I love coffee. I hate pick up artists. I hate moralizing, nosy busybodies worst of all.

These two guys in Asheville, NC have had their lives turned upside-down and their business ruined all because someone didn’t approve of their behavior. Look at the first line of this article:

“This is what you get for brewing misogyny.”

If these were women small business owners, anonymously bragging online about their sexual conquests, wouldn’t this be considered slut-shaming?

The thing that bugs me the most about it is, from what I can tell, this whole kerfuffle came about simply because they were crass. Grab the fucking pitchforks! Maybe if they’d taken a gentler tone on their podcast (where they thought they were pretty much anonymous), softly explaining that “they never intended on sleeping with so many women, they’re just attempting to find true love” the blow-back would’ve been a little less severe. I wonder whether the person who blew this “case” wide open (who is, of fucking course, anonymous) has an Ashley Madison account? According to the google, 10.4% of the population of Asheville does…as a matter of fact, Asheville slides right in at number 10 for cities in North Carolina with the highest percentage of Ashley Madison users. Your slip is showing…

Fuck these people for making me feel bad for pick up artists. In a society of hunter-gatherers, PUA’s are the guys who only hunt the lame animals. “That lioness obviously has daddy issues (or a spear in her side from a previous hunting party, whatever!), let’s neg her until we can close!” They pick low-hanging fruit, then brag about it for-fucking-ever. Just like vegans, the way to identify the PUA is THEY NEVER SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT BEING A PICK UP ARTIST.

At least these guys tried to keep their professional and private lives compartmentalized; and don’t give me any shit about “Oh, not really, they picked women up at their coffee shop!” No shit, Sherlock. If I had a free Starbucks Vente Iced Quad 2 Splenda Latte for every sad fucking manic pixie hipster girl I’ve seen swooning over some slack-jawed dickweed behind a counter playing barista, I’d be dead of fucking caffeine poisoning. Apparently they had good coffee, and I’m sure they’re good at “spitting game;” that coffee shop was the artisanal equivalent of a fucking tiger pit. Seems to me this whole thing has more to do with people feeling fucking stupid than it does with any actual outrage.

And the guys…pussies. Seriously, they get caught and called out, so they apologize? They went so far as to offer up proceeds to a rape crisis organization who promptly turned them down, because apparently Our Lives would rather have the moral high ground than –you know– money to help actual fucking rape victims.

They went about this all wrong. Caught, called out, business under fire, and they come crawling begging for mercy? Proof positive that PUA’s are fucking idiots. Rebrand, bitches! They’re sitting on a fucking gold mine in free advertising, and they’re too dumb to take advantage of it because they want to appear contrite. I’d bet PUA’s like coffee too, and with the wonders of the internet they could ship anywhere.

Not only that, these people are coming after your livelihood; THREATEN TO NAME FUCKING NAMES. I’m sure somewhere in that long list of conquests there are people who desperately don’t want to be identified. Maybe an unfulfilled, middle-aged, married mother of three who likes to wear diapers? An elementary school teacher who’s really into My Little Pony? They want shame, give them fucking shame, you losers. Too harsh for ya? Claim “sex addiction,” and then make the entire fucking town feel like shit for targeting and abusing people with a “totes real” problem.

I said it, I don’t give a fuck. My moral high ground is actually a morass full of fucking bodies, and I sit there all day throwing rocks and body parts at faux-moralizing assholes.

Fucking idiots.

Making Friends

“I noticed you put a lock on my utility shed. I need to get in there and get some of them window panes.” Ricky’s covered in sweat, mopping his brow with a dirty t-shirt as he approaches us from the now empty unit across the lot. Between the heat and his unhealthy appetites, I’m surprised he hasn’t dropped dead yet. I’d given him the benefit of the doubt when we’d met, but quickly learned, once again, that I should’ve trusted my instincts.

“Utility shed?” I replied quizzically. “Oh, you mean our laundry room; the room in the car port with the washer and dryer in it — yeeeaaahhh — you don’t live here no more, and we rent this place, including that room. You meant our laundry room, right?”

I’ll never tire of the look people get when they realize shit isn’t going the way they’d anticipated. Ricky has that look; like he smells something odd, but can’t quite decide whether it’s a good odor or a bad odor.

“Well, whatever you wanna call it –”

We call it our laundry room,” I interrupt. “I’ll get that glass for ya, come on.” We (meaning S. and I, I’d intentionally blocked him from coming into the lanai) step out into the car port and I wait for the door to shut completely before heading for the laundry room. I remove the combination lock and throw the door wide, presenting the room to him. “Here they are,” I say, tapping the stack of narrow glass slats, “take as many as you need. Hell, take ’em all, I’d prefer that.”

He grabs one pane, then quickly gives the room a once-over. Turning to S. he says, “Uh, there was a bunch of stuff in here; buckets of paint, rollers, drop clothes, some wood; where’d all that go?”

I start talking before she can respond. “Well, Richard (different guy. Richard is the property manager, Ricky is the maintenance man) told us he’d get all that shit out of here ASAP. We waited about a month, then I got a sweet deal on a washer and dryer, so we got rid of it.”

“What’chu mean you ‘got rid of it?'” He’s starting to get a little snappy now, no sense in continuing to be polite.

“I mean that shit was taking up space that we needed, and I figured we waited long enough. It was all garbage as far as I was concerned, so we took it to the fucking dump. That’s what I mean.” Still smiling. Always smiling.

“That was good stuff, Richard ain’t gonna like that.” Sweaty, nervous, eyes darting around looking for an out.

“Richard had plenty of time, especially considering you’re here every weekend for some reason or another. It’s gone, it’s done. Excuse me, I need to lock our laundry room back up.” I begin gently closing the door, forcing him to move out of the doorway. He sees one more opportunity and grasps it.

“That my screen? I need that roll of screen.” He points to a large roll of window screen that we’d decided to not throw away, figuring it may be useful at some point.

I continue to push the door until it’s physically touching him, then re-open it. “Watch out.” I shoo him to the side, out into the middle of the car port, and grab the screen. “Here, take it. Find somewhere else to stow it. Thanks.”

As he heads across the driveway, S. and I smile and snicker to each other. It turns to full-blown laughter when we hear him ask the neighbor if he can store the screen in her shed. “NO,” she replies.



There’s a loud knock on the front door. It’s my day off, I’m home alone and in the middle of a raid, so I do the only thing I can.

WAIT.” Loud enough to make the cat wake up and haul ass from the couch to the bedroom.

I’ve got my headphones on, fully immersed in defeating Mr. Miracle and Big Barda; it’s all I can spare. Five minutes later I open the door wearing nothing but a pair of boxers with Batman’s face plastered on the front and a black t-shirt that says “Chaotic Evil Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry”, and there’s Ricky. I step outside and pull the door shut behind me.

“Why you knocking on my door like a cop, Ricky? What’chu want?” I’m not smiling. I don’t much care for Ricky now.

He’s annoyed, apparently he didn’t expect to be kept waiting. Maybe he thought S. was here, and he anticipated a “little girl” answering the door. Lucky him, he got a misanthropic asshole in his underwear. “You said there’s no paint left in that shed? I need to check.”

“There’s no paint in the shed, Ricky; I guarantee it. Everything left in there belongs to us…’cause, you know, our shed.”

It’s pretty obvious from the look in his eyes and his body language that he knows he should just quit while he’s ahead — well, if not ahead, at least not too far behind. He pushes. “Show me.”

“Ha. No.” Now, I’m smiling. “Look man, I’m doing shit, so…”

He doesn’t take the hint, and it’s getting pretty uncomfortable on the porch, so I light a cigarette to ratchet the tension up another notch. He scratches his head, and I can see the gears turning. I imagine he’s thinking, “Why won’t this guy just do what I tell him?”

“Just let me take a look in the shed and I’ll be on my way, Richard told me to check.”

Now, I’m pretty sure Ricky’s lying to me, and I don’t really appreciate that, so it’s time to quit fucking around.

“Ricky, I know it must be frustrating. For months, you haven’t had anyone to contend with except timid, middle-aged women who jump every time you get loud. And you’re always loud. You show up here every weekend and strut around the place like you own shit — even if you’re not doing any work. You just…show up. I ain’t timid, and I ain’t here to take shit from you. So, unless you’re performing maintenance on the space we rent, stay the fuck off my property. You can tell Richard if he’s got a problem with me, or something we do or did, he can shoot me an email or give me a call and we can discuss it personally. We’ve been in touch with Richard a few times, and I believe he don’t give a fuck what happens here as long as he’s getting the rent. Now, we’re done, I got shit to do, and I need you to get the fuck off my porch.”

Not moving, still smiling, still smoking.

“Alright. Well, you have a good day.”

“Get the fuck off my porch.” I followed him to the screen door and locked it behind him.


I pull up on my bike just in time to witness S. confronting Ricky about a hose that’s gone missing from the front of our house. Rather than intervene, I sit back and enjoy the show.

She’s short, but feisty. “Richard told us that everything left here came with the house.”

“That’s true,” Ricky’s using his best “aw shucks, missy” voice, and he’s wearing a condescending smile that I’m sure S. is just thrilled about, “but that’s my hose.”

“So, everything that was here came with the house, that hose was here, but that hose is yours? Is that what you’re telling me?” S. gets very logical when she’s pissed off, and I can see that Ricky has no idea what kind of trouble he’s in.

“It’s my hose, I left it when I moved out –you know I used to live in your unit. I’ll return it when I’m done with it.”

Hands on hips, head cocked, S. sets him up for the kill. “Everything that was there came with the house, you used to live in the house MONTHS AGO, and you left this hose. Everything came with the house, but that hose is yours and you just leave it there and take it when you need it, is that what you’re telling me? Our house is where you store your hose?”

“If you want the hose, I’ll give you the –”

“Keep the hose, Ricky, but understand this; I’ve already spoken to Richard, and I’ve made it clear to him that the next time something goes missing from our property we’re just going to call the cops. If we need to call the police, you — as the ever-present maintenance man — will have to speak to the police. You got it?”

“Yes’m.” He looks in my direction like he just noticed I was standing there. “Hey man, how you doing today?”

“Oh no, dude,” I say, raising my hands and shaking my head, “don’t try to drag me into this shit. Not my circus.”

He turns around and starts to walk away, muttering to himself. “Alright, alright.”

S. turns and smiles at me, “Baby…fucking people.”

“Ha, lemme tell ya about last Tuesday…”


Did I mention how much we love our new place?

Don’t Get Me Wrong…

It’s a nice clock, I guess…

It’s interesting how no one is commenting on the positive over-reaction. I absolutely agree that those cops and that teacher were dicks, but it’s still just a fucking clock. I knew how to cut and cook cocaine at 14, and I don’t remember pharmaceutical companies beating down my fucking door.

That’s a lot of pressure for a 14-year-old. I imagine him sitting around with his friends like, “It was just a fucking clock, this is too much pressure!! I fucking HATE Texas!”

Seriously, MIT, Twitter, Zuckerberg, even the president…methinks there may be a little overcompensation going on here. Think what would have happened if this kid tried to get through airport security with this thing…

I don’t recall that kid who made the “pop tart gun” getting an invitation to the pop tart factory; or a gun factory. Shit, as far as I know, he didn’t get offered an art scholarship. Same thing with the kid who wrote that story about his neighbor’s dinosaur; at least throw that little bastard some free tickets to the Natural History Museum…


Never Forget

My bedroom stinks of cat piss. Clubby, Nick’s cat, just goes wherever the fuck he wants; we don’t care. If we cared about anything in this shithole, it’d be the busted sewage drain in the hallway leading to the only door. We considered calling the landlord about it, but that’s a commitment neither of us is willing to make. Instead, every day one of us puts on the gloves and cleans up the maggots and shit and spoiled food as best we can, then we use a stolen squeegee to push as much of the liquid out the door as possible. Whatever, we’re rock stars. We don’t give a fuck, our friends (and lovers) aren’t the most discerning of people, as long as there’s a place to sit, booze, drugs.

I sit up in bed, and by “bed” I mean the sheet covered pile of cardboard I’ve placed in the corner of my room, and wave a hand in front of my face to chase away the bugs; gnats, fruit flies, whatever the fuck they are; I hear Nick calling my name from the front room. “Mikey, you up? Come out here, man; you ain’t gonna believe this shit.”

Pushing aside the bamboo screen that serves as my door, I stumble blearily to the living room, careful to avoid the stripper pole that marks the boundary between dining room and living room, and collapse into a chair. Nick’s sitting in “the throne”, the remnants of last nights debauchery spread on the coffee table in front of him; torn plastic baggies, used syringes, small glass vials. A folded yellow post-it sits in front of him, covered with sprinkles of waxy white flakes. “Oh, you’ve been busy,” I say with a yawn, “what’s up?”

He screws his face up as he uses a paper clip to scrape the inside of a vial, letting the residue fall onto the post-it. An open folding knife sits on a pile of cleaned baggies. He takes the post-it and pours the contents into one of the many stems littering the table. “Hold on,” he says, then takes a lighter and sucks the glass dick. He goes pale and begins to sweat as he holds in the sickly yellow smoke. He holds it so long, there’s practically nothing when he finally exhales. He goes to pass me the pipe and the paper clip. “Wanna push?,” he giggles.

“Yeeeeaaahhh, push off,” I mumble. I go back to my room, grab my gear, return, sit, and get down to business. Nick watches the ritual, his eyes glassy, pupils huge like some fucked up, rocked out little anime waif. You can cold cook raw, but it’s always faster with heat, so I do it the old-fashioned way. He starts giggling again as I tie off, boot, and push off. “Reboot, reboot,” he chants. I’ve never liked it; some people get as addicted to the needle as they do the dope. I had a girlfriend who could sit there for hours, constantly drawing her blood back into the tool and slowly pushing it back into her vein. Not me, all business. I untie, remove the spike, and sag back into the ratty, musty recliner. “What the fuck were you yelling about?”

“Oh shit, man!” He grabs the TV remote and springs up, pressing the power button. “My dad called. Terrorists flew airplanes into the World Trade Center! There’s a shitload of people dead, it’s fucking nuts!”

“The World Trade Center? At the harbor?! Downtown? What the fuck?!”

“Not here,” he explains, pushing his hand through his greasy hair, “the World Trade Center in New York.”

“Jesus Christ,” I sit up as the import of what he’s saying cuts through the haze of the dope streaking through my veins, “I’ve gotta call Vic, we’re supposed to leave tonight to work a show at…some Air Force place in Virginia? Some military tech show, I bet it’s cancelled!” I pull my phone out and dial my boss, Nick pushes the choy back and forth in the stem.

I’ve been making good money traveling from state to state working the carnival circuit, and this week we were supposed to start a week-long engagement on a military base. I speak to Vic briefly, then hang up the phone and smile at Nick. “Jobs cancelled, I’m off for the foreseeable future. Vic’s got my money at the warehouse, I just gotta go get it. You talked to Talka yet?” I’m already dialing her number as Nick, stem in mouth, starts shaking his head.

Fifteen minutes later she’s there, and she brings party favors. We sit around for a little while enjoying the high, occasionally voicing our opinions on the fucked up situation in New York, before Talka voices a very disturbing thought.

“I’ll take you down to get your money, but don’t you think with all this shit going on today we’ll have trouble copping?”

We hadn’t even considered that. Not that it mattered, we didn’t.



Is “thirst-shaming” a thing? It should be. How about “sheep-shaming”? Some irrelevant, non-knowing how to do make-up, Evil-Lyn looking, talentless Ke$ha clone makes an obvious fucking bait video, and the entire goddamned internet loses their fucking minds over it. Stop and ask yourself, “Self, do I really give a fuck what this starved for attention whorelet thinks about fucking anything?” Go ahead and check with the Huffington Post first, if necessary; I’ll wait…

For fuck’s sake you idiots, at least Kim Kardashian had to fuck someone on film to start garnering attention.

Good job morons, you’re making her famous.


This may just be the dumbest fucking thing I’ve heard about in the past few weeks. As previously stated, if you choose to make a spectacle of yourself (oh yeah, you can argue all you want, that’s what you’re fucking doing. Me too, so quit your fucking whining), you have to be prepared to deal with a certain amount of attention.

Day in and day out at work, some slack-jawed customer makes a comment about my tattoos, I suck it up graciously. It’s called “part of being a fucking grown-up.” There’s a special class of customer (all complete strangers) who have absolutely no problem grabbing my arm and pushing my sleeve up so they can view the whole thing (oddly enough, this is mostly women. PRO TIP, ladies: Don’t fucking do that). These are the only “tatcallers” I have a problem with, and I don’t retreat to my “safe space”, or my blog, or twitter to complain about them. I usually shove or smack their hand away and say something to the effect of “What the fuck is wrong with you? Did your parents raise you like that?”

My own particular brand of “#tatcalling” plays out a little differently. I see lots of people, and lots of tattoos; many are very nice, many are pretty bad, and so goddamned many of them are exactly the fucking same. Have you ever stopped to wonder why so many people have nautical themed tattoos? I have, and if I see someone with anchors or boats or fish or nautical stars tattooed on them, whether they look good (the tattoos, not the person, all you people look the same to me) or not, I usually say something like “Shore leave?” or “Are you a pirate?”

Neck tattoos? Yeah, how dare someone comment on a giant, colorful thing plastered on the side of your fucking neck?! Who the hell do they think they are? They’re certainly not “Joey”, or “Wanda”, or “Integrity”; they’re not even the colorful, cartoon woodpecker who’s resting (tastefully, of course) right below your left ear.

Words, words, words…let’s all get words tattooed on us. Not just words, let’s get literary quotes. I’ve seen people (again, men and women) come in with entire fucking paragraphs tattooed on their bodies. Every one of these encounters goes the same way.

“Oh, what’s that say?”

“Read it.”

“I’ll wait for the movie.”

Sometimes it makes me do a double take, my brain just slowly saying, “Suuuure bitch (non gender-specific bitch right there), you read Shakespeare…totally.”

Just like every other form of art and entertainment, there ain’t a lot of originality left.

I forgot my point.

Fuck off with that bullshit.

Will There Be Cake?

Let’s suppose, for a moment, that you’re an engineer who’s created a machine that allows you to travel through time. You’re engaged to the girl of your dreams, who’s completely unaware that you once used your marvelous invention to save her life. Let’s also suppose that your best friend; a person you grew up with, the person who will be filling the role of best man at your impending nuptials; has always harbored secret feelings for your fiancée. Unbeknownst to you, in a fit of jealous rage, your best friend accesses your time machine intent on changing the past.

This best friend, knowing all the trouble you and your future wife have gone through to find the perfect wedding cake, goes back in time and kills the baker (after you’ve placed the order, but before it could be completed). He doesn’t just stop there; he also slaughters the chickens that laid the eggs that became your cake AND the cows who provided the milk (setting off a new wave of cattle mutilation hysteria across the nation). He does all this in the hopes that the stress of your cake search will put a strain on your relationship, leading eventually to an acrimonious break-up.

To his dismay, all his plans; all the horror and bloodshed; avail him not. Your relationship remains as strong as ever, and the wedding goes off without a hitch. At the reception, the best man looks over and sees sitting on a side table like some horrid beast, THE CAKE; not cake, THE cake.


And THAT’S my problem with The Flash season finale. It’s been bugging me for months now. Barry already altered the time-stream once when Wells killed Cisco, pretty much establishing the rules for continuity in the series. Once Eddie shot himself, Wells isn’t the only thing that should have vanished. No Eobard Thawne replacing Harrison Wells means no particle accelerator means no meta-human spawning meltdown in the middle of Central City means NO FUCKING FLASH. If next season doesn’t involve some bullshit about “Oh Barry, the time-stream is schizophrenic now because EVERY SINGLE FUCKING REASON YOU SHOULD HAVE BECOME THE FUCKING FLASH NEVER HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE!” I’m going to be sorely disappointed. Eddie Thawne being a “wildcard” and a “coincidence” doesn’t really fly with me, that just sounds like lazy writing. It’s a damn shame too, because I really enjoy this show. I’ll still watch it, but I’ll always be a little bitter.

I’m glad that’s out my system…