Nuts

Saw an ad pasted on the wall of the train the other day for pistachios.
I laughed when I read it.
It said, (are you ready for this?)

Don’t shoot until you see the greens of their nuts.”

What the hell were the guys in advertising smoking that day?

~m

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Hobo, Inc.

He gets to South Station early on Saturday and Sunday mornings and takes out his weather worn piece of cardboard that reads:

Homeless and Hungry – Will work for food

Thank You & God Bless

“Matthew 25:40”

 

And although he really wanted to write “Acts 9:5-6”; the Matthew quote will possibly bring in 15 to 20% more revenue from the schmucks that actually know what it means and that’s damn easy money. Damn easy money.

 

“Help a vet, buddy?”

 

He’s been on the streets for so many years now that it surprises him that he’s still doing it. Sometimes he even feels guilty and that oddly surprises him even more. But it doesn’t stop him.
He does look pathetic, though. Or so he hopes . . .

 

“Any spare change, M’aam?”

 

He’s wearing the same clothes he wore back in ’96, the year he started this whole sham.
The older the clothes, the better he looks, so he thinks.
What a great investment.

 

“Can you help a little bit, sir?”

{a chink in the cup}

“God Bless.”

{Italian shoes, custom-tailored suit, laptop, Rolex and he gives me change. Cheap bastard.)

Hundreds of people an hour, thousands a day and year by year the change adds up.
He thinks, damn I’m smart.
The kids are the easiest; a bit of eye contact with them and he can slow down an entire family.
A little wave, a wink and a nod has been known to fetch half a sawbuck.

But, damn, he’s getting tired.

He rolls up one of his tattered sleeves and gazes at his Breitling Chrono-Matic watch and sees it’s 4:01PM.
Damn, time flies.

He takes his tattered piece of cardboard and skulks back down Atlantic Boulevard, swerves right on East Street where his shiny, jet black, 2006 Lexus is silently waiting.

He sheds the threadbare clothes, a molting snake, shoving the rank threads into the trunk.
He pulls out and drives back down Atlantic Avenue as the lazy, golden sun drips down into the seeping blackness of Boston’s financial district.

It’s been a good day, a very good day and the wife is cooking Coq au Vin tonight.
It just can’t get any better than that, can it?

{This post is loosely based on an actual related story.
Is it true? Who knows? The cynical bastard in me believes that anything is possible in this day and age. Skumsucking people like this do exist.
Should I ever see the bastard, I will lovingly kick him in the junk.
Repeatedly, ad nauseum}

 

~m

 

Norm Abrams, I'm not

I’ve been promising my wife that I’d put together a cabinet for the kitchen.
She bought it several weeks ago and everytime I’d walk through the kitchen I swear I could hear “baaaawk, baaaawk . . . “coming from inside the box.
Its purpose was supposedly going to reduce some of the cabinet clutter and organize the pot and “pandemonium” wreaking havoc in the heart of our home.

How hard could it be to put together a small and innocent antique cabinet?

I’m no Norm Abrams, alright? Building things just isn’t my thing (stop laughing, Laho).

I consider myself a reasonably intelligent man but when an inanimate object begins making a monkey out of me, I have a problem.
I should have known better when I spied the little gold oval sticker proudly proclaiming “made in China” on all 76 pieces.

Assembling this hunk of shit (from the directions given) was worse than trying to comprehend quantum physics.
I seriously think the Chinese are out to get us, all of us.

Said directions were a series of “exploded” pictures; no words or explanations, just pictures . . . all 14 of them. Bastards.

Does the term 3-D puzzle of wood mean anything to you?

The cabinet was mainly black and I almost went frickin’ blind trying to screw this thing together. The phone starts ringing, I spill my coffee, I gotta take a crap and one of the cats starts throwing up a hunk of the Styrofoam packing this thing came in and I’m only Step #1.
I only have 13 more to go.
Please shoot me.
Point the gun at my brain stem and mercifully pull the trigger.
End my pain.

I think about throwing the damn directions away but err on the side of caution and instead start talking dirty to the sad looking unassembled pieces still littering the kitchen table. Things start clicking and I’m beginning to enjoy the dirty talk.

By the time I was finished (2 hours later) I look Chinese, well, my eyes do anyway.

Some people really have a talent for this building shit.
Not me.
I say pay another 20 bucks and let some other choad go Oriental.
I’m an artist, damn it, not Norm Abrams.

~m

Norm Abrams, I’m not

I’ve been promising my wife that I’d put together a cabinet for the kitchen.
She bought it several weeks ago and everytime I’d walk through the kitchen I swear I could hear “baaaawk, baaaawk . . . “coming from inside the box.
Its purpose was supposedly going to reduce some of the cabinet clutter and organize the pot and “pandemonium” wreaking havoc in the heart of our home.

How hard could it be to put together a small and innocent antique cabinet?

I’m no Norm Abrams, alright? Building things just isn’t my thing (stop laughing, Laho).

I consider myself a reasonably intelligent man but when an inanimate object begins making a monkey out of me, I have a problem.
I should have known better when I spied the little gold oval sticker proudly proclaiming “made in China” on all 76 pieces.

Assembling this hunk of shit (from the directions given) was worse than trying to comprehend quantum physics.
I seriously think the Chinese are out to get us, all of us.

Said directions were a series of “exploded” pictures; no words or explanations, just pictures . . . all 14 of them. Bastards.

Does the term 3-D puzzle of wood mean anything to you?

The cabinet was mainly black and I almost went frickin’ blind trying to screw this thing together. The phone starts ringing, I spill my coffee, I gotta take a crap and one of the cats starts throwing up a hunk of the Styrofoam packing this thing came in and I’m only Step #1.
I only have 13 more to go.
Please shoot me.
Point the gun at my brain stem and mercifully pull the trigger.
End my pain.

I think about throwing the damn directions away but err on the side of caution and instead start talking dirty to the sad looking unassembled pieces still littering the kitchen table. Things start clicking and I’m beginning to enjoy the dirty talk.

By the time I was finished (2 hours later) I look Chinese, well, my eyes do anyway.

Some people really have a talent for this building shit.
Not me.
I say pay another 20 bucks and let some other choad go Oriental.
I’m an artist, damn it, not Norm Abrams.

~m

Asshole

A death row inmate in Ohio feels lethal injection is unconstitutional cruel and unusual punishment.
Cry me a river, asshole.
Let me make sure I am crystal fucking clear on this; he raped and stabbed to death a 14 year old girl in cold blood and is complaining about the way he will die.

It’s cruel and unusual punishment?

Really? Come on, you disgusting cretin.

You are so low in the human decency scale that you’d have to climb a ladder to blow a snake, for God’s sake, you assclown.
You have no voice in this, as far as I’m concerned.
Shut the hell up and just die.
It frosts my stones to no end that we actually entertain the thought, all at the risk of political effin’correctness.
Please excuse my really bad French.

My wife served jury duty last week.
The case she was (almost) selected to serve on was fairly clean cut; a defendant was caught red-handed with handguns and drugs and was supposedly associated with a murder.
22 some odd State Troopers were standing nearby to give their testimony against this slimy piece of shit.
Everyone awaiting a jury appointment was asked a series of questions to rule out bias and impartiality.

“Is there anyone here that has already formed an opinion regarding this case?”

My wife {God love her} raises her hand and is called to the judge’s bench.

The conversation went something like this:

“Mrs. Murphy, you’ve already formed an opinion on this case?”

“Yeah. Guilty.”

“Mrs. Murphy? You’re excused.”

There may have been a bit more conversation but that’s all the ammo I needed to write this post.

What am I missing here?
Our judicial system is on way more drugs than Jimi Hendrix was when he was playing Woodstock.
Really, what am I missing here?
As far as Romell Broom goes, screw him.
I say fry his pussy death row ass . . .
And that’s almost too good for the likes of him.
As a taxpayer, I’m so sick and tired of paying for 3 squares a day, a bed with blankets and a roof over the head of slimebags like this guy.
I rant, therefore, I am.
Pissed? Ayup.
Can you tell stories like this bother me a bit?
Please excuse me while I go and vomit.
~m