything that wanders onto the Back 40. Hell, even your five kids are in on the joke.

And what’s he going to do about it? She’s got at least 50 pounds and a half foot on him.

That’s why she lets you leave the house with that fucking ridiculous moustache. She doesn’t give a fuck. She and half the county are laughing at your ass. You’re her cute little businessman boy, all dressed up for a big day of cold calling Taco Bells and diners in the big city.

Anyway, he volunteers the dimensions of his “estate” and, with great emphasis, tells me it’s on three-and-a-half acres of land.

Let me say it straight: There’s no bigger red flag in the realm of small talk among men than when a guy tells you how much land he owns. If you have to mention the size of the lot of land your home sits on, you’re a fucking small-time piker. End of discussion.

But I pretended to be impressed and asked him what his sprawling compound looked like.

“Oh it’s beautiful. Most of it is trees and grass. Great for the kids to just go out and run around.”

“Yeah, but who maintains it? Do you have a staff? A gardening service?”

“Oh no. I do it all myself. I have one of those sitting lawn mowers. It takes me about four hours to mow all the grass. I mow it every other weekend from May to September.”

“What happens in the fall?”

“Oh, the fall’s the worst. I have to go out with rakes and a blower and get all the leaves. We’re talking dozens of those 30-gallon Hefty bags. I do that four or five times. Takes the better part of a weekend each time.”

“And the winter?”

“In the winter I don’t have to do anything. It’s just covered in snow. No one even goes out there.”

“What’s winter like in your neck of the woods? How long?”

“Oh we start getting snow sometime in late October and it will snow pretty much all the way through April. Sometimes into May.”

“So you’re telling me you really only use the land from sometime in May to sometime in October?”

“Pretty much.”

“And you spend most of your non-winter weekends out mowing the grass and raking the leaves.”

“Yep.”

“Sounds like a big pain in the ass.”

That was the end of our conversation. We sat there next to each other for the next 20 minutes in complete silence until he got up to, I presume, catch his flight back to heaven.

Fucking idiot.

Fucking Indecent Proposal

In the last two weeks, it seems like I can’t change the channel on the TV without stumbling across the epic 1993 film “Indecent Proposal.”

I’m sure most of you have seen the movie at least once. But to review:

Woody Harrelson and Demi Moore are high school sweethearts who hit hard times and decide to make a run to Vegas to turn $5,000 into $50,000 so they won’t lose their dream home to the bank. A home designed by Harrelson, a promising young architect.

After an initial run of good luck, they ultimately succumb to the law of probability and end up flat busted courtesy of an indecisive final bet at the roulette wheel. Fucked is what they were.

At some point in the movie, Demi Moore does a little window shopping at some high-end clothing store where she helps herself to several complimentary chocolates while eyeing a $5,000 dress. Of course, big shot zillionaire Robert Redford watches this whole scene unfold from afar and one gets the distinct impression that he’s both attracted to and amused by young Demi.

Long story short, eventually the zillionaire persuades the young couple to exchange a night of banging with the wife for $1 million. Of course, this destroys their relationship for a while before they eventually reunite. Roll credits.

But the real problem wasn’t the fact that Robert Redford had his way with Woody’s wife for an entire evening. We didn’t need to see the fancy yacht or the emotional turmoil or even the sappy auction of the fucking rhinoceros painting.

The gig was up at the point when he first asked Harrelson if he could borrow his wife for good luck for some high-stakes wagering.

It’s also the point in the movie where I could no longer suspend disbelief.

No fucking guy is ever going to let another guy “borrow” his wife for good luck. No fucking way. I mean, you might as well stop the movie right there and cut to the scene where a single Woody Harrelson is crying his eyes out and cutting up all his pictures of Demi. Game over.

Here’s an idea: Instead of loaning out your wife for good luck to some other guy, why not save everyone some time by reaching into his pants, jacking him stiff and shoving his dick into your wife. It’s the same fucking thing.

Your wife is your good luck charm. You don’t share that with anyone. Ever. I don’t care if it’s for a $1 million at the craps table or for 25-cent bingo games. It can only lead to trouble. If he wins, she gets the credit and some kind of unspoken bond is forged. If he loses, your wife’s bad luck. And they still have the unspoken bond.

I know it’s just a movie. And highly unrealistic. But it does an excellent job of pointing out the inherent danger that lurks just below surface in all these little gray areas of life.

It’s the same reason men don’t want their wives having male friends. If there’s another penis in the mix, there’s the possibility of disaster. It’s a fact. No one wants to say it. No one likes to admit it. On the surface, people dismiss it as insecurity. They’re liars. Every last one of them.

When push comes to shove, no man ever wants his wife having any kind of relationship with another man. Doesn’t matter if it’s at work, online, in the neighborhood or among social acquaintances. It only leads to trouble. Every fucking time.

Why?

Because men know men. We know how men think and what motivates men. When it comes to interacting with women, men are only interested in sex or money. That’s it.

Any woman who doesn’t understand or believe this is kidding herself.

Anyway, the movie would have been much more entertaining and believable had the zillionaire offered them $1 million for a night with Woody. I can just see him standing out on the deck of the yacht in the moonlight in his little tuxedo with that deer-in-the-headlights look on his face.

There’s poor Demi crying her eyes out in the suite knowing that Woody is off playing first mate to the Skipper for hours on end.

Now, THAT’S a movie plot.

Fucking Overrated Stuff

Still infuriated by the lackluster writing and acting that’s destroyed Entourage this season, I’m now turning my rage and disappointment on a random collection of things and people that, for whatever reason, most people “love” but I find ridiculously overrated.

If someone or something that you “love” appears on this list, it’s high time you do a little soul-searching to figure out how and why things got so fucking distorted along the way. And, yes, there will be some sacred cows skewered in the process. I don’t care. The truth must be told.

AMERICAN IDOL. This is a no-brainer. Watched every episode in the first season and it was apparent by about Week 3 that Kelly Clarkson would win by a landslide. Every season and winner since has been letdown. Enough already. No one who hasn’t been discovered already is going to come along with the same talent and personality as Clarkson. That ship has sailed. Stop it with the never-ending “outtakes” and lousy “guest artist” contributions. Don’t get me started on the Paula Abdul factor. Long story short, AI’s time has come and gone even if millions of Americans haven’t figured it out yet.

WINE. Everyone with a tongue thinks wine is SO wonderful and interesting. It’s just SO sophisticated. It’s not. I just laugh at and then want to choke out all these wannabe wine snobs who think people give a shit about their preference of grapes or vintners. The bullshit wine-scoring system (it’s a 93 so it MUST be great!!!) further exemplifies why this wine obsession is just a big fucking joke. Fucking sheep. These days everyone fashions themselves an oenophile and it’s just plain annoying. Enjoy your wine. Just don’t talk about it. I don’t give a shit. Truth is, 99 percent of these grape groupies, when blindfolded, can’t distinguish between “great” wine and merely “good” or even “shit” wine no matter how many weekends they’ve logged visiting wineries.

FANTASY SPORTS. Used to be fun back when your league was comprised entirely of hardcore fans who really loved the sport and knew what the fuck they were doing. Now, it’s amateur hour all the time. Women are playing. Fucking guys who act like women are playing.

Need I say more?

Anyone with a browser can rip-off strategies and information needed to compete, watering down the entire experience for everyone. It’s become so popular and pervasive, it’s no longer cool. It’s like when your great hole-in-the-wall restaurant somehow gets a fucking glowing review and suddenly become the most popular place in town. You never want to go back there again. Same thing with fantasy sports. If any asshole can participate on an even playing field regardless of their depth of knowledge or length of interest, why do I want to participate?

POKER. Almost identical problem as fantasy sports. I was playing Texas Hold ‘Em for real money long before the Internet and way, way before they were televising every fucking tournament in the world. Now everyone thinks they know something about no-limit hold ‘em. And these “pros” talk about all the strategy they’ve learned over the years, about the “tells” they can identify. But all that doesn’t mean a whole fucking lot when your nut flush gets busted on the river by running Jacks to fill up some fish’s full house. Watch any televised tournament and you’ll see the truth for yourself: Luck separates winners from losers far more than skill or experience.

SUSHI. Look, instead of spending that $80 on a dozen or so plates of raw fish, you could have gone to the grocery store and picked up a bottle of soy sauce and some wasabi (actually horseradish, mustard and green food coloring) and, after dipping your fingers into the mixture time and time again, licked them clean for about $6. Same experience.

STRIP CLUBS. Here’s how a typical strip-club visit plays out. “Hi, do you want a private dance?” “No thanks.” “Hi, do you want a private dance?” “No thanks.” “Are you ready for a private dance?” “Not yet.” “Hi, do you want a private dance?” “No thanks.” “You want a private dance?” “How much?” “$25” “No thanks.” “Are you ready for a private dance?” “No thanks.”

BED & BREAKFASTS. Oh, they’re so romantic. Middle of nowhere. No TV. No Internet. Just you and a bunch of middle-aged fucks sitting around the lobby by the fire sipping sherry or hot chocolate, re-reading yesterday’s newspaper and pretending to be relaxed. Maybe a game of Scrabble? Fuck that.

JESSICA SIMPSON. You’re done. Your little sister is now much hotter than you and everyone hates you for breaking up with Nick. Now where are you? No one really liked your music or your forgettable TV and movie appearances anyway. We just liked making fun of how stupid you were in your little realty TV show. Now, you mean nothing to us. We’re also more than a little suspicious of your relationship with your father, you know what I mean?

NETFLIX. Seemed like a good idea in theory but the fact that you can just leave these fucking things all over the house for weeks and months on end keeps me from actually ever watching any of them. No urgency to watch or return. At least in the old-school rental days, you HAD to leave the house, you HAD to watch the movie and you were basically forced to look at other titles on a regular basis. Now, that queue of future titles waiting to be shipped from Netflix does nothing more than remind me of what I haven’t done and what little I have to look forward to once I do watch the ones hidden throughout my house.

LIVE PERFORMANCES. Ever noticed how a band doesn’t sound nearly as good live as it does on a CD or MP3? Without all the mixing equipment, the music almost always sounds worse than it does in your car or on your iPod. It’s just not as good. Sometimes dramatically worse. Throw in the fucking ridiculous ticket prices, the fact that you have to interact with other asshole human beings and the inconvenience of actually driving to and from and parking at the venue and it’s shocking that people show up for live concerts anymore.

WILL FERRELL. I liked your cameo in “Wedding Crashers.” You had a good line or two in “Old School.” Everything else you’ve done has been shit. Ron Burgundy, Anchorman. Complete shit. So bad, in fact, I won’t even waste my time watching “Talladega Nights” when it comes out on DVD or cable. I heard it’s stupid, too. When are people going to wake up and realize this guy isn’t very funny?

CHIPOTLE. I hear and read so many people raving about Chipotle. Yes, yes, the Chipotle “mystique.” Maybe it’s because I’m on the West Coast and have literally dozens of outstanding Mexican eateries to choose from, but I will never understand the fascination with Chipotle. It’s a fucking tortilla with grilled meat, cheese, beans, sauce, guacamole and sour cream. Dude, it was fucking McDonald’s who brought this bastion of culinary “excellence” to your world. Do you understand? It’s good, not great. Definitely not worth standing in line for five minutes, much less 25 minutes. Street vendors in roach coaches beat that shit all day long.

Fucking Ramsey Parents

And so begins yet another media gangbang over a little girl who has been dead for almost 10 years.

On the one hand, it’s encouraging to see the detectives and various law-enforcement types took the initiative to actually follow-up on the infamous and cold-as-ice JonBenet Ramsey murder investigation.

Yet I can’t help but feel like we’re all being played—yet again—by the attention-starved civil servants working in a disgraced district attorney’s office and by the flavor-of-the-month tabloid press masquerading as legitimate journalists.

Either way, I still contend that regardless of whatever evidence is unearthed or whatever confession is proffered, the people most responsible for that little girl’s death are her parents, John and Patsy Ramsey.

And here’s why.

Any parent(s) sick enough to enter their child into multiple beauty pageants at 4 or 5 or 6 years of age should be shot on sight. No trial. Just put down like fucking animals.

I’m sure I’m not the only person who has watched—over and over and over again—the video clips of little JonBenet singing and posing in those fucking disgusting pageants over the years. The girl looked a like a whore and, by design, actually looked much, much older than she really was.

There are so many degrees of wrong here I don’t really even know where to start. Does it not occur to any of these sick fucking parents that these pageants are just magnets for fucking pedophiles? I mean who in their right fucking mind would willingly attend one of these toddler pageants?

I’ll tell you who. Fucking pedophiles and parents so fucking loathsome and pathetic that they’re willing to whore up their daughters in order to live vicariously through their child’s meaningless victory in this most disturbing type of “beauty” pageant.

I highly recommend everyone watch the documentary “Living Dolls: The Making of a Child Beauty Queen” to get an idea of just what the fuck we’re talking about here. Some call it harmless entertainment. I call it fucking child abuse. Pure and simple. If I were a 5-year-old girl, I’d rather be beaten with an extension cord daily than forced to prepare for and perform in one of these fucking little-kid pageants.

I realize that I’m probably preaching to the choir on this issue. With the notable exception of much of the backasswards South, most of the sane world won’t have anything to do with these sick fucking pre-teen beauty pageants. Might be high time for Civil War II if for no other reason than to emancipate all these poor little girls forced into bustiers and thong panties only a year after they’re fully potty trained.

Anyway, there was Patsy Ramsey, a former beauty queen herself, pushing and prodding and guiding little JonBenet into this disgusting underworld of baby pageants, no doubt proudly beaming with every tiara, trophy and teddy bear awarded. She couldn’t fucking restrain herself. Little JonBenet was “hot” and polished and won something like six “major” titles before her tragic death.

Who knows how the recent arrest of this sick fuck John Mark Karr will play out. The latest bit I’ve read and heard was that he was “in love” with JonBenet and that her death (but not her alleged sexual assault) was “an accident.”

How the fuck does some piece of shit like this ever even get to the point where he could fantasize about “falling in love” with a random, 5-year-old girl? Could it have been the beauty pageants? You watch. It will all come out that this fucking guy knew and obsessed over JonBenet after following her nascent pageant career. I might be wrong, but I doubt it.

While I’m sure her parents were devastated by her death—and further destroyed by endless speculation that one or both of them actually killed her—they brought much of this misery on themselves by subjecting her to what I would call criminal sexualization at such a young age.

This fucking guy, if his story turns out to be true, should be slowly tortured and killed for his fucking demonic act.

But there’s no fucking way Mom and Dad should ever get a pass. No fucking way.

   

Fucking Neighbors Part III

This would be the Christmas-Present portion of the “Why I hate neighbors” trilogy.

I live on a corner in a nice residential area of a large city on the West Coast. It’s fucking terribly overpriced but worth it in just about every way. The only real problem is that there are other human beings who live on my street.

About a year ago, I noticed a plant of some sort growing near the sidewalk on the backside of my house. It’s in that area of real estate that you don’t really even consider your own because you never see it, never interact with it, and never use it for anything. Coming and going out the front door and garage of my home, this side of the house might as well not exist in my life.

But from the backyard, as time went by, I noticed it continued to grow and grow and grow. It was just like that fucking Beanstalk story. In six months, it went from not even visible above the fence line to towering a good 20 feet above it.

I couldn’t tell you what it is. It’s probably best described as a cactus-like weed on steroids. At its base is a series of very large (maybe six-feet long) spiky leaves that jut out in all directions from the base “trunk” part of this fucking plant. It’s fucking ugly. And “dangerous” according to some.

The trunk was firm (a rock would bounce off it with much velocity) but fibrous (a dull butter knife would easily pierce its skin) and, if I didn’t mention this already, it grew very fast straight up in the air. Its spiked branches were definitely sticking out into the sidewalk, albeit only a few inches. There was plenty of room to navigate a baby stroller, a dog and a fat housewife past the branches but the same probably wouldn’t be true in another four or five months.

I had successfully ignored it for the last six months. It was ugly, but I never had to DEAL with it. It was something that sprouted up in the periphery of my life and my property line.

Well, it turns out another version of this fucking cactus-tree-weed-bush-plant (either the male or female of the species not sure nor care which) was living just fine in my front yard. Unlike its brother/sister, the one in the front yard never sprouted a fucking 35-foot stalk in the dead center of its long, spiky leaves. Not sure why. Not sure how.

This one in the front yard was much loved in my home because it served as a really fucking good deterrent to elementary school kids and fucking dogs who might otherwise cut diagonally across my well-manicured front yard. It’s one of those plants that gets your attention when you go near it. The thorns on this fucking thing range from about a quarter inch to three-quarters inch in length. Very sharp. Up close, they look like miniature shark teeth.

The smartest of you folks probably see where this fucking tale is headed.

So, one day the gardener knocks on my door and says it might be a good idea to shave back or remove both of these plants. Despite his broken English, I managed to identify words like liability, insurance, kids and sidewalk. Bottom line: he wanted $800 to take down the Beanstalk and unearth its brother/sister plant in the corner of my front yard.

I told him I’d think about it.

A week later, on the evening of July 4, I was in the backyard when I heard a couple of men walking past that far backside of my property where the fucking cactus-tree-weed-bush-plant stood and heard one guy say ‘Yeah, they really oughta to cut back this plant. It’s dangerous.’

To this, another neighbor, who used to live right across the street from me but had been evicted from the residence and was now living up the street a few houses with his wife, kid and his wife’s parents, said ‘I know. You know, I’m going to come down here one day and cut it back myself.’

He started to say something else but was interrupted by the booming explosion of an M-80 or some other partial stick of dynamite someone ignited during the Independence Day celebration. They drifted away into the darkness.

Neither guy knew I was in the backyard, slinking around in the dark with a cigarette and cocktail.

First of all, the fat-ass, evicted loser who let his yard and home fall into disrepair for months before he was finally forcibly removed from his rented home was no threat to actually cut back any of my branches. This guy couldn’t even turn on the sprinklers in his front yard for months, turning his (well his landlord’s) yard into an eyesore that pissed off everyone in the neighborhood.

Cut back my branches? Shit. Why not start with your fucking toe nails, Edward Scissorhands.

To hear him threaten to “take matters into his own hands” was both laughable and revealing. It was confirmation that he knew about the various responsibilities of maintaining property but was too fucking lazy to do it himself. Ignorance could never be his fucking defense. He was just a loser.

The other guy, Mr. Fucking Dangerous, not only needs to pick his friends better but grow some fucking balls and actually do something about a problem (real or perceived) rather than whine about it. I hate fucking guys like him. The type that always see the problem but never do anything about it. And then bitch about it like a little old woman.

Here’s an idea: Instead of walking by and whining about it or making empty threats to solve the problem, why not waddle around to the front door and give it a good limp-wristed knock?

I come and go out of my garage and front door exclusively. I couldn’t even remember the last time I walked around that side of the house. Did you ever consider that maybe the home owner wasn’t aware of the impending danger you’re so fucking concerned about?

For the record, I didn’t even consider the plant was my responsibility—much less note its potential threat to life and limb—until the gardener mentioned it. Knock on the door, fake your best big-boy voice and say ‘Hey, that plant on the side of the house with the spikes, it’s starting to grow out into the sidewalk and could hurt a kid or someone.’

You do that and I’ll have the fucking gardener on it that week. Problem solved. But no, they’d rather whine and bitch about it. And that tells me that it’s really not that “dangerous” of a situation after all.

The next week, I called the fucking gardener and told him to do it. Take out the Beanstalk, his brother/sister and a big patch of dead juniper bushes on that side of the street. Poor bastards were out in the peak of the summer heat, wielding chainsaws, wearing surgical gloves and masks and had to use a big fucking chain and a pick-up truck to dislodged the roots of these fucking plants. Each branch was removed one at a time for some reason having to do with poison. Or at least that’s what I was told.

Here’s my question: When are Mr. Dangerous and Mr. Fucking Evicted Loser going to stop by my house and thank me for saving the neighborhood from certain death and dismemberment?

Fucking assholes.

Fucking Neighbors Part II

I found it impossible to sum up my rage and disdain for neighbors, ALL neighbors in one post no matter how long and detailed it was.

Hammer time with the halfway house losers took place about 15 years ago. Before and in the interim, I’ve had many unpleasant experiences with neighbors regardless of where I go or how much I’m paying to live there.

When I was a little kid, maybe 7, I lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone and blah, blah, blah. One of our neighbors was a similar-sized family that had three girls, all roughly around my age.

These little girls were cunts.

For whatever reason, they didn’t like me. Not sure why. I’m sure I did something wrong along the way, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. At school or in the neighborhood, they went out of their way to ruin my 7-year-old life. The oldest one was probably 10 and she was the mastermind of the bullshit.

She delighted in creative stunts like putting grass and gravel down my shirt, pants and underwear. Sounds funny now but a 10-year-old girl can flat-out dominate just about any 7-year-old boy. She’d push me and tease me and make fun of me in ways that I didn’t really understand but sent her younger sisters and anyone else in earshot into hysterics.

At the local park or schoolyard, I’d go out of my way to avoid these little twats but there was only so much square-footage I was willing to concede. Certainly not the wading pool and definitely not the swings, monkey bars and gigantic truck tires that I loved to play on by myself or with other friends.

Sooner or later, a confrontation would develop. I was more than capable of defending myself but my father’s constant admonishment that I should never hit a girl always left me in no boy’s land. At some point, this bitch would always grab me or try to hit me with her hand or something like a stick or a fucking hula hoop or whatever. My instinct was to fight back but I feared the stigma of “hitting a girl” and the certain ass-beating my father would deliver when the shit hit the fan.

More often than not, I would have to flee the area and spend the next 10 or 15 minutes contemplating retribution.

One summer day, inspiration struck when my younger brother cried out from the bathroom in need of toilet paper. After I grabbed another roll of toilet paper, I went into the garage and found an empty box, the kind your mom would use to wrap a gift. The box was smallish. Maybe the size of a See’s candy box.

On the way back from the garage, I stopped in the kitchen to get a wooden spoon.

I’ll never understand how he knew, but the minute I walked into the bathroom with the box and the wooden spoon, my younger brother smiled and immediately knew what I was planning. He wiped his ass and threw the used toilet paper in the waste basket and dismounted.

For a 5-year-old, he delivered a beauty. Fucking thing was long, thick and completely intact. I distinctly remember almost pissing myself as we both laughed our asses off as I tried to fish that turd out with a wooden spoon. It took many attempts. It would slip and slide off the spoon halfway out of the bowl. Just getting it centered on the spoon was harder than any college class I ever took. My brother would advise me of the best way to do it. I told him, between fits of unrestrained laughter, to shut up and just hold the box still.

Finally, we managed to get the shit into the box, more or less intact. The used toilet paper was fished out of the waste basket and added, filler paper if you will. Finally, I wrapped it in whatever gift wrap was lying around, added a bow and probably some ribbon and, finally, put one of those cards on it.

TO: ANNA DOYLE

FROM: SANTA

I didn’t care that it was July. I knew the little bitch would open it. How could she not?

That afternoon, I crept up to the backdoor of their home and placed the neatly wrapped box on the back porch. I took a deep breath and then knocked on the door a good two or three times before sprinting off and down the alley.

I was running so fast and laughing so hard that I stumbled and did a Rickey Henderson slide down the rocky alley. I got up and kept running. It was only when I got home and went into the bathroom that I saw the huge gash across my chest. I still have the four-inch scar. Great conversation starter.

As I cleaned my wound, I fantasized about how the gift opening would go. The look of horror and embarrassment on her face. The shock of having something so unexpectedly good turn bad. And what would she do with the box and its contents? I was consumed by a mixture of nervousness, anxiety, joy and pride that I can’t really explain to this day.

But that feeling doesn’t begin to compare to the emotions that swept over me later that night when I heard an unexpected ring of our door bell around dinnertime. My mom went to answer the door. My brother froze to his seat. I got up and suddenly had to go to the bathroom. My dad, for some reason, wasn’t home yet.

There at the door, with the opened box in hand, was Mrs. Doyle and her cunt daughter Anna. Anna was in tears. Mrs. Doyle, I can’t really even explain the look on her face. It was a mixture of terror and anger and confusion. It was a classic. The box was empty, save some obvious poop-smears all over the inside of the box.

Oh, and there was one other thing in the box.

Written neatly in mom’s handwriting on the inside edge of the lid part of the box was our last name followed by a dash and X-Mas. The box I used was one my mom had marked to denote our Christmas decorations or something and in my zeal to punish that little bitch, neither I nor my brother ever saw the incriminating inscription.

My mom knew of the battles with these girls. She had long heard my complaints and pleas. She and my dad had warned me against violence. They had told me to turn the other cheek. Be the bigger person.

Their advice had failed.

I guess because of the creativity, I didn’t really get in any trouble. I had to apologize to Anna and her mom and her sisters, too, I think. And that was it.

Neither Anna nor her sisters ever bothered me again.

Fucking Neighbors Part I

I cannot fucking stand neighbors. They’re the fucking plague of the universe.

When I finally have enough cash, I’m moving someplace secluded. Maybe even deserted. A place where only those who can afford a helicopter or a yacht will ever have a chance to get near me or my property.

And even then, I’m sure I’ll have a problem with them.

I’ve lived in a lot of different states in different types of residences in just about every type of neighborhood there is. Not once have I ever had a pleasant experience with a neighbor. They’ve all been fucking losers.

Back in college, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment downtown. Not a good neighborhood by any means but not utter squalor. Next door to my apartment complex was a halfway house. A place where fucking shitheads fresh out of jail making their “transition” back into society hung their hats for a few months before invariably violating their parole. Or molested another kid.

But there was very little hanging of hats going on there. Day and night, they’d sit out in the backyard drinking fucking Keystone Light 12-packs, smoking their Newports and generally harassing everyone in the apartment complex. They were men mostly in their late 30s and 40s, shiftless fucks who could have easily been cast as extras in “Deliverance.”

There sat our tax dollars at work. Thanks to the agreeable weather in

California

during most of the year, they were almost NEVER inside. They would try to make eye contact with me, ask me for coins, cigarettes, you fucking name it. I ignored them at every turn.

Occasionally, some kind of fracas would break out. Probably over whose turn it was to toss the other guy’s salad. The fucking cops never came. They knew what was going on at that house. But they didn’t care.

I know others in the apartment complex were bothered and harassed by these fucking losers on a regular basis. Sometimes I’d see it. Other times I’d just hear it. If you were unfortunate enough to be a woman, especially a young college hottie, they’d practically jerk off right in front of you while saying all the things you’d imagine drunk hillbilly felons would say to a college girl passing by.

Thing is, all of these guys (I’d say there were maybe six of them total in the halfway house and usually two to four of them outside at any given time) were in horrible fucking shape. For guys fresh out of the joint, I suspect they must have spent most of their time on their knees and doing the other guys’ laundry. There might have been one guy in decent shape. The rest were fat or extremely frail. Not a bad-ass among them.

One Friday night, I had a little gathering at my apartment. It was a rare event. I much preferred partying elsewhere for a lot of reasons. Anyway, we had maybe eight people in there drinking beer and margaritas, playing music. Loudly. We shut it down around midnight. As my guests were filing out, these fuckers started talking shit. Long story short, it was a right hook thrown by a buddy’s girlfriend (that’s right) that lit the fuse.

These things always seem to happen in slow motion. Over the chain-link fence that separated the driveway of the apartment complex and the junkyard that was the halfway house’s backyard, punches and several months of pent-up frustration were unleashed on these shitbags. You had maybe five of us college guys and one extremely violent college girl flailing away at anything that moved on the other side of the fence.

Other residents of the apartment complex meekly peered out through their windows or screen doors as the melee escalated. I assumed they were silently cheering for the young college kids to finally punish these fucks for all the bullshit they’d gotten away with for months. Aside from a couple units rented by college kids like me, the rest of these people were older and certainly not capable of, for example, confronting the neighbors after their clothes went missing from the community laundry room or when there was a fresh puddle of Keystone Light-smelling piss in their doorway.

I can’t say for sure how many guys were hit or how many times, but I do know that I had to ice down my knuckles the next morning. At one point, one of the fucking jackasses scaled the chain-link fence and prepared, I guess, to make a lunging leap at a couple of us.

In retrospect, I wish he would have had the chance. There’s no doubt in my mind that he would have never hit the ground. At least not conscious. One of my friends grabbed him by the ankles in a split second and another two of us gave an enthusiastic shove, sending him back on to his head and shoulders with a thud, the whole time still suspended by the other buddy holding his feet on the fence. I can still hear the panic in his screams.

Then the cops came. Of course they came this time. Nothing like showing up to protect and serve now that the people had finally exacted a little justice.

But here’s the kicker. The fights had come to an end, mostly. The fucking halfway house losers had all retreated inside, leaving us to face the police. We were all relatively calm as we explained the situation. But then something happened.

From the unit upstairs above my apartment, a middle-aged couple finally summoned the courage to speak. Not that anyone asked them for their input, but they proudly stepped forward to say that “the college kids started it all. They caused all the trouble.”

I guess I underestimated the stupidity of middle-aged people living in a one-bedroom apartment that I could afford working 20 hours a week for $8 an hour. Apparently, they identified more with the plight of the halfway house fucks than the college guy who went out of his way to tell them when the dryers were available or to let them park in his unused parking spot or surprise them with free food from his place of employment out of the goodness of his heart.

Fucking shitheads. And the cops, armed with this unsolicited testimony, immediately cuffed me and off I went for a night in the drunk tank. At this point, I was more angry with the ungrateful fucking losers in my complex than with the halfway house grunts. Maybe they were pissed about the music that night. I don’t really know. But I do know that they were living in that apartment complex unit long after I left.

And I know that halfway house didn’t go anywhere.

Fucking Guys Who Use Straws

I’ve got a real problem with grown men who drink through straws.

There’s nothing more effeminate than a man who sucks liquid through a piece of plastic. Straws are for little kids and women. A man who uses a straw is saying either he’s A) too lazy to lift the glass to his mouth or B) he likes to suck things.

Admittedly, there are a few rare exceptions:

If you don’t have arms.

If you’re driving in your car—more or less out of public view.

Your jaw’s busted AND wired shut.

You’re drinking a milkshake.

That’s it. That’s the list.

When I see a man sucking his 7&7 or Gin & Tonic through two of those squatty little straws at a bar, I want to come up behind him and slam his face into the bar, lodging those plastic chutes into the roof of his cock-sucking mouth.

The straws are for stirring the drink, not facilitating the delivery of the liquid to your stomach. Don’t believe me? When was the last time you were at a bar and saw someone sucking down a beer through a straw?

How about a glass of wine?

The most egregious violation of the No-Straw Law seems to occur when men are drinking soft drinks at a restaurant where it’s served in a tall pint glass. Hey, fuckhead, just because they put a straw in it or put it on the table doesn’t mean you have to use it.

Why not pick up your spoon and use that?

There’s something inherently girly about a man sipping and sucking his Coke through a straw. It conjures up an image of seven-year-old girls in pigtails giggling on a porch swing as they suck down homemade lemonade through one of those periscope straws, you know, with the flexible elbow.

There’s no upside to sucking a straw. Don’t give me any bullshit about the health considerations. Putting your mouth to the glass isn’t going to expose you to bacteria anymore than sucking the fluid out of the same glass. Don’t like the ice slamming into your teeth? Use your fucking lip as a blocker.

Worse, especially in a plastic container, this straw-sucking eventually leads to those annoying sucking sounds that announce the end of the drink. You sound like a fucking idiot as you suck-suck away at your near-empty drink. You look and sound like a fucking loser.

Ever taken a close look at a man’s face as he sucks a straw? It ain’t pretty. And it’s definitely not masculine. It’s the gender equivalent of watching a woman spit. It’s disturbing and it tells me all I need to know about the guy.

A guy that sucks a straw isn’t a guy you want to watch the ball game with or have help you rotatil the backyard. He’s a guy looking for the easy way out, the path of least resistance.

It’s like that fucking guy in every office who crosses his fucking legs like a woman while sitting in a chair at the staff meeting. It’s just fucking wrong. Put your fucking ankle on your opposing knee, Sally.

If you don’t mind sending out the unmistakable message that you like to suck things and that you’re soft and you can’t be trusted, keep using your fucking straw little girl.