People are upset with me.  Upset that I am angry at them.  Upset that they can’t calm my temper.  Upset that I won’t do what they want.

All of this comes back to money.  Money I wasted.  Money I’ll never see again.  I hate money.  I don’t care about material things.  As long as I have legs to carry me, all is right with the world.

Alf offered me a lift out to Boston.  He was headed that way, what difference would it make?  Oh, by the way, can I borrow your brand new mountain bike? Read more

Work was quiet.  I leaned against a filing cabinet, waiting for my Supervisor to dole out assignments.  A few of my co-workers sat nearby reading.

The NY Post.  Car and Driver.

I heard the door open and shut behind me.  One of the head Supervisors
walked in.  My boss’ boss.  As he walked by me, he jabbed me in the
ribs with his finger.

“That’s technically Assault,” I scowled at him.

“I know,” he said.

His little violation of my “space” shattered my mood.  I didn’t feel
threatened by him, but his social ineptitude astounds me.  He is
oblivious to boundaries, and no one at work respects him.

He jabbed me again, harder.

“Don’t poke me in the ribs,” I said coldly, looking him straight in the eyes.  He stared back.  His face cut into a stupid grin.

“You ticklish or something?”

“No.  I don’t like being poked.  Please don’t do it again.”

Poke.

God dammit, motherfucker! I thought.

“I’m not fucking kidding.  Don’t do it again . . .” I said, my voice low and lethal.

I forced myself not to bark at him.  I knew escalating my tone would only make me madder.  I locked eyes with him and he pressed his lips together.

I turned my head away from him and made brief eye contact with one of the senior guys.  A look of understanding passed between us.

I pulled on my gloves and went to work.

Ferdinand linked to an excellent piece on knife fighting today.  As I read it I was reminded of a link Shogun Marcus sent me a few years ago.  It was an article written in a self defense forum.  The idea was that training cannot be academic; if you’re going to prepare for something, you have to prepare to face the worst possible enemy under the least favorable circumstances.

Most martial artists train with a What If mentality.  They attempt to devise a plan, to anticipate common attacks.  They play “hypotheticals” with the misguided hope that they can train out the variables.

Training for combat with a What If mentality is training to be killed.

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The Rules are simple:

1. Don’t use coke.

2. If you use coke once, you’re a cokehead.

3. Never trust a cokehead.

She was not the prettiest woman I’ve been with, a middling 6 at best.  The way she dressed made matters worse – all jeans and sweaters – so I was pleasantly surprised when she peeled them off.  Her breasts were larger, her body curvier, than I expected.

What she lacked in curb appeal, she made up for under the hood.  Her sexual appetite was voracious.  Rodeo clowns aren’t this motivated . . . Read more

It recently occurred to me that there is a disparity between how men and women define Hooking Up.  The female definition seems to involve making out and heavy petting.  Everything else is Banging.

There was no mention of oral sex.  Gray area.  Everyone avoided the subject.

For me, the definitions are opposite.  Hooking up involves conjoined genitals.  Everything else is just fucking around . . .

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It’s been a long week and I’m all out of clever.  I’m going to fix it.  Boiler Maker time.

Before I do I want to level a few words at you, General Public.

To every cunt in a Lexus, every slack-jawed shitheel in traffic, everyone turning left, every fuck who crosses against the light . . .

To every bitch who defines herself by her anorexic tits, her tangerine tan, her junk fucking jewelry, her stupid cell phone, her cunt fucking friends, her oversized sunglasses, or how well she (falsely) thinks she can suck a cock . . .

Every dick-jerk in an Ed Hardy T-shirt, every bug-eyed juicehead, every wanna-be yuppie cunt stock broker on his Blue Tooth . . .

To every bar owner that overcharges for piss-water liquor . . .

To every tumor farm who blocks the door to the bar so they can chain-smoke while they text all the people who obviously don’t want to hang out with them . . .

To anyone who plays hip-hop in a dingy, rat-fuck bar full of pugs and drunks . . .

STAY THE FUCK HOME!

I feel it’s necessary for me to follow up Thursday’s post a bit, due to the train of comments and (especially) e-mails we’ve been getting.  The Admin mailbox has been full of eloquent explanations about why I’m a dick.

Dennis Leary has the FuckingInappropriate Stamp of Approval.

And cancer.  Probably.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2EGCwPXDR-0&hl=en&fs=1]

I’ll be perfectly honest . . . I tripped, fell, and landed in an ocean of whiskey.  It took me a week to swim to the other side.  Hack and Big are both sick or injured, and therefore M.I.A.

I fucking hate the Holiday season.  Of course I hate it, I hate almost everything else.  Let me emphasize that this is not a “passionate dislike” . . . This is Top-Shelf Hatred.

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