Cashiers and Counting

When I was a little kid I wanted nothing more than to be a "service station man" like my dad. At that time he had a full serve service station and shop. This was in the days where the service stations actually worked on cars, not just sold you stale Twinkies and flat diet coke. My glorious achievement was reached by the age of thirteen when I started working at my grandparent's gas station part time. At first I was cleaning bathrooms and stocking drink machines. Later, when I was older I was a cashier. Now this station wasn't a convenience store. We sold cigarettes, gas, and oil. That's it. That's all. If you wanted a hot dog or slurpee, then you went somewhere else. Being a perfectionist, I decided the best way to be a cashier was to never need an adding machine. We didn't have a cash register, just a cash box, and  a calculator. And calculators are for people who can't add. Now I'm not saying that I was perfect, or that I never made any mistakes but the more I worked, the better and faster I got. Finally the truth was that I really didn't need any mechanical device to make change. This little diatribe may sound inane and basic. I promise, it's not. Go to your local fast food restaurant and when the bored looking, pimple faced, pervert behind the counter says "$10.26 please.", hand him a twenty, two dimes, a nickel, and a penny. Watch as the little bastard stares back at you in disbelief as if your the dumbass who doesn't know what he is doing. These little pubescent rug rats no nothing about money, or making change, and they have a damn machine. All they have to do is push buttons! Yet even with all of this technology at their fingertips they still will look at me in wonder until my heads spins around, the vein in my forehead sticks out, and announce to them that they owe me $10.00. Once they have been given the answer, you know the one that required half a second of thinking to process, they are usually happy and continue on to the next poor sap. But sometimes, sometimes there are the brave few who want to argue about how much you gave them, and how you are wrong. I know I know. You shouldn't take advantage of the weak minded, and yes I'm and arrogant asshole, but if you're going to be an ass to me then it's game on! I know you make minimum wage, and your life sucks, and your girlfriend is cheating on you. But I don't really give a shit, at least, not if you're going to insist on being rude. I think of it as doing my part for humanity. I'm simply pointing out to the world all of the future IRS agents, before they realize their inner dreams and set out to personally destroy you, and me. So next time you buy fast food, do the world a favor. Give them a test, and let the games begin.

It seems that some people in the outter edges of my life have decided to judge me. Not for something I have done. Not for something I may have done. Simply for the fact that I belong to a certain organization. An organization with great historical roots. You see, I am a freemason. It is something I am very proud of. I am very proud of the things we do in our community and the lifelong bonds I have made with the men that I have met. I carry no shame wearing a Masonic ring or having a Masonic sticker on my vehicle. I consider this affiliation quite an honor. However to certain people, this is not honorable. These people are unknowing, close minded, persecutors hiding behind what they have read in the national enquirer or seen in conspiracy minded television shows. So, my invitation to you is this. Step out of the shadows you seem so comfortable hiding in. Open your little mind just a little bit. Try and spread love, instead of intolerance. If you can do these things, perhaps we can be friends, the way God intended. If this is to much to ask of you remember one thing. What you say about me, and the rumors that you spread, say nothing about my character or the man I am. They only prove that you believe yourself to be perfect. Becauses after all, " he who is without sin should cast the first stone.". This is the first, and last time you will have my attention. I'm waiting.

Where are MY kids???

Today is Tuesday. For most people, the second day of the work week. Fortunately, I was off yesterday. In fact, my wife, kids, and I spent the whole day together. Well kinda. My daughter who is eleven, thinks she is 19. She has developed the attitude of a woman scorned, without being scorned. My wife assures me this will get worse before it gets better and let me just tell you. I can't wait. What was once my beautiful little girl is now some evil entity residing in her ever maturing body. Just yesterday her attitude cost her, her friends, her phone, the computer, and anything else I could think of. Her response, "I don't care." Great. You don't care. Well I do care, and I'm the boss! Needless to say she spent most of the day and evening in her room. My son..... My boy! My boy is nine. My boy is into sports, farting, and eating. All things manly. He's also a big computer gaming guy. But not anymore.... Just yesterday his mom and I overhead a conversation he was having over the phone with one of his buddies. Then out of nowhere we heard him tell his friend he couldn't go onto this gaming website anymore one that I have to pay for because he was banned. My wife called him into the room we were in and asked him about this. "Why were you banned?" she asked. To this he replied something about some kid being mean and cussing on the website. To this she replied "Ok, but why were YOU banned?" Again he said something about a boy cussing to which he was then asked what did he say? He wouldn't say, so he was asked again. Then he was told to spell it/ "F U C K." My wife went ape shit! He was immediately chewed up one wall and down the other and promptly sent to his room. Throughout all of this I stayed very quiet, for two reasons. One, I was doing the best I could not to laugh my ass off. Two, I knew at any moment the rage that she had boiling inside of her could, and would, be rightfully directed at me. After a few hours, and a few "I'm sorrys..." both children were allowed to come back into the living room and spend good wholesome quality time with us the parents of the fucking year. So beware out there all you moms and dads. One day your sweet, loving, innocent children may disappear to, leaving you to ponder what the hell you did to deserve this. As for me, I'm just glad to be at work today!

The holiday before Christmas!

Halloween is upon us. Well, within a couple of days. It's a great holiday on it's own, without being overshadowed by Christmas decorations. Yes, they are already displayed in all their grandeur in the local stores and hey. I'm all for capitalism, but let's give the devil's holiday it's due justice! I mean when else in the year can snot nosed little rug rats get all dressed up, knock on the doors of people they don't know, and demand shit? Tell me, when else? Not only is this behavior accepted, it's actually encouraged and rewarded. Now my wife and I (at least for this year) still take our little demons out trick or treating, so we're not at home all that much. But, nevertheless, when we are at home, we give out candy too. We both really enjoy seeing the kid's costumes who come to the door. Some of them we know, some we don't. Some we're glad we don't. But here is where my problem comes into play. The older kids. If your old enough to stay at home by yourself........piss off. Don't knock on my door. Go bother somebody else. You're not cute, and your not welcome. I'm not giving out seconds, and I don't care about your brother's cousin who couldn't come because he's in jail. Tough shit for him. And don't ring my doorbell after midnight. There is a real possibility of me meeting you at the door half naked and armed, if you do. This would undoubtedly guarantee a speedy retreat on your part. Oh and one more thing. If see you stealing any candy from any deserving little carpet crawlers, I will whip your ass, with your plastic candy toting pumpkin. So Happy Halloween, and I'll see you out there!  

I don't know about you, or the rest of the world. All I know is that I spent quite a bit of time looking for who I was and where I fit in. I thought of it as all poetic and shit. You know. Man searching for himself. The one true good soul in a world of corruption. OK, ok , ok. Yes, I did watch soap operas when I was a child. My mom made me and that is the story I'm sticking to. Anyway. I did alot of aimless wandering and pouting and basically thinking nothing. Along my path there were many different medications, shrinks, and diagnoses. Then one day, a light came on. I don't know if it was God, some form of higher power, or just a general terror of continuing on the same path that I was on. The path that was obviously leading nowhere, in more ways than one. The light I am referring to wasn't some blinding ray from heaven, just a simple idea. The idea that maybe I wasn't supposed to figure out who I am. Maybe I was supposed to figure out who I'm not. This was easy at first. I had amassed quite a list of things that I had done that I was not the least bit proud of. It became obvious to me that I, at the very least, didn't want to be the kind of person who did those types of things anymore. Now don't get me wrong, I wasn't a rapist or bank robber, but the person I was, was not the person I wanted to be. Other things took more time to notice, and therefore change. This process has not ended yet and I hope it never does. Today I am still not the person I want to end up being.The guy I am now is not the one I want immortalized on a piece of granite in a graveyard. Not yet. Right now I'm just one more asshole trying to get by and be the best he can be. I have a nasty mouth, but I don't litter. I may not shave every day, but it's not because I was hung over and forgot. My kids may not be perfect, but they are perfectly mine. I used to tell people that I didn't give a shit what they thought. That wasn't true. It is today for the simple reason that you may know who I am better than I do. All I know is that for me, It is irrelevant for me to figure out who I want to be. I just have to figure out who I don't want to be.

How to stay married

Fourteen years ago today I married my best friend. My favorite person in the whole world to pick on and aggravate! We have been through many different trials and hardships since then. Yes, most of them were caused by me. What is amazing to me is that not only has she put with an enormous amount of bullshit from yours truly, but that she at least seems to still love me. I know. It is amazing! While we have had our share of tough times, I'm sure they number no more than any one else's. We have however, been truly blessed by the most wonderful children in the world. Over the past fourteen years we have laughed, cried, and fought. And all of this we have done without separations, custody battles, or restraining orders. I wouldn't say that life is always a barrel of roses. In fact there are often an abundance of thorns. But life is life, and the most I could ever ask for is to share it with my best friend. My wife has kept me sane, nourished my strangest ideas and dreams, and somehow tricked me into sobriety. For all of these I am eternally grateful. I can only hope that I have been half the spouse that she has been. Now before you start crying your little eyes out into your coffee I feel it is my pleasure, nay, my duty to offer up some advice. My maternal grandparents were married for over 51 years, and I had the pleasure of hearing my grandfather answer this question on numerous occasions. When asked "How can you stay happily married for that long?". His answer was simple, effective, and has served me well. "I just say yes mam."

I am connected. Connected to the world, the web, to everything. I am hooked up, turned on, and logged in! I have a Blackberry that keeps me constantly updated while I am on the go. I have an Ipad for ease of use while waiting, or wasting time, anywhere. I have a laptop and home pc gracing my humble abode. All of these stream dsl wirelessly through my network at home. I am connected. It's not difficult to guess that I, like a lot of men, am into techy things. I want the latest and greatest and fastest. With all of these connections comes an almost strangely secure feeling. The feeling that if anyone in the world ever needs me, I can be found. The trick to this is that I said "I can be found.". You see, It's real simple. I don't wear a collar and I don't need a leash. There is no one in this world that has any type of right to know where I am at all times. All of these things are for my pleasure, not yours. If you call and I don't answer, it doesn't mean the phone is dead. I might just not want to get off my lazy ass and answer it. If you email me, You'll probably eventually get a response. And for god's sake if you post stupid shit on my Facebook page then I will more than likely have one less dumb ass friend. I think that more and more of us feel that we have to answer the phone, or respond to whatever summons we receive simply because it makes us feel important. Some one wants us. Oh joy! There is some poor sap out there needing us for something! Well paint my lips and call me pretty. Next time your phone rings do me a favor. Think about me, and don't answer. I'm not saying to not address your commitments. But lets get real. If you're sitting on the couch, with your wife snuggled up, and the movie going, then that is what is most important. The phone, text, email, and online chat rooms can wait. I promise, all those little problems will be there in the morning. Oh shit! I gotta go. My phone is ringing!

Rednecks and the Trailer Park Kid

I am not a redneck. I am not a redneck. I am not a redneck. Look, I've mentioned before that I was born and raised in the south. I don't know that I would be happier anywhere else but here. Of course, I've never lived anywhere else either so maybe that is somewhat of an unfair comment. I have nothing against other parts of the U.S.A but this is home. This is where I figuratively "hang my hat". But make no mistake. It is not a cowboy hat. Just because I'm from the south, Georgia, the land of Dixie, doesn't mean that I am a redneck. I don't drive a jacked up 1995 two tone four wheel drive Chevy. My truck is a two wheel drive thank you very much. I don't have a gun rack and boxes of bullets littering my vehicle, they're all put away in the house. I don't wear cowboy boots, they hurt my feet. My family never owned slaves nor traded slaves. We traded horses and were farmers. Now other than the whole slave thing, I don't see anything wrong with these other activities. I mean there is nothing wrong with chewing tobacco and killing Bambi's mom, is there? Where my dislike comes for the label "redneck" is very simple. I could give two shits what you call me, but my kids are a different story. I expect them to grow up and act like they have a fucking clue as to how to behave in a civilised society. Don't judge asshole you're no different I would hope! We all want our children to live better lives than what we have. I'm not bitching about living an unfulfilled life. I have a great life. But, we all want our children to be the best that they can be. My dad told me when I was a kid that he didn't give a damn if I grew up to dig ditches, as long as I dug the best damn ditch I could. I understand that now. There is honor in that, and while you may not give a shit about honor, I do. The point is I don't want my kids labeled with a term that would cause at least some of the world to not hold them in the highest regard. This may come off as sounding kind of snotty and by no means do I intend it to. If my son decides to be a rodeo clown, then I'll be there cheering his little red nose wearing ass all the way! If my daughter brings home the guy from the trailer park with the worst reputation, then I'll kill the mother fucker and applaud her for at least giving love a chance. I only want what is best for them. But, all this being said I have to admit, there is a Skoal can ring in my blue jeans, and a deer rifle in my bedroom, and god knows, I do love to go mud bogging and fishing. Well shit! Maybe just maybe I do have a mild sunburn around my neck. Son of a bitch. Oh well. I'll still kill the little bastard from the trailer park!

Gray hairs and Jihadists

It becomes more and more apparent to me in the recent years that I, and by the way you to, are becoming older. This sounds like an easy enough statement to understand, it's not like it's written in a foreign language. See it all started a few years back when I noticed that some of my favorite music was now on the local oldies station. Screw That! They must have made a mistake, because ha ha ha....I'm not old. The next thing that happened was I turned thirty. Now my lovely wife is older than I am and had already passed this accursed milestone and of course, me being the asshole that I am, rubbed it in endlessly. She however took another approach and was very gracious and let me just stew in my own misery. The truth is it never crossed my mind that I would care at all, until after it happened and the realization hit me that I was now in my thirties... That's it! I'm done! Where is the Viagra and Ben Gay? I mean damn, really? Me, in my thirties. After a few years of utter annoyance, I recovered from this catastrophe, which I might add was only because of the fact that I was never offered any other choice. But now I have a new enemy on the age front. One that is as sneaky as a terrorist on crack cocaine wearing a pink bunny costume. You know. You see one on the street and think "What the hell is that?" and then the thought is gone. These terroristic little bastards breed like rabbits on fertility drugs, and will settle for nothing less than total head domination. Be warned my friends! They are gutless, colorless, sneaky sum bitches! It starts with one. One little gray hair. The next thing you know you look in the mirror and they've got fucking base camps set up in your temples! The even send out platoons to infiltrate any facial hair you might have. Now this is just to fucking much. And while this is as unacceptable to me as being circumcised by a blind angry housewife, this is not where it ends. Oh hell no! See, these little terroristic pricks aren't really the end all. They are just the first wave. The blitzkrieg bombardment. The first strike until utter annihilation! Like an island atoll after a nuclear strike is how my head may one day look. The only thing left of a once courageous battle between the forces of good and evil. A bald and barren landscape, dotted only by age spots and the lonely sole survivors of this once lush and hospitable scalp. So give it up guys. When you see an old bald man, nay, a once proud and distinguished gentleman. Know that he to has seen war. War that took place atop his head, and in plain view for all the world to see. Salute him, and let him know you care because hell, give it a few years son, this could be you. I have to go now. It's time for my next Minoxidil treatment. What's that? Do I hear Taps playing in the background?

My wife's.......problem

Hello. My name is Random and I am an......oops. Wrong discussion. I'm always more than happy to talk about myself, but what is consuming my every nerve today is not me. It's my wife. My wife has a problem. Some might even call it an addiction, an inner demon, a progressive and uncaring disease. My wife, is a speeder. She has a foot made of lead. It may have nail polish on it with gold flakes, but her foot is made of lead. Like Sammy Hagar said, she can't drive 55. In fact I'm not sure she can drive 85. Her disease has caused our family to undergo enormous heartache and has personally brought about every grey hair in my head. Now I love my wife. She is my best friend, and there is truly no one else I would rather pick on, spend the rest of my life with. But holy shit. Where the hell does this end? She is the only person I know who has carried her addiction down so far. I'm telling you she has dug such deep holes that the assholes in China are even pissed. I thought that I had solved the problem some time back. I bought her a nice little luxury sedan with a four cylinder engine. For those of you who aren't car people, that means it is slow. But oh hell no. She's a winner and every person going the same direction she is, is destined to lose. Her latest debacle is still under way and while some of it has been taken care of, in one county, we still have one to go. Oh, I didn't mention that? She's a binge speeder, because one ticket is just not a big enough fix for her anymore. Now, the county I live in and all the ones surrounding it are overjoyed when my beautiful mate passes through, but I'm thinking that maybe a 12 speed is in order. Nah, let's make it a 10 speed. But, things could be worse. I married a beautiful, caring, redhead. She's not a drunk, a druggie, or a cheater. In fact she is certainly the sanest person in this crazy wedded bliss that we share, but damn hunny. Please for the love of god, and my sanity, slow the fuck down!

Bacon, Eggs, and Opening Day!

This weekend is opening day for deer season where I live, and opening weekend is important. All the little rednecks living within myself and my neighbors are just bursting at the seems to journey forth into the great dark woods and shoot a prize winning buck. Now I like deer hunting as much as the next red blooded southerner, but I'm not going. It's Sunday morning, the air is cold and crisp, and I'm typing away on my iPad drinking coffee. Why on earth would you ask would a guy like me be sitting home on such as superb morning as we have today? It is all very simple. I awoke this morning to my beautiful wife laying next to me commenting on the two boys who were already awake in my den. See, I have to kids, a son and daughter, which multiply into four on any given weekend. I truly love my kids best friends, and having them stay with us whenever the mood strikes. But today my daughter spent the night elsewhere, so it's just two boys, sitting and talking about...weel i don't know. So after arising from a short nights slumber I made my way past two dogs with their legs crossed and tears rolling down their face to start a pot of coffee. Upon taking the dogs into the yard the breeze came by, and there it was. The realization that today was the day, the day all men wait for all year long. The thought of hopping into the truck with my rifle and camoflage was short lived though. I walked back into my modest three bedroom ranch and was immediately asked "what's for breakfast dad?" I don't know. Let me pour down a cup of coffee and I'll figure it out. Thirty minutes later I had bacon frying, eggs scrambling, music going, and crescent rolls in the oven. There was a bit of discussion prior to this about eating crescent rolls for breakfast but whatever. After the task at hand had been completed I awoke my wife again and we all ate together. I must say that the dogs especially enjoyed the leftover bacon and eggs. And right now, a half hour after breakfast has been ingested I sit alone with my thoughts and wonder why it truly is that I am here, and not thirty feet in the air staring down my unsuspecting prey. The answer is quite simple. I have the rest of my life to sit in trees and freeze my backside off. I've got a few short years where I'll have my family to myself relying on me to answer that most important question of the day. What's for breakfast dad? This morning, opening morning, couldn't have turned out better.

My dog named Damnit

One day, I am gOing to have a dog named damnit. Right now, I live in a nice little neighborhood and have two Tweens. I'm not exactly sure what they're "tween" but their good kids, you know, full of sarcasm, sugar, and caffeine. While I'm sure my kids would have no problem at all calling the dog while swearing their kittle asses off, my wife might not see this as the best idea. My house is like a zoo of misfits. We have one dog with one eye and one who insists on shitting everywhere and basically thinks he is a cat. We also have a beautiful little stray cat that i brought home. She's was always well mannered and behaved until her balls dropped, she turned into he, and now spends evey waking minute hunting and bringing us anything she he can. Now this may all sound fairly familiar to you but im not finished. We have rats. My wife says they are hamsters, but they're rats. I don't know about you but I was raised that the idea, was to keep the rodents outside the house. Go figure. We've had as many as four, but thankfully the good lord called their little rat asses home and now we're down to two, for the moment. I must admit though they are quiet and well, thats all they have going for them.... Lastly we have a bird. My wife loves birds. I tried to tell her that I bought her every bird in the world and set them free so that she could enjoy their beauty wherever she went. Yeah. She told that I was mean and full of shit. Full of shit? Absolutely! Mean? Never! So either way we are now the proud owners of a little, blue, obnoxiously loud bird. But my dream still remains! The perfect animal will be mine one day. A small, not to small, manly looking dog. Maybe a jack russel, or a beagle. His name has been ordained by the gods. He shall be called Damnit. I can hear it now. "Come here Damnit!", "Stay Damnit!", "Roll over Damnit!", I could and will go on and one. Weshall be the best of friends and he will only chew on command and on my wife's best shoes and purses. Youmay think I'm a dumb ass and maybe you're right but hey, everybody has to have a dream. And my dream is Damnit....damnit!

Old people rock, and not just in chairs!

I have always hung around with old people, or at least what I considered old. I've even been told by certain people in my family that I was born old. I'm not sure if this is a compliment, or just a subtle way of telling me that I'm grouchy and smell funny. Either way, old people are cool. They've been around. They know things. The first thing you learn when hanging around with the elderly is that you don't have to ask for their advice because they are going to give it to you whether you want it or not. For instance, did you know that men of any age, are still men. Yes ladies go give grandpa a hug and have a seat on Santa's lap at the Christmas party. Trust me, they aren't smiling because they're having they're picture taken. But thats not to say that grandma is off the hook. Older women are even more devious than younger women and if you think about it, why wouldn't they be. They have had a lot more practice! One thing that seems to be universal in the wrinkly crew is the fact that they don't give a shit what they say and who they say it too. And don't piss them off, they're on borrowed time. Any moment could be they're last and if your not careful, yours too. But all this aside, our previous generations can be the best teachers of your life. They have been of mine. All that useless bullshit that they endlessly give forth is pure gold, ok maybe fools gold. But it is knowledge and some old fart once said knowledge is power. The youth challenged have helped mold our nation and the last time I checked, thats pretty damn impressive. So the next time some old guy or gal, yeah I said gal, bends your ear for what seem like an eternity, pull up a chair next to me and soak it in because old people rock, and not just in chairs!

My moderator broke!?!

Moderation is the key.  Chemicals are good in moderation, but my moderator broke some years back. For quite a few years coffee and cigarettes were two of my favorite things. After all, they took the place of Guinness ale and Crown Royal whiskey. This was a pretty good trade off, at least for me. I'm certainly not saying that drinking is bad or that cigarettes are good. In fact I'm saying I loved them both very much. But one kept me from being the semi-normal person that I am today and the other one kept that same semi-normal person from breathing well. So they are both gone. Coffee however. Coffee is consumed by this neurotic, egotistical, worry some, perfectionist in vast quantities. Not enough to kill a racehorse, but certainly enough to make me piss grounds and my prostate scream. Like I said my moderator broke years ago. I don't know how to do things half ass. I'm either going for the gold or lets just be honest, I'm not fucking doing it! Every moment of my life is on some type of schedule and the word busy is just not adequate to describe my existence. I'm not saying I'm perfect. I'm well aware of what an ass I am and if I happen to forget my lovely wife is always there to remind me. It's a job she does so well that she has even given my friends and coworkers the same benefit. At any given moment while trying to enlighten them into the scenario of how much better things would be if they would just do it my way her words come pouring through. You're an asshole! Yes. Thank you. I'll be here all week. I am however very grateful to have these people in my life because without them I'd be happy, let's just say even less nice than I already am. Now I'm not poor mouthing. I don't have what our friendly therapists like to call "low self esteem". In fact, I've probably got enough for me, you, and the horse you rode in on. I once made the amazing discovery that I was so egotistical as to think that I didn't even have an ego. This astounding realization was immediately confirmed by loved ones and friends. When it comes right down to it, I am an imperfect perfectionist. That's all. No more. No less. It's not that I have some deep seated psychological issue at least that I'm telling you about. It's just that my moderator is broken, and come to think about it. I'm not sure the little fucker ever worked at all.

Bless His Little Heart

I'm from the south. That is, the southern part of the United States. And like everyone from the south I have a southern grandmother. She was born here, in the south. She has lots of old stories, recipes, and of course sayings. Now my grandmother is a good god fearing, christian woman, who by her own account has never ever said anything bad about anyone. See, you to can say whatever you want about a person as long as after you say it you use these four little words. God bless his little heart. I can hear it now. "He grew up just around the corner from us and always went to church and was in the boy scouts with your dad and grandfather. I just can't imagine why he would go and leave his family and get two other women pregnant at the same time. God bless his little heart!". Or this one, which was said while shopping with another woman. "Why sweetie I would never have thought you were that big. Do you really wear that size? Bless your little heart." I could add to the list into infinity. Now I truly believe that one of two things is true. Either my grandmother is truly a kind  and wonderful woman who just starts saying things before the thoughts have finished in her head, or she is the most calculating, devious woman I have ever known who pulls it all off beautifully, while making melted cheese sandwiches in the oven or shoving fried chicken legs into her pantsuit jacket pockets at restaurants. Whichever it is, I'm not so sure that I want to know. But I do know this. The next time you want to tear some body's testicles off and shove them down their throat, just think of my grandmother, and don't forget to add, bless his little heart.

That's not nice....

That's not nice. You know, no matter what my little inner rugrat might think, I generally want to be a nice person. A good person. Someone who my wife and kids are proud of. It's my opinion that most people think they are doing the "right" thing. I mean Hitler probably thought he was one hell of a guy. Dumbass. While I may want to be a good guy with a nice white hat who always saves the day, I'm not. Im not a hero. I'm just the averave workaholic perfectionist with a lot of useless shit running through his head. I have a dirty mouth and an even dirtier mind. It's not nice..... Well picking your nose isnt nice either, but it beats sending millions of people to an early grave. After all, our elected officials constantly get themselves elected by not being nice to eachother. In fact, we even pay for them to do it! Congratulations to you. While none of us may be the person we thought we would turn out to be or like to be, I think we should all just give ourselves a break. Perhaps we could just be nice. Yeah right... That's Bullshit. I'm way to cynical to believe that and I wrote it. I guess the point is keep your dumbass opinion to yourself because the truth is, no one wants to hear them. I really don't care what you think about religion, or politics, or how tough it is toile training your two year old. You are entitled to your opinion. I just don't want to have to hear it at length while I'm trying to figure out how to download music illegally while making breakfast. And by the way, don't pick your nose, or your ass, or kill millions of people.....It's just not nice.

It's not fair!!!!

It's not fair. How many times have I heard people say that. My kids, my employees, my customers, my wife. It's not fair. Well. No. It's not fair. Nothing is fair. This is survival of the fittest baby and it ain't fair. Life, work, relationships. Nothing. Nada. None of it is fair. Here's the thing. Who the hell ever said it would be fair. You got wants, well go fucking work for them dumb ass. And by the way, even when you do that, sometimes you still fall short. Why? Because life ain't fair. But if you think about it, we only cry this familiar tune when things don't go our way. You don't see the useless asshole who won the lottery crying all over that huge check sobbing and whimpering the words "Its just not fair!". Uh uh. Our inner spoiled brats say that when they stick their bottom lips out, pout and don't get their way. You don't like your life? Change it. You don't like your job, get another one. Put your big boy underoos on, and quit crying.

Hi. This is my first time so be gentle. Of course that's not what any of us are use to, is it? We head full steam into unknowing circumstances throughout life because of our wants. Our needs. Money. Sex. Drugs. Food. Then! When things don't go our way or the way we think they should go we sit back and piss and moan as if we are more deserved than the next person. My favorite saying is.... Ok it's my second favorite saying that we all need to hear at times and the inner brat inside me screams a million times a day. "Shut The Fuck Up!". You don't like your cashier job at mcdonalds and think I really want to hear about it, Shut the fuck up! You bitch about not having any money, join the fucking crew asshole! The point of this mindless dribble is that the sugar jonesing whinig two year old in my head sometimes has a hard time keeping his mouth shut and takes over the grown up. The problem with that is I don't particularly like the little fucker or the fact that he seems to get us into trouble. Me being the adult, I have to pay the penalty. Little bastard! So here's my idea, I'll write down this useless nonsense here for your enjoyment. Is this normal, probably not but I don't have any more millions to give away to the friendly shrinks in town. Besides they all already know my problems, or lack there off. Oh, by the way I'm more than happy for your input and mindless bullshit as well. The worst thing that could happen is you too could put a few counselors out of business, causing us all to shut the fuck up.