SMELLS LIKE BULLSHIT

Thanksgiving was spent with Bouby's side of the family, on her mother's side as we have been doing it for 4 years, and as usual the spread was awesome.

But before we got there I was given my Christmas gift early. I know it is a moth early and I shouldn't have let her do it but the ENTIRE family, chipped in and got me a new camera and Bouby wanted me to have it to take pictures of her family.

Here is what they kicked down for me.

12MP Digital SLR Camera (Black) + Canon 18-55mm IS Lens + Canon 75-250mm III Lens.

I still have my film stuff, but I am already looking for the same digital lenses to replace what I had in my film bag, and like all things, there are some good deals and then there are some bad deals, it will take some time but I really REALLY dig the new camera. Just don't be surprised if this becomes a picture blog.

When I was working in the bar business that was all I wanted to do. But in wanting that I made myself an asshole. I wanted people to come in and have a good time and to drink and get drunk and dance and play and be groovy.

Unfortunately I also demanded that these same people be courteous, reasonable, and respectful to each other, and my bar. (I know it wasn’t ‘my’ bar but I was in charge and I did a good job) Unfortunately, as I grew older and wiser, the people that I was serving were not ready to be respectful social drinkers. My crowd was the fraternities and sororities of Chico State.

Some of you, of a certain age, may remember Chico State from the late 80’s where they celebrated Pioneer Days and MTV even went as far as to put a map up every hour for a week solid on how you could get to Chico California for this amazing party. Playboy rated it the number one party school in the nation. That year was the last year for Pioneer Days as it was also the first time that there were 4500 arrests (none of those people Chico State students, ALL out of towners) and huge riot where a cop car and a news wagon were set on fire along with a trash bin and all the furniture out of every apartment in a complex called “the Zoo”.


At the time I was not there. I was in college elsewhere causing my own riots. April 25th 1987 were the riots and I didn’t get there until September of 88. So none of that shit was my fault.


My clients acted much like that of rioters on a nightly basis. With the exception of fighting which only happened 4 times in the 6 years I was at the bar, and only one of them a full blown street melee, it was relatively blood free. I am speaking more of the inane stupidity that is the mob mentality. I had drunks that would inevitably get so intoxicated they would think that because I was sober I was also somehow less smart then they were. One night I was repeatedly telling one of my favorite regulars to stop trying to stand on the bar stool, and he kept ignoring me because he knew that if he could just stand on the bar stool he would be able to dance 63% better than any white man in the place.


I stopped him from getting all the way erect 4 maybe 5 times, the second I would get distracted by someone at the door, he was back on the stool wanting to stand up. Well the 6th time he did this I was late in stopping him and he stuck his thick drunk skull into the ceiling fan. The thunk-thunk-thunk that the fan blades made careening off his melon were very satisfying, so as I walk over to him he was looking at me with these pained puppy eyes that seemed to ask me “ why did you make the fan try to chop off my head?” I just looked at him and told him;



“I fucking told you to stop doing that…now you know why”


I had some drunk frat rat piss on my blackjack dealer one night because he didn’t want to walk all the way across the bar to the rest room. She , god bless her, punched him in the face and threw him out the back door with his drunk little thing still sticking out.



Then there was the guy who refused to order a rum and coke, he felt the need to always call it by its scientific name, a “Cuba Libre”, not that he was a big problem, but he was always annoying.



But the point here is the reason I was an asshole is because I couldn’t figure out why more people didn’t just want to sit and talk, or dance, in a responsible drunk manner instead of a “I need a baby sitter, because I am 9 years old” drunk manner. They would break things on purpose, punch holes in the walls, the chicks…fuck, those dirty, stinky sorority whores would fill the trash can with piss every night (our bathroom was a single seater) since they travel in packs of no less than 3 they would race for the toilet, and loser squatted over the trashcan. I shit you not there has never been a more disgusting animal invented then the sorority bitch. My customers would lie, steal, cheat and think it was just hysterical.



Basically they treated the place like shit, like we owed it to them to provide a place for them to act like jerk offs because they knew that anywhere else they would get thrown in jail for ½ the shit they were doing.



And that Irked me.



So I became a royal asshole. They wanted to act like spoiled kids I would treat them like spoiled kids. I thumped their ears when they acted up, put them in time outs, and on occasion spanked them.



I was also constantly under a barrage of stupid questions, IE:



1) What can I get for you? …uuuhhh Gimme a beer! ( we served 5 on tap and 40 in bottles)

2) Walking through an open door..”Are you open? (If I wasn’t do you think the door would be open?)

3) Whysh cant eyes have more beers? Because you just yakked, I saw you! And I can smell it go away!

Now you know what caused me to be a Cranky old fucker. It was those goddamned kids!

It seems that when I go to Vegas, all I get is business, drunk, and blisters. I did enjoy another 10 star meal at the Golden Steer, possibly the finest steak house in all of Pangea. The history of the restaurant is somewhat incomplete as was dictated to us by the waiter who had been waiting tables there since the 60's.

The Rat Pack were some of the very first superstars to hang out at the steak house and according to our waiter, the reason was because they were the only place in Vegas that didn't try to make Sammy eat in the kitchen with the rest of the help. They recognized him as the star that he was and gave him his own booth. When you go to visit that place that is one of that coolest parts. Each of the booths are someone else's. This last time we sat in the Micky Rooney booth and I almost had to kill a family of 8 because they brought a fucking baby to the Golden Steer.

I don't care if you are visiting, or you have family come to town if you live there. Find a fucking sitter, or leave the rat at home with one of the unlucky grandparents. You don't don't bring spawn to a fucking landmark restaurant, especially when it is fucking fussy. They really have no idea how close they came to having one large pissed off land mammal land in the middle of their table and start head butting people. If rage were volume, I was the fucking Atlantic Ocean. ( I know some of you thought I was going to say I went to 11, but not this time! I went all scientific on you!)

I did get to see my good buddy "Stands on Stool" (her Indian name due to her small stature) and we talked all about her chemically altered hubby, and his bi-polar ass, and how he is a complete waste of space and needs to become a homeless divorcee. But I missed hooking up with one of my newly found regulars from the California bar days, she was in town visiting her brother or some such. And my old bosses from the same said bar days were reportedly in town as well, I'm assuming for the UFC fights, but who knows since neither one of those ass clowns bothered to return my phone calls.

Know what I say to that?

Fuck them, Fuck them in the as with out lube and then use the fist.


Let's see did I cover everything? Vegas, Top Steakhouse ever, old friends, anal rape, and fisting....that ought to get the google searches up.

OH and this is one of the funniest things I have seen in at least 10 minutes!

See you all on Tuesday...or not, you lazy sacks of crap, whatsamatter? Can't make it 3 more miles up the road. What are you? Kennedy's? Can't make it across a fucking bridge?

Well some of you may have noticed that I wasn't here much this week and I assure you that it has nothing to do with my political afflictions. Nor do I think that Osama Bin Biden will do a bad job, and I can tell you assuredly that I have been enjoying all of the tasteless jokes that white people have been sharing over the course of the last week. With all of the racist bullshit I have been hearing you'd have thought that he lost the damn election.

Can't a brother catch a break around this supposed free country?

So I will not be referencing the job here anymore, it has come to my attention that certain people have let slip that Ireside here behind the Bullshit and I would hate to let anyone of my so called clients find that I have been telling their secrets to the entire world...or at least the 30 people that stop by occasionally.

So as far as we are all concerned I am the worlds greatest salesperson working for that worlds greatest company and under the best CEO that has ever graced a trade publication.

I haven't been hunting yet this year and apparently I picked the wrong year to be labeled as the continuing world champion of sales, since it seems to cut into my leisure time activities. Like stalking Bambi's daddy, and making him into a beautiful stew and some jerky.

I have started working out every morning again and I can say that I missed it greatly. I love the way the muscles burn and the weights seem to get lighter everyday as the old memories flood back into the meat and bone that used to be an athlete. I don't hold any predispositions that I will be able to be as cock-strong as I was when I was 20-25, but I can say that two years ago I out preformed kids half my age and in better shape...so maybe there is some hope not become the old and decrepit that I see so often in people that are a mere 25-30 years older than me.

But even just after a week the iron flows through me, moving in those ways set forth by the years of practice and repetition that only one who spent his youth pushing people around for fun can receive and remember. the dumbbells,pulleys and bars seem like old friends. your best friends, the type that even when you haven't seen or talked to them for a year or more, it seems like it was yesterday and you fall into the same old routines like you were never apart. My plates and Dumbbells feel like that and I am experiencing the joys of being sore.

For those who don't know the pleasure of the pain of being sore from throwing iron, then you are missing out of one of the closest things I can compare to S&M that I will ever get too, but it is also a certain feeling of accomplishment. When you have this soreness, it reminds you that you have been extending your life one second at a time.

So maybe this becomes the trials and tribulations of me desperately clinging to my youth through the art of exercise and iron tossing....who knows I may need a permanent vacation too.

Anyone have Dr. Kevorkian's number?

PS: I just watched Sweeny Todd with Johnny Depp and that crazy British bitch, and it was like Kill Bill Vol. I and II, without the plot.