I have been away from blogging mostly due to the time I have not had to sit and write.  Now I will be posting something everyday again.  It is weird how it is so hard to get back into things once you stop for awhile.  It reminds me of working out.  Damn, I have to start that again too.  Keep your eyes peeled for more wacky posts.

Where did it go?  I had it a second ago, but now it is nowhere to be found.  This desire to log in and write about my daily life, what pisses me off, how I am going to change the world, stories, dreams, poems, and ripped jeans.  When I stop for just a few days I can watch my readership drop into the gutter, not that it should be anywhere else these days.  I need to write more on-line, taking the daily pencil scribble out of the spiral notebooks and give it electronic life.  Make the keys dance the notes the pen licked on the paper, waltzing into the minds and corrupting all who read this symbiotic slosh.  Pills?  Where are my pills?  I need something to give reason to this psycho babble, and connect me with my societal comrades teetering on the edge of rooftops and spitting on streetwalkers.  The hunger for words is back. Going to take my camera for a walk.  I will be back in full force, so “Tell a Friend!” like good ole Alpha Beta asked.  See what I can conjure, it will make you smile.

Another dream where I did not know anyone…The people I was with were trying to pass a police exam, that another one of my friends failed. You had to go into a department store situation and the retail clerk was supposed to piss them off and they were supposed to take it, and turn the situation around without getting pissed. The test was in a big auditorium, and it was packed. I went with this guy and once he was in line with the nicest retail clerk in the world, he started to flash his badge, and say he was a cop; the clerk was saying that people usually don’t show that they are cops at all. Then this lady cop in charge of the test shows up and was tripping off of ants in a different area going after sugar. This is when I decided to leave, and watched this other guy mistreat his girlfriend that was in a wheel chair. He gave her like six bucks and told here he would meet her in a different state later that day, and the money was for something to drink if she needed it. I decided to lay down against a railing and snooze until the testing resumed, I guess after the ant issue was resolved. Then I worried that I was going to snore too loud, and I woke up to my alarm.

I will write more later if I remember more. Back to sleep soon.

Waking up mid way through the night I could not remember the dream I had. It was an odd one, but before I dozed off again, I told myself to remember the next half of the night’s dream. It worked, and I have another weird dream to share.

There I was in a dark bar with some “friends” and we are all sitting at a wooden table on wooden benches, laughing and having a grand time. Then the girl that I was “with,” who just happens to be the pot selling mom from that show Weeds, starts getting together with this other guy who I did not know in my dream, and have no relation with in real life either. They then proceed to have sex on the floor behind me. After they finished the girl went somewhere and so did the girl that came with the guy, leaving the guy-now really drunk to chill with me.  I clenched my fist and thought about hitting this guy.  He said, ” Are you going to hit me?”  I said, “No not at all.”  He said, “Why is your fist ready?”  I said,” I thought you were going to hit me, so I am just ready to knock your ass out.”  Next thing I know I am taking him to the other side of the now closing bar, and turned him on his side so he would not choke on his own vomit.  His sister called, and I missed the call on his phone.  I called the number back, and she answered sounding cute.  I told her about her bro and she said she would come and get him, and asked if I wanted to go and get something to eat, which I did because I was starving.  After I hung up the phone, I woke up.

Well I have still not had a drop of drink or a puff of pot since May 8th, and I just looked in my freezer to put new frozen food away. Hey a whole pound and a half of great pot butter-down the drain I put it, and now there are some happy fish or sewage plant bacteria. LOL, I did not even bat an eye when grinding it with the disposal so the hot water would melt it quicker. Then I thought, shit I could have sold it to someone, or given it away to a friend. Oh well, I also ditched (in an undisclosed area other than MY garbage can) the last two pounds of bud shake I had with which I was going to make more butter or oil. Fuck it too many problems keeping that stuff around. Not that I wanted any, but why not be completely legal while I am at it. I am happy it is all over. Now for a wonderful evening!

On a grim note: I spoke with a friend who told me our other friend Solomone, passed away in his sleep last night due to a heart attack. He was only 26. He was not that close to me, but the time we spent together was priceless. He was a terrific guy, and he will be missed greatly.

On lunch break I see this atrocity and it almost made me regurgitate!

Supreme Court sharply limits use of death penalty

In a 5-to-4 ruling, the justices decide child rape isn’t a capital offense.

What is going on here? If someone rapes a child they should be put to death one way or another. Steal a child’s life by raping them-I think that murder is kinder. You sick bastards in the Supreme Court are now the rapists! Every child that is raped is now on you stupid ass pieces of shit! Looks like there needs to be an uprising. We the people need to become the people again, stop this flailing government from further putting us in this crap hole they call society, and bring us into a new era where we can be proud to live in this country and stand hand in hand with our fellow Americans. WAKE UP PEOPLE! Stop letting the people off who are getting off on our children! Does it have to happen to you before you will act? Wait till your child is raped and then come back and talk to me. First the gas prices, and now this! Maybe it is time to move to Canada. I am so upset it would not be a good idea for me to continue typing right now. Y’all might learn some new words.

Here are the little fuckers so if you see them on the street please throw rotten eggs and tomatoes-you know how we used to show we disprove of the acts we see on stage in front of us.

Also please write letters and let them know how you feel; here is the address:

And of course their names are here below as well:

Had this weird dream that I can’t remember fully again. It had an Othello play in it, and we were fixing stuff in this barn, and then there was this hippy revival and everyone was dancing. Too odd to describe right now, I have to go to work so I can get off early! Good Morning, have a great day… And if I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night. =P

I can’t figure out how one person can get a studio apartment so dirty in such a small window of time.  I know I cleaned my apartment not more than two weeks ago, and it got filthy already;  I am barely here.  It must fly in when I open the door, and because I keep the window open all of the time, but still.  I must shed a lot of skin cells.  They say about eighty percent of the dust in your home is from your own body shedding the old skin.  I know it is gross, but dust mites are even more disgusting, and to think that they are having a feast in my apartment is not pleasing.  Well I am almost finished cleaning the place, minus a little bit of vacuuming, and taking out the trash. It is not super sparkling, but I would have to spend a day in here to do that and it would not last more than a few days; I say it is good enough.  The important areas are super clean…i.e. the bathroom, kitchen, and sleeping area.

On another note:  I am going to stop cutting my own hair, and find a barber again.  It is not that I can not cut my own hair well, but that hair gets all over the place.  Not only do we loose over one hundred and eighty-six strands of hair a day, but these are cut ones too.  How does the cut hair get in the kitchen from the bathroom?  The Wonka Wash Mobile?  I feel it would be cheaper (Since my time is so valuable) to have someone cut it for me, clean the mess, finish quicker-minus driving and waiting, and a barber will also do a better job. Although, I hate the trial and error of finding a barber; just because a barber works well for a friend, they may not cut yours well.  Damn. Just damn.

Part of my dream I remember I think I was with two of my brothers, and I was purposely annoying one of them, like brothers do, while the other was driving. We went to a hospital where I bought a bunch of snacks, jerky and flattened dry fruit. I could not believe what a great selection they had, all sorts of great flavors that you would not see anywhere else. I am not sure who we were visiting because visiting hours were over, but I went to the room anyway where I found someone sleeping under covers so I left without making a sound. This was toward the end of my dream, and I still can not remember the first part of it.

The night before last, I had a dream where I was a covert special unit military guy watching a weapons storage, but I was working for the other side, yup…I was a spy. I was about to take the compound, but found myself playing this game first. We were playing a game where I stood opposite this other soldier with two foot pony walls made of brick behind us, where a each had a cup of some drink on the top, and the object was to knock the cup over. Never saw anyone knock a cup over, but then I was teleported to a mall. I am not quite sure of my roll there, but I do know that people were painting this new big ass mall. They were spray painting it with paint guns and compressors. The color was white, the design was elegant, the mall was enormous, but was far from finished.

Off the subject, ” You know when I’m down to just my socks it’s time for business that’s why they call it business socks.”  I have had this song by the Flight of the Concords stuck in my head for about three days now and it is driving me nuts. Hopefully it gets stuck in someone else’s head and leaves mine. I heard that medically passing it on is the only sure fire way to get a song, earworm, out of your head, although I can not find any proof that this is so; I may have dreamt it.

Here are the full lyrics I will pass on with a video link:

Aww yeah
That’s right baby.
Girl, tonight we’re gonna make love. You know how I know, baby? ‘Cause it’s Wednesday. And Wednesday night is the night that we make love. Tuesday night’s the night that we go and visit your mother, and I teach you how to use the video machine again, but Wednesday night is the night that we make love. ‘Cause everything is just right conditions are perfect. There’s nothing good on TV. Conditions are perfect. You lean in close and say something sexy like, “I might go to bed I’ve got work in the morning.” I know what you’re trying to say baby. You’re trying to say, “Oh, yeah. It’s business time. It’s business time.”

It’s business.
It’s business time.
That’s what you’re trying to say you’re trying to say let’s get down to business it’s business time.

It’s business.
It’s business time.
Next thing you know we’re in the bathroom brushing our teeth. That’s all part of it, that’s foreplay. Then you go sort out the recycling. That’s not part of it but it’s still very important. Then we’re in the bedroom. You’re wearing that ugly old baggy t-shirt from that team building exercise you did for your old work. And it’s never looked better on you.

Oh, team building exercise ’99.

Oh, you don’t know what you’re doing to me.
I remove my jeans but trip over them ‘cause I still got my shoes on. But I turn it into a sexy dance.
Next thing you know I’m down to just my socks and you know when I’m down to just my socks what time it is…it’s time for business. It’s business time.

It’s business.
It’s business time.
You know when I’m down to just my socks it’s time for business that’s why they call it business socks.

It’s business.
It’s business time.
Oh.
Ooh, makin’ love.
Makin’ love for two.
Makin’ love for two minutes.
When it’s with me you only need two minutes, ‘cause I’m so intense. Two minutes in heaven is better than one minute in heaven. You say something like, “Is that it?” I know what you’re trying to say. You’re trying to say, “Aww yeah, that’s it.” Then you tell me you want some more. Well I’m not surprised. But I’m quite sleepy.

It’s business.
It’s business time.
Business hours are over. Right, right.

It’s business.
It’s business time.

George Carlin will be missed after his seventy-one years of life that continues to touch many with his foul mouth quick witted humor, ever reminding us to use the freedom of speech awarded to us, and to never let the man get you down. I grew up watching Carlin-an innovator, a man of heart and soul, spreading knowledge and brutal honesty to everyone in earshot, and one of the most genius minds of our time. Even in passing he is still one of the funniest recorded comedians to date. This was the last thing I thought I would see after a weekend of not using the internet.

R.I.P George Carlin- Peace be with you, oh yeah and shit, piss, fuck, cunt, cocksucker, motherfucker, tits, fart, turd, and twat.

Here are seven words to remember him by-performed by Mr.Carlin himself.

6:45pm-Had to add this one an old friend posted in Carlin’s memory:

There is a guy with an interesting site about milk crates called Milk Crate Digest, who found my blog, and seemingly enjoyed my story. Pretty cool to know people read this rag. Now it is off to the shower and then have weekend fun…More later.

Forgot I posted this June 14, 2005, writing for this stupid asshole’s website, and I had to pressure him to give me a byline. Prick. I am taking it back!

Toilet paper can be left on the toilet top for over a month and no one will put it onto the spindle. Then when it does finally get installed, someone will notice that the roll is not installed correctly, and will take the time to flip the roll. They can flip it- but it is too hard for them to put the roll on the damn rod in the first place? Why?

Maybe they are having trouble with the discard. The discard is very difficult for some people to perform because of a lack of knowledge, poor hand dexterity, or simply a lower than average I.Q. If you are one of these people, don’t fret, I am here to help with a few pointers regarding the Discard.

The Discard:
1. Locate the toilet paper holder. It is usually somewhere to either the left or the right of the toilet if you are lucky, but sometimes it is behind you.
2. Grasp the empty tube and lightly slide it to the left or the right.
3. Now squeeze the tube and get a hold of the spring loaded rod inside the tube.
4. Still squeezing the tube, and rod, slide the end you are grabbing toward the longer portion of the remaining tube and rod.
5. Pull down and away, being careful not to drop the spring tube that may shoot you in the eye; slowly and carefully let the spring depress.
6. Remove the tube from the spring rod unit.
7. Keeping the spring rod unit together, slide a new roll of toilet paper over it, or if you do not have a new roll, any roll of significant girth will do.
8. Place one end of the spring loaded rod into the holder and then do the same with the other, making sure that the rod fully seats inside the holder.
9. You can wipe the sweat from your brow, it is all over, and as you know now, it was not as hard as you thought.

Did that help? Or is it the “it’s not my job” syndrome, but when they see it on opposite of the way they prefer it, it is “on wrong,” and they are the one who will save your soul by correction your installation error.

Whatever your problem is, STOP IT! Wipe your ass and shut your trap!

Till next time, when I will explain how pre-wet toilet paper is not a fun encounter, and I will go over a list explaining how screwed you would be in this situation. Workshop and Seminar $95 filling fast…July18-July 27. Email us now to and register.

Another from June 14, 2005 writing for the prick.

What the hell does this guy think he is doing? He is on the freeway perpetrating a real motorcycle, but with a max speed of 45mph. This is not even fast enough to stir up road- dust. Both of his tires are going flat, and I think he was wearing nylon pants. Nylon melts to the skin when you crash your bike on the freeway….but wait, he was only going forty-five, dipping into the thirties on inclines, I don’t think he could melt Saran Wrap at that speed. I can also guarantee his helmet was not close to upholding current D.O.T specifications.

While he was “on the freeway,” he was riding so close to the edge of the shoulder, the little punk would have sliced that helmet like a peach on that guard rail. Instead of going around him like everyone else, I decided to be nice, stay behind him, and get the shot. Tailgating this guy on the freeway probably made him feel secure; I was blocking him with- my car as a bumper- from people trying to take the exit at ninety, and there were many piling in behind me at ridiculous speeds. The flash from my camera startled him a bit….wobble, wobble-for a minute I did not think he knew I was there.

The guy himself was not really “there,” I figured he must have entered the freeway to get off at the very next exit, but he just kept on truckin’, passing the next exit. I was going to follow him and have a word, but I figured I would just get some stupid ass response from him anyway.

Good Luck Schmuck!

And another I wrote around June 15, 2005 for that prick…Notice the byline.

Summertime means several things in San Francisco. Hot weather is not one of them. If you want to see the thermometer rise above 70 degrees on a regular basis, I suggest taking your Bridge & Tunnel ass and moving it out to Fremont or some other god-forsaken suburban shithole. If you do happen to live in San Francisco like my pale white ass, summer means the street festival season! And more importantly, the return of yet another opportunity for idiots to get piss drunk with their boys.

Being the sucker for punishment that I am, I decided to round up a group of my own boys and girls for some good ole fashioned binge drinking over the past two weekends. Rather than bore the faithful readers of OC Idiots with a play-by-play description of antics that won’t even be funny to those involved, I’ve decided in my somewhat limited wisdom to provide a side-by-side comparison of the Union Street Festival and Haight Street Festival.

For those who aren’t familiar with the social scene in San Francisco, I’ll make the brief analogy of Union Street being George Bush on coke and Haight Street being some fucked up version of John Kerry or Howard Dean after doing some serious pot smoking. Put another way – Union Street is crawling with popped collar polo-wearing yuppie asswipes, whereas Haight Street is overflowing with ironic vintage T-shirt wearing hippies and hipsters. That being said, here are a few things I noticed while getting my drink on at these festivals.

Union Street Festival - the sun was out in full force, as were the pink polos (collars popped of course), Livestrong bracelets, tennis sweatbands, striped shirts, and even the occasional Abercrombie & Fitch purchased vintage T-shirt. And who was wearing these clothes, you ask? Mostly a bunch of drunk obnoxious white guys and the occasional white-washed Asian guy or girl. If there was a black person in attendance, I sure as hell didn’t see them. Either way, I felt like I was back in college at some lameass frat party. The only difference is that all of the drinkers were corraled into several beer gardens, which made for a long wait for beer. Once we finally made it up to the front of the beer line, we had the choice of Miller Lite or Sam Adams. Great fuckin’ choice. Especially when coupled with the cheap 12 oz beer cups they were being served in. After promptly downing our beers, we got the hell out of there and headed back to the rooftop deck of a friend where we could at least drink whatever the hell we wanted. Overall Rating: 3.1 (Note: rating would have been much lower if not for the eye candy).

Haigh Street Festival - the sun was out in full force again, but sadly, the pink polo wasn’t. In fact, I’ll take a guess that anyone wearing one would have promptly gotten their ass beaten. The crowd here was much more eclectic and every ethnicity under the sun was represented. While this scared the Chads and Jenns from the Marina out of attending, it made for a fun time in my opinion. Spontaneous raves broke out in the middle of the packed street, and many side streets were full of drunken (and who knows what else) revelers enjoying a glorious day. Liquor stores on the street were packed with cheap bastards like myself who opted for a pint of Fosters in a brown paper bag. It doesn’t get classier than that. Especially when you can drink the damn beer while walking by a cop chomping on a donut. After wandering the street getting a good buzz, we decided to continue the party at Cha Cha Cha where we had two pitchers of Sangria and got fucked up out of our mind. After getting completely obliterated, we jumped from house party to house party with the finest collection of Haight Street idiots. Beers were drank, pot was smoked, and a good time was had by all. So much in fact that none of us made it into work the following day. Now that’s what I call a good fuckin’ party. Overall Rating: 9.8 (Eye candy was scarce, but who gives a shit once the beer goggles kick in!).

By,

SF Jackass

Another I am taking back from the prick, sometime in June 2005.

Stepping through an art and wine festival in Novato, Ca, a small town about 25 miles North of San Francisco, I saw many interesting things. Pictures, paintings, singing rocks, beer or wine ($20 for the first glass and first beverage, I would not purchase), and lurking everywhere, were people with really bad feet-no color, no care, and no shame; I thought I was inside some Redneck television show. I was not feeling so hot in the first place, with the weather in the 90’s, and dehydration. I had on my croc hat, with its wide brim and cool high tech material, to whisk away perspiration, lending shade to the eyes, but only allowing me to see a foot and a half from the ground. I did not have to see the person to know if they were clean people, fat thin, ugly, nice, gay, or straight, shy, outgoing, sexy, or lacking fashion sense, I could tell just by looking at the footwear.

Women if you are going to wear open toe shoes, please paint the toenails, push back the cuticles, get a pedicure; they have places that do that for a reason. Do something. Those women that run those salons don’t like cleaning up your mess of a foot, but they have to for the sake of the world; these women are the superwomen of our sight. Thank goodness I was not eating lunch; I would have lost it on the sidewalk.

It should be a law. They outlawed thongs, so why not outlaw blatant presentation of really bad feet? If you let athletes foot run its course you could end up like the person in the picture above. Please people take care of your feet, or hide them. Repeat after me, “Closed Toe Shoes,” wonderful. Next time I see your nasty crusty feet on the street I will just have to pour caustic lye mixed with Pop Rocks, and Sprite on your scaled, swollen, and infected, out of control, dirty, stink-to remedy your poor habits’ harm.

And this goes for you too, Fatties! No pump fat, rising like a sourdough roll, should have to be seen either. FREE Chocolate! FREE Chocolate! Just look at those fatties run.

Guys don’t think you are excluded; you are as bad if not worse than the women and the fatties combine.

I was disgusted, I am disgusted.