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 - 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...

A Waiter's Nice Nightmare - Conclusion

"Well, if it was so great, why such a shitty fucking tip?"

"Excuse me?" He said, as if he was astonished by my comment.

"Basically, you gave me only a little bit over ten percent, which sucks! I don't know where you usually dine, maybe Denny's or Carrow's, I have no idea, but that tip was an insult. It was a fucking slap in my face!"

Suddenly it came to my attention that I just screwed up. All I could think about was him calling my boss tomorrow, and me losing my job over this whole incident. Fuck him! He wasn't going to have a chance to even pick up the phone.

He stood there and stared at me in disbelief, like I did something wrong. Hell, I just told him how I felt and he was bent out of shape. And then that's when I did it. I lunged at him and punched him in the stomach as hard as I could. All my force went behind my fist, and he bent forward, clutching his gut. Then I fucking snapped. I lost it. I went crazy.

I grabbed him by the ears and swiftly and with every ounce of force I could muster, brought my knee up and introduced it to his face. I let go of him then and he dropped to the pavement and rolled up into a fetal position. Not knowing what to do, I decided to just let go and lose all self-control. Every shitty tipping, rude, jerk ass motherfucking customer flashed through my mind!

I jumped on top of him and pummeled his face until it was a bloody mess. It was very invigorating, a relief, and a cleansing experience. My self therapy continued as I began smashing his head up and down against the hard concrete. The shit that was going on could have been a scene from the movie, "American History X." His hands were covered in blood as his face became unrecognizable, and then I envisioned something.

To me, his blood was no longer red as it leaked out of him. It was light pink, just like White Fucking Zinfandel! This pushed me over the top, took me to a total boiling point. And then I did something that was even unbelievable to me.
I reached into my apron and pulled out a wine opener, and released the corkscrew. I preceded to shove it right between his eyes. Then I started screwing it in more and more and twisting it like I was opening a nice bottle of wine. I really dug the challenge of the resistance his skull gave me as I went to town on it. He winced and moaned in pain and grunted and gurgled, and I didn't fucking care. He became messier and gorier, and then it was over. He was dead. I would have put a fork in him to signify he was done, but excess isn't my thing.

Not knowing what to do, I quickly looked around and saw the parking lot was empty. I picked up his messy corpse and through it into the dumpster. I then went to my car, grabbed some napkins which were surrounded by empty soda cans, water bottles, Del Taco bags and Lotto tickets, because I never clean my car out, wiped my hands off and threw the bloody cloths away.

I stood there for a second, trying to get a grasp of what just happened, then thought to myself, fuck it. Things happen. I jumped into my little sedan and drove down the street to get an ice-cold lager of my choice. As I sipped on my brew and enjoyed some relaxation after a long night, I saw a bottle of White Zinfandel behind the bar, and actually almost ordered a glass. But that would have been fucked up, because it is “White Fucking Zinfandel.”

A Waiter's Nice Nightmare - Part 2

Now let’s fast forward to the end of the night. I give him and his piggish date great service, buy them a dessert to make up for his earlier unhappiness, and falsely apologized if he felt he didn't get complete satisfaction from his evening visiting the dining establishment in any way. He assured me that everything was fine and would definitely come back again, and would tell his friends to come in too. Whoopee! Your friends will come and eat here too? Wow, I'm so fucking excited! I could just imagine what this fuck knuckle's friends are like.

Now, his bimbo and he were still hanging out, even though the bill had been dropped, and all the other guests had vacated the dining room. I was ready to go home, but these two fuckers were still camping out. Hell, all they were missing was a tent and a hibachi. Anyway, I walked by and picked up the check presenter, but he said he wasn't ready to pay yet. I kept staring at him, trying to send a message, but this lughead never tried figured that out.

Finally, a half an hour later, he finally paid, and shook my hand as he left and thanked me for my professionalism. I thanked him back and thanked him for coming in and visiting, and then I checked the charge slip. A $5.50 tip on a $50.00 tab! My time is worth much more than that. He can shove the tip up his fat fucking ass! I watched him walk out, and I really wanted to kick the crap out of him, but I know that shouldn't happen.

So, I walked to my car and this asshole is still hanging around in the parking lot. As I opened my driver side door, I saw him give his date a good night kiss. I was still pissed at this jack ass. Damn, I was fucking fuming as his lady drove away.
Finally, I decided to make my stand and say something to Lord Cheapo. I saw him starting to unlock his car door, when I decided to approach him.

"Hey, what's up?" He said politely. (Like we were suddenly buddies, like we'd be going to the zoo together and he'd buy me peanuts to feed the Elephants with.)

"Not much," I replied.

Then I couldn't hold my tongue anymore, so I blurted out, "Was everything ok with my service tonight?"

"It was great, actually."


To be continued...

A Waiter's Nice Nightmare - Part 1

I was a waiter in Los Angeles for many years as I tried to get my career started. Many people in this town take the same path because it allows you flexibility to chase "the Dream." Funny thing is, Food Servers are a very different breed out here. They aren't the Denny's employee,(the elder lady with a hairy mole on her face) they are mostly artistic, creative and intelligent college graduates. They are usually brighter than most of the morons they wait on. (But don't tell that to the idiot who can't pronounce Filet Mignon.)

This posting goes out to all the food service industry workers and something that has gone through the mind of anyone who has ever waited a table. (Maybe not as off the beaten track as my thoughts, but, hell, I'm strange.)

I killed a guy last night. Why? Because he pissed me off, so, the Motherfucker deserved it. He had the balls, the audacity, to sit in my section, bitch about how his wine was no good, but the service was excellent. Oh and then leave me an eleven percent tip! He really didn't deserve to live. I don't want or need my tip in compliment form and don't need it through flattery either, because neither of them will pay my fucking rent! I want cash, cold, hard cash. We're talking 18 to 25 percent of the bill, and then I'll be happy. But if I don't get that, think what will happen...or just imagine what that bloody carcass at the bottom of the dumpster behind my place of employment looks like.

So this guy, if he can ever be referred to by that title, instead of asshole, sits at my table with his bitch of a date. He's trying to act like a big shot and orders a bottle of White Zinfandel. White Zin! What kind of guy orders that crap? Fuck, might as well order a wine cooler, or a Spritzer, or some frickin’ Kool Aid! White Zin is the drink of eighteen year olds or white trash when they can't find the box of wine or old ladies who are searching for a Blush instead of a Rose'.
So I bring the bottle to the table and he starts all that bullshit wine connoisseur crap. The smelling, the swirling around in the glass, followed by some sniffing and then swishing around the mouth action like it's Listerine. Hey, dickhead, it's fucking Beringer! It's not LaCrema or Sebastiani or Ferrari Carano or some other nice California Coastal crap. It's not Red Zinfandel, Cabarnet, Merlot, Pinot Grigio or Chardonnay. It's fucking White Zinfandel! Anyway, after his display and presentation of his so-called wine expertise, which the whole time impressed his date, a half-witted, cheap shoe wearing, ugly polyester bloused, too much make up wearing troglodyte, he turned to me and said it lacked aroma and a dry taste. Not to reiterate, but once again, it's “White Fucking Zinfandel!” It isn't supposed to have a nice bouquet, and sweetness doesn't go hand and hand with dryness!

So he rambles on spouting misinformed and uneducated crap about his high brow winery wisdom (who knows maybe he had recently seen the movie, "Sideways") and asks if he can get another brand or another vintage. First off, vintage doesn't apply to this swill he thinks is classy, and secondly, hello, we don't have another brand. This isn't Sizzler or TGIF Fridays! We don't cater to pink wine chugging Morons!
I suggest a Chardonnay, but he has some excuse why he doesn't like whites. I honestly think he didn't like them because of the prices of the bottles. This motherfucker acted like he had champagne taste, but was sporting a beer pocket book. Finally he decides to keep the original bottle of wine, but acts like I had something to do with the whole problem. Hey, jerk off, lighten up! I'm not the person who decides what our alcohol inventory will be. He really acted somewhat smug and all I could think was “Fuck him!”

To be continued...

Plight of the Pickled Egg Salesman - 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 “Linguine, 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 half 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...

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 a few other things 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. (But of course three of the four are no longer with us anymore, so that thought has left the Spank Bank. Maybe I will set my sights on the girls from the "Facts of Life." That even includes Natalie played by Fat Mindy Cohn. That's not her real name I just like to call her that. Did you know on that TV show, her character was the first to lose her virginity? And better yet, she lost it to the guy who played Damone in "Fast Times At Ridgemont High." I wonder if he gave her Cheap Trick tickets.)

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.

Street Football

I was bringing in groceries from my car the other day, and I saw some kids playing football on the street, and that made me happy. I live in a Suburb of Los Angeles, called Burbank and on my street there is a ton of apartment buildings and lots of kids and teens in the area. And the funny thing is, in the 8 years I've lived here, I've never heard any ball playing out in the street, and that sucks.

Growing up as a kid in New Jersey, that's all we did. Weekends, after school, summer time, you name it, we'd be out playing whatever sport was in season, and would be having a blast. We didn't stay inside playing video games we were outside and having fun with others. Now I know these days, parents are apprehensive to let there kids be on the streets because of child molesting perverts who might try to take advantage of them and abduct them, but in my day, folks didn't worry about that. Oh, and the reason being is, if some fucked up, trench coat wearing, Michael Jackson in waiting ever pulled up his car and asked any of us if we wanted candy, he'd have twenty three neighborhood kids jumping in his automobile and kicking his ass until the cops could come and arrest his sorry, beaten up ass!

To me, hearing kids tossing a football on the street today was invigorating. It brought me back to my youth when things weren't as fucked up as they are now. I remember playing street hockey on my old road, called Old Towne. When you were in a middle of a game and a car was driving your way, you'd call time out and pull the hockey nets to the curb, so the car could get by. But it never changed the game, it always picked up where it left off, and even if we were interrupted by traffic eight times in an hour, we were having fun.

Old Towne Road was also the scene of epic football games. Playing football in the street was dangerous because one false move and you ended up eating the pavement. It was great making pass patterns for your teammates.

“OK, Espo, go down to the Epstein’s driveway and cut to the left. Chooch, go to Mrs. Nolan’s Buick Elektra and do a slant pattern. Jimbo, go past the third telephone tree and when you see the big Elm tree do a button hook. Oh and Starr, you stay back and block, because the only reason you are playing is because your sister is hot.”

However, you never see that anymore. Kids aren't kids, just going out and fucking around. We used to play tackle football and come home bruised and hurting, but we were fine with that. These days, if a child came home with a bleeding knee, I'm sure his parents would be filing a law suit against the kid he was playing with, because that youngster committed assault in some way. (I mean, shit, I don't think Sears' Toughskins are around anymore, because they led to abuse. You could get your ass kicked all day wearing those fucking pants, and no one would be able to tell, because the always ended up unmarked. Damn, the concept of double enforced knees was brilliant.)

I may be preaching, but you know what? That's what I do. I'm not a parent, but to all the parents out there, please let your kids be kids and have them go out and play. A bloody nose, a scraped knee, a stomach ache from being out in the heat and playing too long isn't something bad, it makes people who they are. The children and teens of yesterday are now the parents of today, and you know what? We were renegades, so we shouldn't be raising a generation of couch potato, video game playing, fatties who are total whiny pussies!

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 pretentious 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...

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. (Even though I actually don't see you laugh, because you are in front of your computer. So if I did see you laugh, that means I would be looking through your window, which would make me some kind of a stalker. Don't worry, I'm not looking through your window, I sent a Gnome to do it and then he reports back to me that you were laughing.)

Things I Am Thankful For - Part 1

Sometimes we need to reflect on what we are thankful for in life. It has been a little bit of a tough year for me, but instead of being depressed I look to the bright side. I haven't been able to find work but instead of crying in my milk, I smile and thank Obama. (I mean he did sign the bill to reinstate Unemployment benefits.) Both my cats died this year but I didn't go for the Whiskey and watch repeats of Garfield cartoons and Morris the Cat commercials, I decided all that money I spent on food, litter and lint brushes could now go towards a nice trip. And finally, I haven't found a new love of my life, but instead of being upset I'm happy. At least I don't have to go through a break-up and on the way spend a lot of money on dinners, gifts and holidays.(Talk about a bad return on an investment.) So every day I take in the sunshine, because it is better than being a whiny little bitch!



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 tilt-a-whirl!

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...

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!"

Armenians - Part 1

I just got back from Armenia, and man there was a lot of people from Glendale over there!

I joke, I joke, I like the Armenians, but to be honest, before I moved to Los Angeles, specifically Burbank, I had no idea what an Armenian was. The closest we had to them back in South Jersey were Italians...to be exact Guidos. However I grew up in a Jewish town, so we actually had Jewish Guidos. Guys like Moeshe D'Antonio, Himey Esposito, Dominic Rosenstein and Vinnie Greenberg.

These guys were great. They would walk around with a thick gold chain with a Jewish Star and wear a pinky ring with a Mezuzah on it, eating delicacies like Minestrone and Gelfite Fish soup and Brisket Parmesan. The best would be when they were about to get in a fight:
"Do you know who I am? Do you know who I am? Don't fuck with me, I'll fucking sue you!...Fucking Goyam!

But back to the Armenians. I will tell you, they are some hairy Bastards! Now don't get me wrong, I'm a hairy guy too! Seriously. When I go to the beach kids are like:
"Mommy can I pet him?"
And I'm like, "Back off kid, I'm not a fucking Manatee, OK?"
I mean, I mean it's bad. Put it this way, my cats use a lint brush on me, OK? If I was to get waxed, it would take a lot of those fucking Yankee Candles. Hopefully, Almond Cookie or Coconut Bay! But hey, that's my tastes.

I once shaved my chest and lost about two inches from my jacket size. In fact at times if I'm hitting the town, I shave lines in my stomach to resemble abs. Then when I wear a tight shirt, I look ripped!

But these Armenian guys blow me away with their body hair. It's like, "Holy Shit!" No contest from me. I had dinner with a few of them and when I joined the table, it looked like Curious George was eating with a bunch of Gorillas!

The best part about them is their Uni-brow! What the hell is that all about? Don't they look in the fucking mirror in the morning? Put it this way. It is a known fact that a moustache and your eye brows should not be parallel lines!

Seriously, don't their friends say anything? I saw one guy and this is no lie, I swear. Think back to when you were a kid. Remember for school you would have to draw a picture of the beach? You would make squiggly lines to represent the waves in the ocean, draw a palm tree and the sun, and then make a little swoop thing that looked like a fat, messy letter v to be a bird flying over the water. Well this guy's Uni-brow looked like that bird you crayoned in 4th grade. What the fuck? I was like:
"Hey, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, why don't you mix a Mach 3 into your grooming routine!"
And of course he had no idea what I was talking about.

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...

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.

To be continued...

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.

To be continued...