Insane and bitter ramblings of a sober drunk

I’m drunk as shit but I haven’t had a drop of booze.

I’m slightly belligerent and a tad hostile.
The hostility of a drunk, that’s the messiest and slimiest load of crap to have to deal with.

I went to see an L.A. Kings game back when they still skated at the Forum in Inglewood and a fan for the opposing team (Calgary) went apeshit on me and my friends in the parking lot after the game. He was a big drunken fat white guy with a really swollen red face and as we drove away he pressed that big ugly face into the car window and made the oddest slobbering sound.

Drunken hostility man.

I feel drunk and a bit mean.
I feel like casting aspersions!
Love that.
Casting aspersions. Now that is something you don’t hear in the ghetto very often.
Hey Homes, stop casting aspersions, ay…

Three things got my goat on the way home tonight as I sat in the relatively empty bus tonight. I must have had a bad day.
In fact, I did. Have a sorta crappy day.
Let’s leave it at that. I’m in a good mood, outwardly…but inside, deep in my heart, there is latent anger, hostility, frustration, irritation; a filmy and filthy floating layer of scum coating the serene water surface of my soul right now. I’m not raging in the typical sense. I don’t punch holes in helpless household decorative scenery nor do I cop a passively hostile attitude to my family on the phone.

But I’m subtly aggravated. I’m glad I don’t grind my teeth at night.

Foodies must die!

I would so fucking hate owning a borderline high-brow downtown restaurant. Having to smile as I watch customers, day in, day out, dig into their meals with snotty refined airs about them would easily drive me to some fork assaults. As they delicately place the food in their mouths while everyone at the table watches in rapt wonder and curiosity, waiting for the person’s reaction so they can decide how they should feel about the food (before they’ve even tasted it, of course). Everything is contingent on this person, this tester, and no one can make up their fucking minds without this external validation. And once they all have a bite of their respective dishes they compare and oooh and ahhh over the choices the others have made and entirely turn the meal into an overblown social foodie orgy. They paid $12 for a meal, Yes, it should be good, yes, it should be somewhat well-prepared. But dudes, it will not blow your socks off. It’s food. Just eat it and don’t worry about the rest of the table.

Where can you rent common sense?

Rent-a-rim businesses. What in the hell. Is there a law written somewhere that these looting businesses must only open their doors in shitty neighborhoods? Oh wait, yes, there is law. It’s called the law of sound economic sense and living within one’s means…which are in abhorrently short supply in any hood. Are rims so important that you must rent them instead of purchasing them? Perhaps the fact you can’t summon the cash to buy a set of 4 round pieces of specially molded aluminum or iron that you can hang your Pep Boys tires on is a sign that something is wrong in your personal financial sector. I can’t even imagine what interest rates these inner city thieves charge their foolhardy customers. Essentially rent-a-rim businesses are financing bling. If you can’t buy bling, shouldn’t you maybe save or earn bling? Own bling? Rent-a-rim is the poser way. I wonder if, in the interest of financing bling, these places also have a special section where you can rent a real gold rope to hang around your thick neck?

I got your Alpha right here

Alpha is bullshit. Seriously, it’s bullshit. I’m so sick of Alpha this, Alpha that. What is Alpha, how can a man be more Alpha, how can he exorcise the Beta or Omega which imprisons his soul and deprives him of all his well-deserved pussy? Alpha is the holy grail, be Alpha and you can be anything. Alpha is loud and boisterous and confident and obnoxious and outspoken and overbearing and he has 22 inch biceps and he must take up as much space as rudely possible! Alpha! Fuck alpha. Hey man, I bet Alphas are really just the quiet and secretly ferocious dudes out there who don’t like to talk and hate crowds. I bet real Alphas don’t give a shit about anybody and they would be happiest if a meteor struck this planet down leaving them to share this globe with only about 300 other wandering nomads. That’s an Alpha you motha. Alphas probably wouldn’t be caught dead in a nightclub or wearing hair product.

The Mostest Crappy Lemonade Ever

Last week I took one of those weird trips to the local Rite Aid. The trip really served no purpose and my objective apparently was to break the monotony of the day by visiting this store and buying some really useless shit.  Such as a bottle of lemonade called “Ruby Kist.”  Ocean Spray was too expensive, what did I have to lose by spending about 1/3 its price for this citrus nightmare?  Let’s just say, there’s a lot to lose…as in my stomach contents.  This Ruby Kist crap, in spite of its bold packaging proclaiming that it is “naturally free of saturated fat and cholesterol” and that it contains “0g trans fat” is some of the most horribly tasting non-lemonade I’ve ever had the displeasure of drinking.  The lemon is so artificial, it reminds me of that really lame lemon filling in Hostess cakes, but in liquid form.  Still, I’m so cheap I will finish that damn bottle if it kills me. Would you like some lemon with that high fructose corn syrup?