Overheard 2 ladies at lunch, talking about their men problems.  One said boldly and proudly, “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t have a man.  I’m gorgeous.  I’m an attorney…”  Immediately, I knew what her problem was.  She had low self-esteem.

To lessen my dependency on modern technology, I’ve decided to replace the alarm clock on my nightstand with a Sicilian Buttercup, Jersey Giant, or Golden Laced Wyandotte rooster.  Let’s see what happens.

If you give your already hyper kid a coffee, then you should be thrown into a cage with your over-caffeineated monster and forced to fend for your life.

One day, I walked to end of the street.  I saw a guy staring at me.  I ignored him.  On my return trip, just as I got to a red SUV, the guy held out his keyless entry remote and locked his door 3 times, as if I was going to steal his vehicle.  So I decided to walk across the street and have a talk with him.  However, he went inside his house.  Hopefully, he walked into the depths of hell.

When you’re in a crowded elevator, why is there always that one person who tries to squeeze in before the doors close?  That person is officially the world’s most obnoxious person at that moment.  Everyone should exit the elevator.  Then, cut the elevator cable to send that person straight down the elevator shaft.  There’s plenty of room down there for him.
 
Why is it that people who have really loud voices don’t realize that they have loud voices?  I get that it’s hard to hear yourself or gauge the volume of your own voice, but don’t they see the external indicators?  Like the shattering glass, the trembling Earth, or bleeding ears?

I hear that yoga may help you extend your life.  Flexibility, relaxation, and muscle control can make your quality of life better, I imagine.  So yoga can make your life better.  That’s if you don’t get shot.

Last Wednesday was so awful that I’m pretty sure it was Monday wearing a Wednesday disguise.

I’m the only one on the bus.  A man gets on the bus, looks at me, farts, and then gets off at the next stop.  What does that say about me as a person?

I always see people on the bus standing at the back door waiting for it to open at their requested stop.  Sometimes, they’ll get mad and yell at the driver to open the door.  These people aren’t smart.  The back door has “Push doors to open” written on it in at least 2 or 3 languages.  Read.  I’m going to keep it nice today. 

It’s not shacking up if you live in a nice condo.

Was in an elevator once that had a sign that read “If elevator should fail to open, do not be alarmed.  Remain in elevator until assistance arrives.”  Do I have a choice?  I have to remain in the elevator.  Is there somewhere else I can wait for assistance to arrive?  Maybe I can remain outside the elevator?  I’ll try that next time.

Vegetarians hate meat.  We are all made of meat.  It’s like a form of self-hatred.

Sold my soul to the devil once.  He took it to a pawn shop, and got a busted clock radio for it.  That’s worth more than what I paid for it.

Saw a referee walking out of a McDonalds when I was young.  Thought the Hamburglar was breaking out of the big house.

Speaking of the Hamburglar, hasn’t he done any jail time yet?  Aren’t Ronald and others aiding and abetting a criminal?  That’s a felony.

People always say that red meat can cause cancer.  I’m pretty sure that was started by the seafood industry, Big Fish.  After all, what’s the zodiac symbol for Cancer?  A crab.  Sure, let’s just blame beef for everything.  When are scientists going to start paying attention to that truly scientifically sound science, astrology?

Whenever I hear someone say “conversate,” Noah Webster sends me a text message, saying that he’s just turned over again.

Putting missing kids on the back of milk cartons…When is the last time you heard of a 7-year-old kidnapping another 7-year-old?  The photos should go on things that adults drink from like beer mugs, cans, and other containers that hold flammable drinks, etc.

I wonder how many times a day Tom of MySpace updates his Facebook status.

I’m pretty good at being humble.

I noticed while watching the National Spelling Bee that several of the contestants’ names were unpronounceable. 

When I was a kid, I realized that several nursery rhymes and fairy tales were pretty bad.  Some featured cannibalism (Hansel and Gretel), murder and poisoning (Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs), child neglect (Cinderella), and even breaking and entering (Goldilocks and the Three Bears), just to name a few.  But when animals eat other animals, that’s just plain crazy.  “This little piggy ate roast beef?”  If I see a pig in coveralls eating roast beef, I’m slapping it out of its hand.  That fat carnivorous bastard.  I don’t even want to know what “the dish ran away with the spoon” means.

ATMs aren’t different.  How many times have you been standing in line behind someone who has apparently forgotten or is unfamiliar with using an ATM/card swiper?  Um…it’s not like that one is vastly different from the other one that person used earlier in the day.  How hard is it to swipe a card, or choose debit or credit?  Here’s a thought: Go to the bank, withdrawal all of your money, and give it to me.  Since you don’t know what to do with your bank account, I’ll figure out what to do with it.  If you take any longer to swipe your card, everyone in line is going to take your canned goods and pelt you with them.

Kid leashes.  Why stop there, parents?  Build a dog house for your little one.  Don’t forget to take him to the vet.  But if you’re gonna treat your kid like that, then maybe you should be the one spayed or neutered.

Speaking of animals, long ago I used to think that when an animal was spayed, the operation was performed with a spade–hence the name.  But I believe that’s wrong.

If you don’t do jack at your job, then you shouldn’t qualify for a day off.  Point blank.

A friend of mine recently visited Hawaii.  He said that the luaus he attended had nothing but comfort food.  Comfort food?  Why is there comfort food in Hawaii?  Who the hell is sad in Hawaii?  Everyone I know who goes to Hawaii comes back smiling and dancing and happy as a lark.  I must investigate.

Concerned Curmudgeon says, “If you’re happy and you know it, keep it to yourself.  Not interested.”

If a knock-kneed person and a bowlegged person have a child together, will that kid’s legs be straight?

Two nights ago, I saw a roach orgy on and around a half-eaten Snickers bar in the street. Today, someone told me that I should’ve recorded it. I don’t think there’s a market for sweet milk chocolate roach porn.

I bought a toothbrush the other day.  On the packaging, it read “Contains 1 toothbrush.”  Thanks for pointing that out, toothbrush manufacturers.  I was confused.  Looked like a 12-pack of toothbrushes for a second there.

Why is it that whenever I go to a health-food store, 70% of the people there look unhealthy?  Seriously, many of them look like they’ll collapse before they get to the shopping baskets.  If being “healthy” means looking sickly and weak, then I shall be a fat, glutinous hippopotamus.  Eat something, people!

“Gesundtheit” means “shut up” in English.

Weirdest flight delay ever: no water on the plane. A 5 and a half hour flight with no water, Which would have meant no coffee, no toilet flushing, no washing hands, etc.  This tops extra planes on the runway in ATL, hungover pilots on Southwest in Tampa, and a communication failure with the tower in Miami.  Even the mumbling, diabetic dude with muscle spasms, who was chanting “I’ll kill you” on a Greyhound bus back in 2004.

Bought some movie tickets online and got hit with a $2.00 convenience charge. What’s convenient about charging me more for movie tickets that I decided to buy online to reduce the congestion of the theater’s ticket lines?  Movie theater, you’re lucky I even choose you.  There’s about 4 million of you in this city.  In fact, theaters should pay us a convenience fee for going to their theaters in the first place.  I want my convenience fees in unmarked bills.

——

There’s a war going on, people, and you might not be aware of it.  A daily war.  It’s brutal.  It’s nasty.  It’s ugly.  The crazy people on the bus are trying to take over your sanity, bring you over to their side of the aisle, and make you one of them.  There are many like me who are on the frontlines.  Every day.  Fighting for ourselves, the people we love and care for, and even those of you we don’t know.  Recently, I’ve kept a record of the covert transmissions and communications between fellow soldiers and myself.  Although, the vast majority of these correspondences are highly classified, I have been granted special permission to share with the public–to give you all a sense of what we’re up against.  The “Metro Tales” texts are from me, while the other ones were sent to me from other field operatives.  The following identities have been protected for the sake of their ongoing missions and the privacy of their families:

“Metro Tales” text #183: “Lady sitting in front of me smells like a wintertime Easter egg, has on a bucket fishing hat that may actually have fish in it, and a magnifying glass that she’s using to inspect what looks like the purity of her bottled water.”

“Metro Tales” text #2722W: “There is a man on this Hollywood bus who is rubbing baby powder all over his face.”

Incoming text #031: “A man just got on the bus with thorns tattooed across his forehead and tears tattooed under  his eyes. I guess he thinks he is Jesus…Today is a crazy day. Another guy just asked if snacks were served on the bus.”

Incoming text #29m7: “Hey, I think one of ur people is sitting right in front of me in her pajamas, a neon headband and a puffy jacket…she just said that she carries a lot of stuff because people have been tried to stab her and she was murdered one time. Really lady? You were murdered?”

“Metro Tales” text #33996: “Standing in front of woman on the bus who is touching the pole with a napkin. Every time someone comes by her, she makes a face of disgust and disdain. Hmmm. If you’re that turned off by other people, then maybe you should get the hell off the PUBLIC bus.”

“Metro Tales” text #4UQ: “Just saw a man at the stoplight licking his hand like a cat.”

“Metro Tales” text #919: “This woman has on a deep purple shirt, periwinkle pants, violet shoes, a green turquoise head wrap, and is carrying a magenta bag.  She won’t let anyone sit down.  Keeps using her seat as a back scratcher.  She scares me.”

“Metro Tales” text #7877: “At a bus stop, some random dude told me that he was gonna tell me a joke, and if I laughed, I should give him $4.  First of all, I can pay $10 or $20 at some comedy club and see SEVERAL comedians deliver SEVERAL jokes.  Sir, your one joke is grossly overpriced.  Your joke better be the funniest thing ever created, or…forget it.  Never mind.  I’m done.  Hungry.”

——-

I wish that someone would think outside the box and come up with a saying other than “think outside the box.”

I love going to my friend’s church. The girls hardly wear anything there.

Women like things delivered to the office, like flowers on Valentine’s Day, especially if there are other women around to witness.  Guys aren’t the same.  The only thing we want delivered to the office is our W-2s.

You should not be taking the elevator up one floor unless you’re someone who’s allergic to stairs, a baby, a custodian with a cart of supplies, an elevator repairman, a disabled person, Jack Bauer and you don’t want to waste part of your 24 hours in a stairwell, Santa Claus taking a badly needed shortcut for once, or a Slinky that’s tired of stairs, period.

Dog owners who just stand there and let their dogs bark and growl at each other are usually the same people who try to convince me that their dogs don’t bite and aren’t aggressive.

A friend of mine said that some guy ran across 3 lanes of traffic to get her number.  She didn’t give it to him.  Now, ladies, if a man dashes across multiple lanes of busy traffic to get your number, risking his life and the lives of other motorists, it is required by law that you relinquish a number to that man.  That man is owed something.  It doesn’t even have to be your phone number.  It could be any number.  Give him 911, 409, 1492, or something.  Anything.

When I’m at the bathroom urinal, what makes you think that I want to hold a conversation with you?  The close proximity of our genitalia doesn’t automatically warrant any small talk, chit chat, etc.  I ain’t thinking about the weather, the game last night, the new girl in Finance, or anything.  In fact, when I’m pissing, I’m just listening to the sound of my own high-pressurized pee slam up against handcrafted porcelain.  The sound of serenity.  Why do you have to mess that up?

He or she who heats up fish in the office shall be thrown into the sea with the rest of them.

As I walked through the bus aisle one night, I noticed there was a large man in the middle seat in the back.  He was staring straight ahead.  This wouldn’t have been anything out of the ordinary had he not been grinning from ear to ear.  Odd, I thought. Based on my past experiences, I knew that something wasn’t quite right with this guy, especially since we were on the bus.  Uh oh.  He then shook himself out of his frozen state and began looking at the other passengers.  The #1 rule when dealing with the crazy bus riders is to avoid eye contact.  So I pretended as if he was a solar eclipse and kept my head down.  However, I did notice one thing.  The man had his pants down around his ankles, and he was just sitting in his tidy whities.  Disgusted and ashamed to be a member of the human race, I climbed into my coat pocket and hid until the rescue team found me.

A calm night.  A calm breeze.  The only sound was the low rumble of the engines of a few passing cars.  Like any other heavy traffic of random thoughts and ideas that roll around in my head.  In a momentary lapse of concentration, I peered at a shadowy figure across the street.  The shadowy figure looked back at me.  Oh no.  I had inadvertently made eye contact with a local crazy man.  Stepping out of the darkness, he must have seen my unfortunate fleeting glance as an alpha-male challenge to his dominance and ownership of S. La Brea Avenue.  So, that’s when I changed my pace from a stroll to a trot.  Although it is widely known that I am one of the world’s slowest walkers and that comparing my speed to the swift acceleration of the no-longer shadowy figure isn’t really saying much, I must say that he crossed the street in the blink of an eye.  Having picked up my speed again, I mentally and physically prepared myself for combat.  But since beating up a vagrant isn’t really cool, I told myself that if he touched me for any reason, I would turn around, plant my fist in his nose, and walk away.  By this time, he was only a few feet behind me.  Suddenly, I heard a series of “hunhs” and “hees.”  Completely lost and bewildered, I noticed something in the corner of my eye and looked down to the side.  The man behind me was going off, unleashing a flurry of punches at my elongated shadow from the towering streetlamps.  “Hee, hunh, hee, hunh, hee, hunh,” he bellowed out with each punch.  I eventually made a right, taking my shadow with me.  He looked disappointed and kept walking south on La Brea.  My shadow sustained a minor concussion and several bruises to its back.  Every so often, I’ll see that man.  He still looks at me with his floating eye.  He even says hello sometimes.  But I don’t pay it any attention.  He won’t catch me with my guard down.  I know he’s waiting.  Waiting patiently for the sun to drop below the horizon.  For the streetlamps to illuminate the paths of the tar serpents, which twist and turn throughout the city.  For the shadows to take their perpendicular positions to the persons they follow until the sun awakens, furious because it missed the fight of the night.  Oh yeah, shifty eye.  It’s me and you.  Our shadows fight tonight.  Ding!  Ding!  Round 2.  Bring it on, nocturnal pugilist.

“Great thieves don’t steal: they embezzle.  Great liars don’t lie; they embellish.  Great drunks don’t drink; we imbibe.” –Me

My face at rest looks like I’m frowning.  Sometimes when I’m sleepy, my eyes get watery, so it looks like I’m crying.  People must think I’m bipolar.

This older black man on the bus was trying to school the bus driver.  He said that black people are dark-skinned because the equator runs through the heart of Africa…and that black people come from the sun.

Text message from a fellow bus rider: “Save me, D. I’m sitting next to a woman that’s yelling at someone in her shirt.”

Went to a Chinese restaurant that had Mexican place mats on the tables.  There was a map of Mexico on them, instead of the typical Chinese zodiac.  I wanted to order a wonton enchilada or tostada egg drop soup, but I would have been completely outnumbered by the employees, potentially leading to a bizzaro-world, Rush Hour-like scene in which 500 Jackie Chans dogpile Chris Tucker.

Every time I see a man who is a handyman on TV, he’s wearing a plaid flannel shirt.  If plaid flannel is the fabric of the blue-collar, working man, then I guess it only works for some people.  If anything, plaid flannel is the fabric of the unemployed.  Countless homeless people sport plaid flannel.  Hire a migrant worker or a day laborer.  There’s a 190% chance that he’ll be wearing plaid flannel.  Hell, I’ve even lost a job WHILE WEARING a plaid flannel shirt.  Country singers croon about losing jobs, spouses, dogs, and teeth all the time, and they come out of the womb wearing plaid flannel.  So the next time you want something to stop working, throw some plaid flannel on it.  Car alarm won’t shut off?  Throw some plaid flannel on it.  Coworker making you look bad because he shows up early and leaves late?  Hit that bastard with a flannel blanket quickly!  He gotsta go.  Baby won’t stop crying?  Slip some plaid flannel pajamas on that little siren and say goodnight!

When entering a restroom, why will some people insist on yelling, “It smells like shite in here.”???  Of course, it does.  You’re in the restroom.  Where’d you think you were?  In a bowl of potpourri?  Wrong bowl, jackass.  Matter of fact, just dip your head in that other bowl and flush it until you stop moving.  Human gene pool – 1, You – 0. 

In the movies, when a man and woman are running for their lives and they’re holding hands, what sense does that make?  That’s just going to slow them down.  You don’t see sprinters holding hands as they run the 100m dash.  Next time, I want to see the guy and the girl drop each other’s hands and just go all out.  Every woman and man for herself and himself.  That’ll make it harder for the blast from the explosion; the giant, genetically altered, mountain lion; or the evil mastermind to get them.  Never mind.  Those two should hold hands.  That movie sounds really bad.  Maybe if they hold hands and get caught/killed, then the movie will end sooner.  We all want that.

Yahoo recently underwent a facelift.  The “new” Yahoo is supposed to be more personalized–more for the customer, more for you.  But how can you get more personalized than the already personalized “My Yahoo!”?  Maybe it should just be named “You!”  Or “This is yours now.  Take it!  We Yahoo employees don’t want to work here anymore, anyway.  We’re all on Google now.”

Man 1: All US male citizens must register with Selective Service upon turning 18.
Man 2: Really?
Man 1: Yeah, it’s the law.
Man 2: Well, I select not to serve.

You know you live in a safe neighborhood when you see a white girl jogging alone late at night WHILE wearing sunglasses.

Why is it that you can have a perfectly normal conversation with someone, but the instant that person spits out his or her phone number for you to write down, that person speeds through the phone number?

A friend of mine took a picture with a pimp and a prostitute.  One day, I’ll tell her the pros and cons of hanging out with pros and cons.

I saw a guy on the bus with a UFO shirt and a 3-foot sword wrapped in aluminum foil. 

In the average American household, more arguments take place in the kitchen than any other room in the house.  From that fact, I extrapolate that the kitchen is also where most marital poisonings occurs–which is why if I get married, I’m ordering take-out.  Every night.  Forever.

Americans spend 6 months of their lives waiting for greens lights in traffic.  I’m sure they also spend another 10 months slowing down to look at car accidents and another 18 months finishing up those text messages in traffic after the light’s already turned green.

People who talk on their phones in a library should face a firing squad.  Only the firing squad should throw thick dictionaries and reference books at them.  “Here’s the L volume.  Look up ‘loudmouth,’ you ass!”

The last time I got glasses, I got some Transitions lenses.  You know, the ones that are supposed to get darker when you’re outside in sunlight.  It was unseasonably hot that day, so I had on a pair of basketball shorts.  After receiving the glasses, I walked outside, in a hurry to get back to work.  It didn’t take long for me to notice that only the left lens was actually working.  The right one was as clear as day.  I had been walking down one of the busiest streets in the city, looking like a retarded pirate volleyball coach.

Depressing quote of the day: “Lives don’t change.  We simply become more comfortable with our core misery, which is a form of happiness.”  –Some character from the HBO series “Bored to Death”

Dating Tip #3: Do not put words in a dude’s mouth.  We don’t like that.  It leaves less space for our feet to fit.

Following Beyonce’s advice, I decided to put a ring on stuff I like–strawberry pancakes, bowling alleys, Komodo dragons, etc.  This is getting expensive.

I can’t sleep.  That self-inflicted sleeper hold didn’t do the trick.

I wish those silent hybrid cars would start having noisy engines because I’m tired of almost getting run over by them.

Genius planning: There’s a correctional facility in Miami that’s only a few blocks from an airport, a major street, a river, and a railroad track.

Ok, I’m going to settle this issue, once and for all.  Ladies, if I’m wearing clothes and you’re standing next to me–naked, then I’m not the strange one for looking.  Your breasts and ass are hanging out.  Everyone else here is dressed.  I understand that it’s a free country, and you can wear whatever you want, but if you do decide to wear something that’s gonna make people automatically throw dollar bills at you, then don’t blame us.  Holy rollers shouldn’t be mad at you, though.  You look like you stepped out of the Book of Genesis.  What’s wrong with you?  We’re all waiting on the bus that goes to Gardena.  You’re at the wrong stop.  The Garden of Eden stop is over there.

I’m convinced that spiders all over the world have declared war against me.  For my entire life, I’ve had a propensity to walk straight through cobwebs, at least two a week.  Soon, they’ll join forces, make a web the size of South Dakota, trap me, and feed me to their young.  Black Flag’s waving the white flag, Raid ain’t gonna do the trick, and the Orkin Man is on vacation and he’s not returning my calls.  I’m screwed. 

Recently, I saw a sign on the road that read “Watch Slowing Traffic Ahead.”  However, it was positioned on the side of the road.  So, if you’re reading that sign, you aren’t watching the slowing traffic that’s AHEAD of you, right?  CRAAAAAASH!

In alien/sci-fi movies, why do people point up at the sky when they see a spaceship?  Everyone else in the movie is looking up anyway.  Can spaceships come from some other direction? 

Sharp quote of the day: “42.7% of all statistics are made up on the spot.”  –Steven Wright

Why do girls preface what they’re about to say with words like, “I don’t want to freak you out, but…”, and then say something that completely freaks you out?

The African cheetah is on the endangered species list.  Say what?  How is the fastest living thing on the planet endangered?  Who or what is that fast?  Bullets?  Yes.  Oh.  OK.  Guess I answered my own question.  Well, why isn’t something else that needs to be endangered in danger, like douchebags at clubs, Smart cars, politicians, douchebags at shops, douchebags at work, etc.

The other day, a friend of mine said, “The back of my back hurts.”………………………….We still love him anyway.

I almost bought a book on sale called “501 Books You Must Read,” but then I stopped myself.  There’s something strange about buying a book that insists and recommends that you buy 501 OTHER books.

I’ve heard about this “free market” that we’re supposed to enjoy in this country.  It’s all nonsense to me.  I tried to take a cart full of groceries out of the grocery store last Sunday.  The cops told me that I should have paid for it.  See what I mean?

Not too long ago, I saw a movie in 3-D.  I had a pretty hard time keeping the 3-D glasses on my face, since I had to wear them on the bridge of my nose.  Uncomfortable.  Having 2 pairs of glasses on your face is like piloting a plane that happens to be inside a much larger plane.  They don’t make 3-D glasses for folks who actually wear glasses.  I wonder why that is.  Are the manufacturers of 3-D glasses afraid that we, the bespectacled, with the combined powers of our existing glasses and the 3-D glasses, will see everything in incomprehensible 6-D?  8-D?  10-D, maybe?  If I saw things in 10-D, I wouldn’t even watch movies anymore.  10-D must be distracting.  Like looking at an animated, gaudy Ed Hardy or Affliction shirt.  Can you say epilepsy?

My phone sent me a text message the other day, saying, “Pay your bill, dumbass.  They’re gonna shut me off.  From, Your phone.”

Ever look up and just see a stranger staring dead at you?  As I type this, there is a shifty eyed dude looking at me from across the bus aisle.  Why are you looking at me, shifty eyed dude?  Shifty eyed dude, what if I looked at you?  Would that make you uncomfortable, like you’re making me?  Is it money you want, shifty eyed dude?  If so, I don’t have any to give you.  You’re out of damn luck.  Your shifty eyes are freakin’ me out.  I’m gonna close my eyes now.  That may make things better.  I won’t see you then.  Here goes…..Ahhhh!  You’re still looking at me!  Alright, I give up.  Let’s get it over with.  Just don’t hurt me too bad, shifty eyed dude.

Half salad lovers, what’s the point?  A whole salad has something like what…zero calories, any-damn-way!  You want to eat half of zero?  Might as well eat the full salad, people.  I’m not talking about a huge salad bowl that anyone would split.  I’m talking about a regular sized one.  You can eat that.  Man up.  Oh, you’re not a man.  My bad.  Woman up then. 

For a time, I thought that all Hispanic kids were named Mira (pronounced mee-da, meaning “look here”). 

Why is infidelity called cheating?  Cheating, in sports and games, gives the cheater an unfair advantage over the opponent, making it easier for the cheater to win the prize, game, title, etc.  What would be the prize in a marriage?  It sounds as if the person who’s being cheated on may wish to be the cheater to gain the upper hand.  Are extramarital affairs the “prizes” in a marriage?  No need to respond.  I just like seeing some of y’all squirm.

Pinocchio’s conscience was Jiminy Cricket.  Maybe everyone’s conscience should be an insect.  Crickets are good because they can sing in your ear when you’re about to get into trouble.  I would prefer a mosquito.  Phineas Mortimer Mosquito.  That way, whenever I hear my conscience buzzing in my ear, I can turn quickly, catch it in my hands, and kill it.

Sign that you’re still a loser: When the girl of your dreams rejects you–in your dreams.

NFL analysts and commentators have got to stop saying ridiculous stuff, like “You have to play better that than if you want to leave your mark here in the National Football League.  The National Football League has…”  Stop saying National Football League!  Saying NFL is fine.  You guys saying the full name EVERY time you open your mouth is making me want to pull out my eyebrows.  Please refrain from saying National Football League 40 times in 3 sentences.  The game’s already 3 hours.  We don’t need to hear an additional hour of you yakking out something that you could say in 3 letters.  O.K.?  Thx. 

There’s a charity called EDAR, short for Everyone Deserves A Roof.  It supplies the homeless with compact mobile units for shelter.  According to its website, “Each EDAR is a four-wheeled mobile unit which carries belongings and facilitates recycling during the day and which unfolds into a special, framed tent-like sleeping enclosure with a bed at night.”  I think it’s a great idea and want to sponsor one.  My only question is what happens when one of these mobile units go mobile at night?  Some jokester could move someone’s EDAR to the other side of town, maybe with him still in it.  If a guy goes to sleep on Spring Street and then wakes up on Figueroa Street in the morning, then that could be a problem.  He won’t be able to get his mail. 

Who is Chu?  I’ve been hearing this person’s name for years, and you have too.  Yeah, you have.  So many artists sing about “chu” in just about all of their songs.  Chu is you.  When you hear lyrics like “I’m so in love wit’ chu,” “Every word in this song’s gonna be about chu,” or “I want to spend the rest of my life witchu,” you realize that the beginning sound of “you” blends in with the ending sound of the previous word often.  So now I can stop learning Chinese and harassing Chu families all over the globe.

Two minutes before the final stop on my bus, a woman and I were assailed by at least 5 roaches.  Some of them even flew at us.  120 seconds of chaos.  I figure they’re teaming up with the spiders.

No one likes Monday.  Every Monday, I challenge Monday to fight me at 3:15 behind the school, near the oak tree.
 
Why do more criminals wear ski masks than skiers?  Ski masks should be renamed robbery masks, terrorism masks, etc.

Let the term “cowhide” be a reminder to cows to hide.

Some old dude was just sitting down on the bus.  Suddenly, he jumped up and started doing pull-ups on the moving bus.  Too bad he needed something to pull up his pants, for as he pulled up, his trousers slid down–and I had a front-row seat for all of this.  Saggy, old man ass in your face at 8:15 in the morning is not the way to start any day.

***

I can’t take credit for the next two.  Saw them online somewhere:

Never argue with a fool.  He will bring you down to his level, and use his experience to beat you.

KID: Why is it raining?
GUY: God’s crying.
KID: Why is God crying?
GUY: I don’t know.  Maybe it’s something that you did.

***

Why most black men don’t have time to abduct you and your children and take you to Disneyworld.

Not too long ago, a woman in Pennsylvania claimed that 2 black men abducted her and her little daughter.  It set off a nationwide manhunt.  Come to find out she had secretly taken her daughter to Disneyworld and didn’t want her husband to find out.
Last year, another woman from PA said a black man mugged her, saw that she had a McCain bumper sticker on her car, and then inexplicably scratched the letter “B” into her forehead.  In the end, this woman admitted that she had made the whole thing up.  And we all remember when Susan Smith said a black dude kidnapped her children; she had really put them in a car and sent it into a lake, drowning her two boys.  Therefore, I’m going to take a few seconds to explain why most brothas ain’t trying to abduct you and your children from your home, Disneyworld, or anywhere else.

A)  Black men don’t WANT your children.  We just don’t.  Some of us have children of our own.  And some of us don’t even want them.  Just like men of all ethnicities.  We just want our occasional space.  Our remote controls, our food, and our beer.  That’s pretty stereotypical, but it has some truth to it.  Your children aren’t special.  Why only take your children?  Children are children.  People abduct chicken children every day and eat them in omelettes.  You don’t see hens picketing in front of the Supreme Court clucking and getting pissed because we keep taking their kids.  Do you?  

B)  Black men don’t NEED to abduct you and your children.  That would only give the police more reason to harass us, nightstick us up, and as Dave Chappelle says, “sprinkle crack” on us.  There is no benefit economically, socially, or any other kind of word that ends in -ly from kidnapping a white American family.  A black man could kidnap the baby Jesus from the manger and would have less people hunting him down than if he kidnapped Debbie from Wichita.  We’re not that suicidal.  Well, some of us do like danger.  Some of us just want to hang around to see if tomorrow is going to be any more messed up than today was.  Phew!  Because yesterday was baaaaaad. 

C)  Black men have no interest in Disneyworld.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  Many of us have been there.  Been on the rides and all of that.  But for the rest of us, Disneyworld just ain’t the place to be.  Mickey Mouse is a black mouse with white gloves and shoes.  He reminds us of blackface performer Al Jolson from “The Jazz Singer.”  Pluto and Goofy are reminiscent of the police dogs that were sic’d upon crowds of black marchers and activists in the 1960s.  Haha!  I know I’m stretching it.  But I’ll still take my chances at Busch Gardens.  And people wonder why I stay on the bumper cars the entire day.  That’s my alibi, in case I get accused of taking some kiddies.  I’ve got at least 30 witnesses for every second of the day.  Beat that.  At least, I hope they’ve got my back.    

***

Is it just me or does anyone else notice that country singers don’t come from the country anymore?

There’s a company called Andy Gump, which manufactures porta-potties.  Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to name the company Andy Dump?

***

Excerpt from a conversation:

She:  I’ve decided to look for a rich husband.  Ta-da!
Me:  Haaaaaaaa!
Me:  You should become independently wealthy, too.
She:  That will happen when he dies.

***

Why do you need beauty sleep when you’re still ugly when you’re awake?

Saw a woman at the bus stop yelling and screaming–in a Russian/Slavic-sounding accent–at something invisible.  Then, when she got on the bus, she put on her glasses and asked the bus driver for directions, while speaking in a British accent.  Now, I’m down with Obama, Tiger, Vin, Rosario, and Moon Bloodgood, but maybe some people, like that woman, are taking this multicultural thing has too far.

I find it ironic that in Century City (which is part of metropolitan LA), at the intersection of Constellation Boulevard and Avenue of the Stars, you can look up in the night sky and–because of the smog–not see any stars or constellations.

Placing car insurance ads on the inside of a public transportation bus makes no sense to me…neither does having a Burger King and a McDonald’s in a hospital.

One’s reason for not joining the army:  “I can’t be all that I can be if I’m not around to just be.  If I get shot, then I won’t be anything.”

Am I the only one that finds it ironic that Perez Hilton got a black eye from an associate of the Black Eyed Peas?

The term “extramarital affair” needs to be reevaluated.  To call an affair extramarital is to assume that one’s having sex in his or her marriage.  If sex outside of the marriage does occur, it should be called something fairly random, like “fishing” or “tap dancing,” or the more direct “I’ve decided how I want to perish and my spouse will probably take me life” affair.  And what’s fair about an affair?  OK.  I’ll quit while I’m ahead.

No, I won’t.  The word “marital” is dangerously close to the word “martial.”  Marital means “relating to a marriage,” while martial means “warlike.”  Love IS war, right?  So who’s winning?

The other night, on the bus, in the middle of a homeless woman’s frightening rendition of Beyonce’s “If I Were a Boy,” a cell phone rang.  The homeless woman reached into her coat pocket, pulled out a gold, sparkly cell phone, and answered it.  “Hah-lo!”  Utter shock spread throughout the bus.  It was so jarring and confusing that the homeless man sitting near me, looked at me, and asked, “What am I doing wrong?”

If you’re a man walking a dog so small and cute that it could fit in your pocket, then you need to get a new dog. Either that or the dog gets a new owner. The only way to reclaim your manhood is to get a dog that can eat a man.  A big dog.  A big hungry one.

Sometimes, folks preface statements with phrases like “Well, I’m not a (insert occupation) but…” and then proceed to give out advice pertaining to the very career field that they said they were not a part of.  You’ve heard it before.  “I’m not a nutritionist, but I would probably eat no less than 2841 calories a day because…blah, blah, blah.”  And “I’m not a physician, but I would advise…”  Hey Wanna-be-whatever-you’re-nots!  I’ve got some advice for you.  I’m not a person who gives a piss, but even if I did, I’d still tell you stop pulling advice out of your sphincter, and watch me go and ask a professional.

Speaking of professionals, these so-called expert psychologists/psychiatrists on all of these talk shows, who get paid to spit out common sense, are ridiculous.  For the typical abusive relationship or cheating scenario, they always say the same thing–the same thing that anyone would say–“She should to leave him.”  Oh really, genius?  They actually pay you to come up with that?  I see you’re wearing shoes.  Did you put them on and tie them up by yourself, too?  Talk shows should just hire everyday Jacks and Janes to sit on the panel and give out advice.  They could hire the old men from the barber shop, the ladies from the beauty shop, and the drunk dude in front of that grocery store on Western Ave.  They’re smarter than those shrinks by a long shot.  Plus, it would be cheaper.  Give Pops a pack of squares and he’ll be good to go.

Starbucks customer:  “I want a strawberry-mango-banana shake, with no mango, no banana, and no milk.”
Barista:  “So…you want a strawberry.”
Starbucks customer:  “Ehhh…uhh…what?”

Recently, a store greeter said to me as I walked inside, “We have a big sale going on.  The more you buy, the more you save.”  Umm…not really.  If I spend nothing, then I’ll save even more than I would have if I bought something now, wouldn’t I?!  What’s wrong with you, store-greeter lady person?  You can’t go around lying to people like that.  That’s basic math.  No one’s going to fall for that.  (Momentary silence.)  How much is that shirt over there?

Occasionally, most of the time, I love women 100% of the time.  They put up with me 35% of the time.  The other 65% of the time, they’re trying to remember who I am and/or calling the Disneyland police.

Here in Southern California, the word “awesome” is the most overused word in the English language.  Awesome is used in just about every situation that one can imagine.  The only word that comes close to its usage frequency is “smurf” from the Smurfs cartoon.  To the Smurfs, everything was “smurf,” “smurfy,” or “smurfing.”  It’s come to the point where I want to run into the wild and live with coyotes for the next 20 years.  After that, I’ll resurface, and by then, I will have forgotten what the word “awesome” sounds like.  My dislike for this word goes back to my childhood in the late 80s, when kids in school could say nothing else but “radical” and “awesome.”  Now I find myself here in Awesome’s territory–enemy territory.  Throwing thesauruses at folks ain’t really working.  Been fighting this losing battle for some time now.  Unawesome.    

Why is it that some people want you to try their cooking and the first thing to come out of their mouths is, “How’d you like it?”  That’s the wrong way to ask that.  My answer may be, “I didn’t,” or “I didn’t like that hog feed you call food.”  I may not like it.  “What do you think?” is a better way to ask.  Suppose if someone dropped by your spot for dinner, ate all of your food, commandeered your TV remote, and was extremely obnoxious.  Would it be wise of him or her to ask you, “How did you enjoy my company?”

I got on a late-night bus.  After I paid the fare, I turned to find a seat.  Standing right in front of me was none other than Jesus.  Or at least a man dressed like Jesus.  Robe, beard, and sandals.  After he let me pass, I sat down.  Who knew that the bus to Heaven went through squalid ass Hollywood?  I remembered that I saw him before in Mann’s Chinese Theater.  He walked down the aisles in a way that made him look like he was floating.  Apparently, he was on his way to turning water into wine.  He got off the bus near a liquor store.

Last week, some friends and I saw a church named Bible Baptist Church.  C’mon, B.B.C., I think we get it.  Imagine that?  A Baptist church with bibles in it.  I bet y’all have a sign in the closet that reads, “Summer Bible School’s Bible study here at Bible Baptist Church.”  I’m pretty sure that Liquor Store Jesus brainstormed that one up.

Certain pedestrians believe they own the street, strolling out in front of speeding bullets from Ford, Honda, and BMW.  Pedestrians have the right-of-way, but car drivers can do what they want.  My right-of-way can’t stop a zooming 2-ton hunk of metal on wheels.  In fact, some brazen pedestrians have let their right-of-way mindset send them to the hospital, right away.  But, I salute you bold walkers of city streets.  I’m not on your level yet.  I can’t cross a park lawn without a kid running into me with a scooter or tricycle.  Baby steps, people.  Baby steps.

Recently, a man died when he fell into a vat of chocolate at a chocolate factory.  Although, this isn’t a humorous moment for his family, the following comment made by a friend of mine warrants to be placed in the hall of fame of sick humor:
Someone stops eating chocolate candy and says, “Whoa!  That’s not the crunchy peanut center I was expecting.”

I love it when you’re having a phone conversation, and the person on the other end can’t hear you clearly and asks you to “speak into the phone.”  Oh, my bad.  How stupid of me!  My phone is 12 miles away.  Please hold on while I go across town and retrieve my phone, since you can’t hear me.  OK?  One second.  (footsteps)  Ok, I’m back.  Maybe if I try putting this phone near my ear and mouth, you’ll be able to hear me.  There.  Now, is that better?  How do I sound?  Clearer?  Good.  OK, I’ve got to tell you something.  Ready?  Ok, here goes.  OF COURSE, I WAS SPEAKING INTO THE PHONE!  What sense does that make?  You think I was sitting on it?  Maybe I was talking to you while the phone was in my pocket?  Boy, am I dumb!  I wonder what’ll happen if I take this phone battery ou–

Have you ever heard someone with an accent so thick that it sounded like that person was choking on English?

I got on the bus recently.  Three minutes later, an evil odor tapped me on the shoulder.  Not good.  There was a man who smelled like human excrement, and another man who was throwing up on the bus.  Feces Fella was in the back, Vomit Guy was in the front, and the rest of us were caught in the middle.  It hurt.

Someone long ago decided for the rest of us that leather is supposed to make us look tough.  We see it all the time in movies depicting 1950s street gangs, and there’s always someone pushing a motorcycle while sportin’ a leather jacket.  Just once, I’d like to see someone on a chopper wearing flannel pajamas or a chinchilla mascot costume, flicking people off while flying through rush hour traffic on the Friday just before a holiday weekend.  Now that’s tough.

I saw a dumpster that had a sign on its rim, which read, “Maximum Loading Level.”  I guess it would be since anything over that amount would fall out.  Sort of redundant.  Imagine an 8-oz. glass with that same label on it.  Now imagine pouring 16 ounces of orange juice into it.  Hmmm.  Just an observation.

I’ve come to learn that any product that says it’s for oily skin is probably making a bogus claim.  They usually can’t do jack for my skin.  My face should be the litmus test for these products and involved in politics.  My face is so oily that Republicans are planning to do some offshore drilling off the coast of my nose.

There’s a brand of cigarettes called American Spirits.  Now, I’m not sure what its overall sales numbers are like, but it seems that giving your company a name that is even remotely resemblant of the afterlife when you’re already in an industry that’s constantly on the defense against an image/reputation of being responsible for millions of deaths would be a bad idea.  It’s obvious that the name American Spirits is supposed to conjure up mental imagery of Native Americans, but it just seems to fall short.  Parliament sounds regal.  Marlboro sounds rugged and adventurous.  Kool sounds…umm…cool.  Anything with “Spirits” in its title just sounds like death and morgues.  Damn.  I need a cigarette.

At the end of last month, I was caught behind someone in a Hummer who was attempting to parallel park.  I’m still waiting.

Not too long ago, I was hanging out at a friend’s party.  Everything was good.  The air was as crisp as the sound of the music thumping throughout the house.  Guffaws and chuckles mingled with the intoxicating scents of red wine and spanakopita.  I placed my drink down while rapping with my boy on the balcony about politics, movies, and snooty, snotty womenfolk.  I went inside the house for a few minutes.  Upon my return, I snatched my beverage and proceeded to imbibe it–only to quickly spit it back into the red Solo cup.  Apparently, I had confused my cup with the cup that was serving as the local watery ashtray.  Cigarette butt juice, for those who’re wondering, tastes exactly like it sounds.  The pairing of the words “butt” and “juice” alone should be enough to scare you stupid.  At the moment, my taste buds still aren’t speaking to me.  I think that relationship is done.  I’ll start looking for some new ones on Craigslist in the morning.

Once I saw a tow truck towing a tow truck.  Now, if I can just see a cop car with a boot on it, then life will be complete.

To date, every wedding that I’ve attended has resulted in either a divorce or a separation for each couple.  Apparently, the common denominator in all of these weddings is me.  Therefore, you might want to save an invitation.  And if you do, that’s fine.  But I have been known to crash a reception or two, especially if you’re serving food I like.  I’ll be the guy leading the toast–“Here’s to your marriage!”  I should start charging for my happy marriage-wrecking services.

Easter egg hunts were fun back in the day.  Running around trying to find artificially colored samples of Nature’s galline incubators was just too much fun for a little kid to contain.  But as that rugrat gets older, he/she realizes the necessity for some things to change with the times.  Never had that been more clear than the day I saw a 5- or 6-year-old boy, with no neck and probably outweighing me by 20 pounds, order his mom to buy him some “can’ny” (spoiled kid-speak for “candy”).  His mom tried to resist, but when her son commanded her again, she caved in.  Therefore, I propose that, from this moment on, spoiled, obese, mean children shall participate in no more Easter egg hunts, but shall partake in Easter Bunny/Rabbit hunts and/or Easter chicken hunts.  Forget looking for stationary, motionless eggs; it’s time these kids chase after something that moves–fast!  Rabbits and chickens are fitting since they’re both associated with the Easter season.  Rabbits and chickens are quick, have low centers of gravity, and can’t run in a straight line to save their lives, the last of which could develop a punk-ass kid’s dexterity and lateral movement.  Maybe even tie some sweets around Bugs Bunny’s ears or Foghorn Leghorn’s neck, and let the kids run until they pass out or suffer heatstrokes, whichever causes them to fall asleep first.  Hey, ya little varmints, you want some “can’ny”?  Well, you’re going to have to work for it.  Stop crying.  Suck it up like you do that Hi-C.

Two friends of mine, a Muslim and an atheist, have been known to, in times of high stress and adversity, yell out, “Jesus Christ!”  Yeah, I’m confused too.

I am thoroughly persuaded that gay men are the fastest walkers in the world.  By nature, I’m a slow walker.  I’ve been outwalked by the legless, people walking on their hands, and folks walking backwards in the opposite direction.  But over time, I have improved.  Constantly coming up with new ways to challenge myself and break my walking land speed records.  My most recent training activity is to race completely oblivious strangers at crosswalks, and I am proud to announce that, since November 2006, I am undefeated on the intersections of Wilshire and Normandie, and Third and Fairfax, along with some side streets in the San Fernando Valley and the South Bay.  Presently, there are only 2 types of individuals that can beat me: gay men and people that cheat and run across the street while the rest of us pedestrians walk, or my favorite self-coined verb, “pedest.”  Not exactly sure what it is, but a gay man will leave you in the dust like Usain Bolt tied to a rocket.  I’ve tried to just KEEP UP with one and failed miserably, while pulling both hamstrings in the process, getting shin splints, and igniting a fierce but containable fire between my thighs caused by the intense friction of both pant legs rubbing together.  I don’t care what you think or who you are; there is nothing  that can beat a gay man in a 100-meter walk dash.
 
When I was young, the first time I saw a Chinese restaurant advertising Hunan chicken, I had my glasses off and thought it said human chicken.  I was wrong.

For some reason, most of my life, I’ve been confused with some fellow named Derrick.  Or Derek.  Or Derrek.  People think that my name is Derrick.  I’m not sure what the problem is, but I’m not him.  I always get the whole “you look like a Derrick” thing.  Doesn’t matter where I am.  Work.  School.  Church.  Bathtub.  Inside.  Outside.  West Coast.  South.  Costco.  Oval Office.  Grand Ole Opry.  Brothel.  Wherever.  Does not matter.  I’m going to make it a lot easier for all of you.  Since everyone thinks my name is Derrick and, as of this month, there are almost 6.8 billion of you in the world versus one of me, I’ll just do the simple, reasonable thing and have my name legally changed…to Michael Jordan.  There’s a nice, quiet, and unassuming name.

Why am I the guy that all crazy people want to have a conversation with?  I can be anywhere and the craziest person in the room will come up to me and say something like, “Monkeys tiptoe on cotton candy meat,” and then proceed to yap at me.  There must be something about my face that makes them say, “You’re one of us.”

There’s a grocery store in Florida called Publix, as in Pub-licks.  When I first saw it, I pronounced it Pyoo-blicks.  I was corrected immediately by at least 45 friends and strangers.

Why do some people laugh at something and then, shortly after, say, “That’s funny.”  Really?  I couldn’t tell that it was funny to you.  You only LAUGHED at it.  Redundant.  You’re the type to wear suspenders and a belt; go to a funeral and say, “I think he’s dead”; or throw a lit match on a house fire.
 
While we’re on the topic of laughter, I hate when someone laughs his or her head off throughout a movie or TV show, and then when it’s over claims that he didn’t like the show.  Yes, you do!  Laughter is usually an indicator of positive/pleasurable emotion.  Stop frontin’.  Be proud of what you like.  Don’t be embarrassed if you love the worst reality show on TV.  You’re not losing anyone’s respect.  No one respects you anyway.

If we happen to go to the movies, please try really hard not to ask me if one or all of the characters are going to die, especially during a horror movie.  If you try really hard to refrain from asking me, then I’ll try really hard to refrain from drowning you in my big bucket-sized cup of sodie pop.  OK, let’s take a look.  Based on the history of horror films since the turn of the last century, someone will probably die in a horror movie.  Plus, impatient one, there’s a reason we paid for tickets, big tubs of popcorn, XL drinks, and some damn goobers and Raisinets.  Just watch the movie.

Without fail, like clockwork, every single time I go into a public restroom, I am always that guy who can’t seem to align his hands with the faucet sensor to get that steady stream of water flowing out.  If the fate of the world relied on my ability to get water out of those automated faucets, you’d all be trying to move to Venus.  One day, I’ll get it right.  Until then, you can find me outside with my hands held high, waiting for it to rain.
  
The dirtiest-looking person on the bus is always the one carrying a folded brown paper bag or newspaper.  You ask why?  So that they can place the paper on the seat and protect themselves from the filthiness of everyone else on the bus.  Ummm hmmmm.  Yeah.  Oh?  Really?  Really, Pigpen?  You’re the dirtiest person in town right now, yet you’re implying that we should take baths.  My eyes start burning when I look at you.  You’re a smog cloud with legs.  The pungent whiff of air that attacks me as you walk by makes me want to take my skin off with a cheese grater.  You make my glasses fog up on a clear day.  Why don’t you sit next to the lady with the surgical mask on?  You two will get along really well…

…Which brings me to my next subject–lonely ass cheeks.  Lonely ass cheeks in a seat, that is.  Not sure why this happens, but no one will sit next to me on the bus.  The bus could be overflowing with people and I’ll be the only one with a seat to himself.  Cripple old ladies rather stand in the aisle, holding onto the rail, getting bumped and tossed around the bus than take a seat near me.  Hmmm, I don’t know.  If I saw me on a bus, maybe I wouldn’t sit next to me, either.  Maybe they all know something that I don’t.  Maybe I’m really the dirtiest on the bus.  Somebody hand me a newspaper.

I’m never seen people react the same way to rain the way Angelenos do.  People here in LA are literally scared of the rain.  You would think that the monster from Cloverfield was in town by the way folks out here carry on about the rain.  People get all reckless when a drop of water’s on the street.  I’ve seen rainfall bring a grown man to tears because he left his umbrella in the car.  Toughen up, city of Angels.  Calm down.  It’s only rain.  Be thankful that you get it every now and then.  With all of these crazy fires popping up all over the place, I would think that you would invite some type of precipitation.  But if acid rain ever comes down on SoCal, I’ll be with the locals, screaming and crying, and looking for my umbrella.

Who came up with the phrase “getting your ass handed to you”?  Figure of speech, of course.  But since it means to be defeated or “getting shown who’s boss,” why would the ass, out of all body parts, be the part of choice?  Why not the head, chest, or ring finger?  Armpit, Achilles’ heel, or tailbone?  Also, if I’m the victor, why would I want my opponent’s ass as a trophy?  What’s does the loser get as a consolation prize?  It’s got to be worse than an ass, right?  I don’t even want to think about what that would be.  If I win anything, I’m handing no one’s ass to anyone.  That involves a few medical degrees and some surgical skills that I don’t possess.  Or need.
 
Old folks driving through store windows have got to stop.  Every year, I read about some 88-year-old man, who’s driving at 88 mph, plowing his Oldsmobile 88 into a store, post office, farmers’ market, or living room, smashing into 88 people at 8:08 AM.  When I see an octogenarian behind the wheel, I get behind something steel, like a fortress.  Or better yet, an airplane, you can’t run me over if I’m in the sky, bitches!  When I get to the age when it’s hard for me to see the road and my legs ache just from switching from the gas pedal to the brake, I’ll know that the time has come to leave the driving to someone else.  New law: If one-half of your age is still more than the speed limit, hand over your keys, please.  Don’t come to us; we’ll come to you.  When you see extremely elderly drivers coasting down the street, feel sorry for the birds.  That car will somehow be in a tree soon.  Forget DUIs and DWIs.  There should be DWAs, Driving While Ancient.  “Driving Miss Daisy” had TWO old folks in it.  I’m surprised that they didn’t run over every character in the movie.
 
There’s a local apartment building that has a “Welcome Visitors.  Park Here” sign.  Right next to it is another sign that reads, “Park At Your Own Risk.”  Nothing makes a visitor feel more welcome than a place that screams, “Hey you, nice having you here.  Uh, feel free to park in the lot, but a resident might jack your ride.  And, oh yeah, it would be your own fault.  Enjoy your visit.”

I once saw a pig chained to a tree in someone’s backyard.

I work in a green, eco-friendly, energy-efficient building that was constructed to withstand earthquakes.  Kinda funny working in a building designed to help save the planet–the very same planet that’s trying to kill you in an earthquake.

Restaurants: Please desist from calling your “soup of the day” the “soup of the day” if you have run out of that soup FOR the day.  Begin calling it “the potage formerly known as soup of the day, but not today since we don’t have it, but we’ll have it on this same day next week, so you can have it then…if you come back, which will actually make it the soup of next week today, unless we run out of it again on this day next week–damn, we need a bigger pot” soup.

Baguettes.  French bread.  Why does it have to be so hard?  I’m convinced that this bread is made in the same factory where bricks and cinder blocks are made.  Bread shouldn’t be hard.  I don’t feel like bleeding from the mouth every time I eat a sandwich.  I can’t eat a sub without an ambulance nearby.  The only way to get this bread soft and moist is to take it out to dinner, bring it back to the apartment, put on a Mint Condition or Spinners album, break out the champagne, and rub it down in some butter, and close the bedroom door.
 
 
Standing in line at a Quiznos, looking at the menu, trying to decide which sandwich to get.  A man comes up next to me.  He looks like he knows what he wants to order, so I back up and tell him that he can go ahead of me.  He turns to me and says, “Oh, you don’t know what you want?”  No, genius, I just like to stand here all day long on my favorite floor tile in the whole wide world.  Better yet, I’m a federal menu inspector.  I make sure that all menus adhere to the strict guidelines of Federal Code 01767, Section 43 of Title 898.

There is a woman that apparently was unsatisfied with her 34 FFF breast implants and decided to get 38 KKK implants, making her the Guinness world record holder for the largest breasts ever.  Now, I’m not a fan of fake boobs or the racist group, but if I had to pick between KKKs, I’d rather be down with the silicone and not the silly cone…heads.

   
If you see a guy filling his cup with a drink and then proceeds to put his cup under the ice dispenser, after the impending splatter and liquid mess soaks into his clothes and the floor, please smack him on the back of the head as hard as you can for me.  Thank you.

Let’s get it straight,
My confusion’s infinite like figure-8s,
Or the ongoing debate:
Less filling, tastes great.
I’m not a stalker
Even though every day, I hawk her.
She eludes me
Just like a baby in a walker.
My muse amusingly
Confuses me.
She is serious about remaining mysterious.
She knows I’ll always be curious,
Which keeps me furious
That I can’t seem to stop falling.
This interest of mine is sprawling
Again, not a stalker, just a follower,
Been told it’s my calling.
Watching her right now
And she just left Walgreens.
Passing a shifty mall cop,
She hops to the coffee shop
Not a fan of corporate giants,
She prefers smaller Mom and Pops.
She ordered a cafe mocha
To complement her essence.
Is there another chocolate lover in my presence?
She sits down, crosses her legs, takes a sip now
She lifts her brow, no scowl
Only a smile, no frown in its place
So pretty that she can’t make an ugly face.
I need to get closer and I’m a closer
No such thing as writer’s block.
It’s just a muse being antisocial.
Like a fire on a pire,
There’s a burning desire to be inspired,
so that the words don’t become liars.
So as the world stands still
and you hear the shrill of the till,
she smells better than steak on a grill.
Ha!  If looks could kill…
The showstopper rises from the table and cars crash,
Distracting all the drivers,
she tosses her cup in the trash.
Uh, I mean the recycling bin,
she’s not “environmentally rude.”
Then she spits, tucks, and adjusts
her crotch as if she were a damn dude–
What the ????

Uh oh.

Being that my eyes are now prime candidates for incineration,
I’m gonna need to find me another source of inspiration.
Another day in LA…

Is it just me or does the Los Angeles Metro rail system map look sort of like the female reproductive system?

I believe in freedom of speech. I think that rap/hip hop gets a bad rap from the media, religious organizations, parents, etc. But, I have to say that every so often, I do hear a song or a beat that inexplicably makes me want to jump up and punch someone in the face.

Coughing in the workplace is a scary thing, especially when it’s violent coughing. Maybe I watch too many movies, but I always think that that throat mucus is going to turn into green ectoplasm like Slimer from Ghostbusters, fly down the hallway, turn the corner, and slam into the side of my face.

Failed banks. Defunct banks should have to go through the same process that their customers with bad credit experience. When a failed bank is sitting in its cramped apartment watching TV and one of those credit counseling/repair commercials pop up, the bank should call that number. The bank should explain to the credit repair agent how it got laid off from work and how its job got shipped overseas. The bank’s FICA and credit scores should be in the toilet, too. I wanna be there the next time I see a bank try to get a loan from its customers. Wait a sec. We already did that, right?

Blood banks. Many of us donate blood. It’s a good thing to do. However, if you give too much blood at once, then you may start to feel weak and dizzy. So in order to counter that lethargy, they give you a cup of apple juice and/or a cookie for a sugar rush. I don’t want that. I didn’t know that I was going to feel like a saggy, soggy bowl of Crunch Berries. Give me my blood back. I was feeling fine before you took it out of me. Put it back in. Hold on! Make sure it’s mine first.

I saw a little kid wearing a shirt that had “I’m perfect” on it. He had his head raised in a cocksure manner and his chest puffed up like he was proud of something. Smiling hard, too. He couldn’t have been any older than 9 or 10. The conversation went like this:

Me: Hey, you know what?
Kid: What?
Me: If you remove the apostrophe and squeeze those letters together, then you know what you have?
Kid: What?
Me: The truth.
Kid: What does that mean?
Me: Means your parents have been lying to you all of your life and you’re really an ass like the rest of us. If I were you, I wouldn’t feel so special.

His eyes began to well up. My job here is done.

I know this is an election year, but politicians have got to stop using the same words and phrases in the debates, stump speeches, etc. Either the Democrats and Republicans have the same speech writers, or we should put the Bible aside and make the next president swear in on a thesaurus. I mean, the next time I hear a politician talk about the “fundamental difference” between him/her and another politician that cares more about “Wall Street” than “Main Street” while supporting “bailout/rescue plans,” “the American people” and I are going to “trickle down” on our “golden parachutes,” “surge” into the nation’s capital, grab our elected officials by the “earmarks,” and throw them into a huge slop trough of “pork barrel spending.”

Where did the phrase “make an honest woman out of her” come from? I know it means to marry a woman. But, is she dishonest now? If so, why would I want to marry her? And if she isn’t, why would she want to marry me? Or what if the guy’s dishonest? Can a dishonest man make a woman honest? Does his dishonesty cancel out his honest attempt to make her honest? Honestly, I’ve exhausted this topic.

My friends, please let me know if I get “too LA” or “too Hollywood.” Give my downhome Southern upbringing, it is HIGHLY unlikely to happen, but please keep me in check anyway. Someone that I know lives TWO blocks away from a seriously upscale LA mall. Instead of just walking there like any rational-thinking person (especially with today’s high gas prices), this person drives there, and what’s more than that, this person VALET parks. That’s “too LA.” In the event that lose my mind and become a jackass, take me by my obnoxious Armani clothes (of which I will probably be wearing by that time) and ridiculous white-rimmed Kanye West shades, strap me to the Hollywood sign, and fling designer-brand darts at me. Don’t worry about hurting me; by then, I would have deserved it.

You should never argue with a fool. Folks might not know the difference.

While standing in line at the grocery store recently, the lady ahead of me proceeded to double check the prices of all her items, using her calculator to add up everything AS the actual cashier was doing it. Simultaneously, the woman made Scrooge McDuck-ish faces and grunts as if the price was just waaaaaaay too much for her to stomach. Then, when it was time to pay up, she pulled out a gleaming American Express card. ???? Minutes later, I saw her drive away in a Bentley. Cheap rich people are on my hate list, too. Currently 12.

The AAA company has service trucks that will bring fresh car batteries to you if your car battery dies on you. The side of the truck has “AAA Batteries” emblazoned on it. Hmm…exactly how small are these cars? …… Hold on. Wait for it…wait for it…

Back to politics…

Obama. The Cool: I saw him the other day. The Bad: It was a Superman poster with Obama’s head attached to it. Hmm. The man is not superhuman. Some people must stop putting him on pedestal so high that if the guy becomes president and makes a mistake (because that’s what humans do), then people won’t be incredibly crushed. I’ve seen similar posters of him posed as Jesus. If he was really a deity, then he wouldn’t need your vote. But if he can cuss out people and throw kids in the air like Hancock, then I’ll have the utmost respect for him.

McCain. The Cool: He has been known, at times, to be an independent thinker. The Bad: Recently, his party has been really mad. Expressing deep ire. Why have Republicans been so mad lately? 3 out of the last 4 presidents have been Republican. That’s 20 out of the last 28 years that a member of Grand Old Party has sat in the Oval Office. Sounds like domination to me. If politics were the NBA, the Republicans would be the Boston Celtics dynasty of Red Auerbach and Bill Russell. Hey! Americans may want to give another person a chance to mess up the country. Don’t be so angry. You still could win. Done it before. States are still using electronic voting machines, right?

Go vote, be well, and be safe.

Just been thinking for a minute.

It’s the first couple of weeks of summer, the end of the 4th of July weekend.  That time of the year when folks are sweating by the bucket load.  That time of the year when women wear less and fellas drop more slobber and drool than Sprint drops phone calls.  As one of the millions of confused bastards here in the City of Seraphims, I’m kind of….confused.  In a city intergalactically known for entertainment, style, and all kinds of creativity, why is it that everyone here looks the same?  I’m not talking about facially or racially.  I’m loathing the clothing.  Sometimes I think that I’m in an episode of Battlestar Gallactica, battling cyclons and other clones.  If everyone is going to wear the same three outfits, have the same four hairstyles, and say the same two catchphrases like mindless zombies, then we all should just take the easy route–the slackest, laziest way out.  Let’s forget about fashion and just walk around in the altogether, in other words, naked. 

We’ll save time by not putting on clothes.  We might as well.  There are too many “Like, OMG!” cookie-cutter people saying jazz like, “Like, OMG!”  Everyone in the nude means the end of scented and/or dye-free laundry detergent, getting busted by your spouse for cheating because of an inside-out shirt or lipstick on the collar, and accidentally wearing the same outfit that that trick at work wore the other day.  Ladies, you know what I’m talking about.  It would also mean the end of stuff falling out of your pockets, masked robbers, people having the gross moral turpitude for wearing Kobe Bryant jerseys, and the end of the wedgie as we know it.  No one could ever put a “boot up your ass” again.  You could even see how much your boyfriend really likes your sister or best friend when she walks into the room. 

Perfect excuse to give to the charity worker in front of the grocery store, “Sorry, I don’t have any change on me.”  Why?  Because you don’t.  You don’t have any pockets.  Unless you’re part kangaroo.  And then that would just be outright nasty.  People, publicly being in our birthday suits could mean the end of gang colors and tribal warfare.  No more strip clubs.  Hmmmm.  No more prom pictures.  Couldn’t mistake those transvestites for women anymore, huh?  Adam and Eve would become fashion icons.  Nudists, all of a sudden, would be trendsetters and “kind of cool.”  The projected job prospects for professional pickpockets in the upcoming years look very low.  When someone claims to be capable of “knocking your socks off,” you know that person’s full of shite.  Tattoos in “secret places” are…whatever…you ain’t that special.  Everybody’s places aren’t secret, and everybody’s parts ain’t private anymore.  No more red carpet crap of rich people sporting free clothing that poor people make for pennies.  No more clothing drives.  Google Earth becomes Google Birth, as you can see any birth anywhere in the world via satellite.  Love handles are the new black.  The last pair of corduroy overalls is guarded by 20 armed security personnel at the Smithsonian. 

Warmer regions of the planet would experience an almost immediate influx of former cold climate dwellers.  Less frisking at the airport.  More frisking everywhere else.  Mass confusion at sporting events.  No more lapel pins.  Don’t have to dress up for work anymore–every day is Casual Friday.  Popping your collar in the near future?  I don’t think so.  Now, you can exclusively use your iron to cook grilled cheese sandwiches.  A clothes hangers could be used for its original purposes: a poor man’s boomerang and a strangulation device.  Shoestrings look like floss for people with big front-teeth gaps to me.  Belts, ties, and bras could be used as…I don’t really know what.  Any ideas?  I’m done with this.  Enough useless thinking for today.  I hereby begin the no-clothes movement.  Who’s with me? 

Until then, keep your shirt on,

Be well.

Last time we spoke, I was in the final fortnights of my fantastic 20s.  Honestly, at first, entering my 30s wasn’t something that I was looking forward to doing.  But time waits for no one, time marches on, and all of those other cliched phrases.  But living in youth-obsessed Los Angeles has helped me to realize that being old is a misunderstood art form.  In the past few months, I’ve learned a few of the benefits of being elderly, or “youthfully challenged.”

Osteoporosis: Sure, you hear that’s it’s bad, and that your bones become brittle, but I look on the bright side with my bifocal shades, you get to drink a lot of milk.  I like milk.  Milk likes me.  I like milk, especially with prune juice.   

Knee replacement: Years of squatting as a catcher and spinning around throwing a discus has guaranteed me a lifetime of occasional, weird knee issues.  This also guarantees me my own chauffeur.  Don’t be jealous.  Everybody should have their own chauffeur, but everybody doesn’t.  My wheelchair pusher person is the best there is.  But I guess y’all ain’t that lucky, huh?  Suckers.

Senior Citizen Discounts: There was a time when the local IHOP knew me by name.  Now, they know me by my Ben Gay scent and my posse of silver- and blue-haired homies.  Getting stuff half off is the greatest thing since getting stuff half off.  Eh…uh…did I just repeat myself?  Which leads me to the next thing on the list…Alzheimer’s.  Some people see it as the beginning of the end.  I see it as a new start.  I can’t wait to start forgetting all the stuff that I wish I couldn’t remember.  Like the time, my identity was stolen, but then the dude gave it back, talkin’ ’bout he needed to have a better one.  Or when they rejected me when I volunteered to help at Ground Zero because they didn’t want me to contaminate the site.  Some things are better off forgotten.  Speaking of forgetting, I’m having my grandson, Ichabod, type this up for me…since I can’t see the keyboard…and I didn’t even know I had a kid to have a kid to be my grandson.  What was I saying?

Tai chi: You can catch me in the park with the posse.  stretching.  Really slowly.  Really really slowly.  Um, what was I saying?

Incontinence: Yep.  I said it.  While the rest of you are running around looking for a restroom when you’re out and about, I’m chillin’–with a personal, portable porta-potty.  Damn right.  Beat that!  I’m saving water, paper, time, resources, etc.  I’m going green.  Saving the planet!

Clubbing: Clubbing?  Who needs it?  Standing in lines for eternity in the cold and heat.  Paying off bouncers to let you in.  Buying overly expensive drinks for overly cheap people just so they can overly enthusiastically leave the overly packed club with someone else that’s overly dressed.  Well, I’m through with that.  Had it up to here with it.  No more clubs for yours truly.  It’s the doctor’s office from here on out.  Umm hmm.  You heard me.  Look, the wait at the doctor’s office can be quicker than waiting in line at a club.  No bouncers.  Hell, nurses look better than bouncers anyway.  And who needs to spend money on drinks when I can get drugs…from my doctor…legally.  It’s not loud.  I can mack on some of these 70-year-old fillies and they’ll hear what I’m saying–with or without a hearing aid.

Freedom: I can do whatever I want.  WHATEVER.  No one tells me what to do.  If I want to sleep just after Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy goes off, then I can do it.  You can’t stop me.  He can’t stop me.  She can’t stop me.  I can’t even stop me.  I start feeling sleepy around 6 pm.  The night can’t handle a wild boy like me.  That’s why I give it a break and never go out.  Westside!

Mr. ED: Can’t wait to try Viagra and see if it’s really 4 hours.  You’re looking at the new smiling spokesman for Levitra.  Call me Bob.  My heart should be able to handle it.  Haven’t had the triple bypass yet…

30 ain’t so bad, as I have proven already.  Excuse me, youngins, I’ve got to go the library and get some sleep.  Have an uneventful life, kids!  And get off my lawn…