Tag: Black Comedy

The Rule of 3 and How It Used to Be

What the fuck killed customer service I ask you?! It was a sudden death by any means, but a long lingering demise whose death rattle has yet to shake the bed. Its bad enough that now a days they have those goddamn Automated Messages calling to try and sell me shit. Back in the day at least I had some satisfaction at being able to tell an actual human to fuck off. Now what am I supposed to do? Insult the fucking thing by telling it it’s mother is a Tape Recorder that eats 8 track ass? Ok enough of that tangent now back to the point.

When I was growing up a great thing was there was NO Automated Anything, and that includes when one had to call  Customer Service for assistance. Today you have to deal with an Automated System that doesn’t understand what your saying, wastes 20 minutes of your time essentially going “I Don’t Understand” until your fucking insane, and then you get the option to speak to a living human being. Automation Menu’s aren’t the only change to Customer Service by a long shot.

Not only did I not have to deal with Automation Menus when I was younger, but the actual people I talked to were a far cry from the shit you have to deal with today. Back then the Customer Service Representatives damn well knew what Customer Service was. Look granted being in the Customer Service field fucking sucks big time because you have to spend 8 hours listing to people bitch and complain (or worse like curse you out or become insulting), but the fact is there are people who could and would do just that God bless them.

Its no secret that no matter what fucking job you have Cardiologist to Janitor at some point your going to have to Eat Shit (Its the same in  one’s personal life as well). Eating Shit is an unavoidable part of Life, theres nothing you can do about it but o just accept it and go on living for Christ’s Sake. I mean why do you think the saying “Eat Shit” is woven into our modern-day lexicon to begin with (there is also the prevalent saying “Shit Happens” as well don’t forget) It could be argued at this point in time that the phrase Eat Shit is a Lingual Icon. I know this post as stayed a bit here and there, but Sit Happens and if you don’t dig that then Eat Shit.

Now back to the point…..

For all those tuning in late or just skimming this post I’m writing about the difference between Old School Customer Service Vs. The Bullshit Customer Service of Today. As I mentioned at the beginning the first abomination is the Automated System which accomplishes nothing but wasting 20 to 30 minutes of your time as it simultaneously frustrating the Caller to the point of actual insanity. Then once the Caller has run the complete Automated Gauntlet they have the ability to talk to a living person.

The First Customer Service Rep. sounds like fucking Eeyorre the clinically depressed Donkey from Winnie the Pooh. I can picture the fuckers sitting slouched down inter seats, shoulders hunched over, eyes half open staring vacantly at a Computer Screen, just waiting to fucking die right there at work no less. A Caller then has to battle this emotionless and utterly unhelpful Pion’s (who’s more than likely making a noose out of their headset chord to hang themselves from the Florescent Soul Sucking office lights) monotone malarkey before the consent to allowing the Caller to speak to an alternate human being.

The Second Customer Service Rep. is some asshole who sounds like he’s bored out of his fucking mind, despises their job, and seems annoyed that the caller is bothering them. The Caller now must combat this Slacker Mentality while getting next to no where to the point The Caller feels as though they are just torturing themselves, and wonder is this shit worth it?!! If the Caller can get past this Snarky, Snide, and Often rather Rude individual asshole The Caller can advance to the next Customer Rep.

The Third Customer Rep turns out to be a throw back to the Golden Age of Customer Service. These Rep.’s are polite and professional, and this makes them extremely helpful as they can usually solve most problems rather quickly. If there is a larger issue at hand these Rep.’s will stay on the phone doing anything and everything they can until the problem is resolved. And even in the few rarer cases if after doing all they possible can to actually help a Caller they will leave you with a recommendation on how to further proceed because they really do want to help. The Rep.’s are the true blue backbone of the dying Customer Service Field, and Bless these Blissful Beings to the Four Corner’s of the Earth.

My final point is this the Companies that hire the first two types of Customer Service Reps to fucking begin with. Its enough bullshit to endure the Automated Assault, but then to follow it with yet another 2 shit shows. This is why I’m fucking sick of Big Companies/Corporations whining and crying like spoiled brats that there is no more Employee or Customer Loyalty. If you want more motherfucking money PROVIDE BETTER FUCKING CUSTOMER SERVICE, Because Without Customer’s Your No Longer a Business Man Your An UNEMPLOYED ASSHOLE.

Thanks For Reading,

Les Sober  

Senior Citizens & The Sex Shop Showdown

One Day I was hanging out with my dear friend The Armenian at his Grandmother’s house drinking Gin and Tonics of all fucking things. For the record I hate Gin, and think the only people on Earth who should drink it are The British Elderly. My personal feelings aside Gin was all We could steal from My Mother’s Liquor Cabinet the previous night.

Once We were dead drunk We wondered around and came upon a Bus Stop so We got on the next Bus that came without regard to where it was actually going. 10 minutes or so later We found out that it went to the local Mall. This was of course AFTER We had gotten OFF the Bus. We stumbled around trying to find a way to get the fuck away from the Mall when We came across a couple of Girls named Ryder and Debs (Short for Debra) sitting outside a Mall exit. They happened to live in the neighboring town of Addison which was cool because We were sick of the girls in our town.  We struck up a conversation, and short story short We became friends with some romantic relationship shit along the way.

It was a slow Sunday when The Armenian and I were doing a lot of nothing when We decided to head over to Addison to do a lot of more nothing with Ryder and Debs. We drove over and picked up Ryder and Debs and proceeded to drive around aimlessly smoking pot and talking shit. This was our favorite time killing pastime as our towns were small and full of Assholes.

Once We succumbed to the so called “Munchies” We stopped at a Local Diner called The Crystal Diner on Route 99. Now Route 99 was the main highway and commercial strip that ran through Addison. It housed everything from Grocery Stores, Fast Food Restaurants, bowling ally, a 2 screen movie theater, a Dunkin Donuts, Clothing Stores, Etc.

The most note worthy thing about Old Route 99 was at the far end running out of town nestled between a Gas Station and a Music store back from the road was a Adult Book Store (AKA Porn Shop). The Porn Shop was a small grey cinder block building with a Blacked out front window and parking in back. The Crystal Diner just so happened to be located across the street a few doors to the right. As We came out of Crystal The Armenian noticed there was quite a commotion going on over at the Porn Shop. This was something that could not and should  be ignored and We headed off words the Porn Shop on foot.

As We got closer We saw that there was a decent sized group (13-15) of Senior Citizens gathered outfronnt of the Porn Shop Entrance. Once We got to the edge of the Porn Shop’s tiny front parking lot We couldn’t believe what We had come across. The Senior Citizen’s were a all female Neighborhood Church Group protesting the Porn Shop in a growing intensity. They were waving signs saying shit like “Sex is for Procreation NOT Recreation”, and shouting “Hell No The Smut Must Go!” while waving their hands in the air.

We stood there smoking cigarettes watching this drama unfold. Finally it was getting old and We were about to go back to the car when the shit hit the fan. 3-4 of the Little Old Ladies bum rushed into the Porn Shop. A minute or so later one of the Little Old Ladies came out and held the entrance door wide open. The next thing anyone knows Sex Toys and Porno Movie DVDs come flying out the door and rain down in the parking lot. This really riled up the other Little Old Ladies into a Senior Insanity driven Frenzy as they started shouting encouragement to the “In Store Invaders” as it were. There’s nothing as absurdly entertaining as watching one Little Old Lady throw a Neon Pink Double Headed Dildo out of a Porn Shop while another Little Old Lady Shouts “Sex Toys are for SINNERS!” or a Little Old Lady picking up a Inflatable fuck doll (that happens to be a fucking Alien, it was like 6’4″, Black Almond Shaped Alien Eyes, “Total Recall” Tits (3), and Purple) and waving it wildly around screaming “Alien Sex Dolls are an Abomination !!!”

 

At last the Police Showed up to disband the Senior’s and We took off post haste as We hated Cops and were Holding a Variety of Substances in our car. To this day I can close my eyes and see the entire ordeal which still makes me laugh my cinical ass off every time without fail my friends.

Thanks for Reading,

Les Sober 

Ivy Savage and The LSD Incident

Preface:

There a couple of things I feel it is imperative that I mention before our story begins.

  1. My dear friend The Arminian was dating this girl named Ivy Savage for a while. The relationship was short and ended in a total full blown Shit Show.
  2. Ivy Savage is not her legal birth name, nor has she changed it legally either. Point being I didn’t change her real name to Ivy Savage.
  3. This story took place many moons ago when I dealt drugs. At the time of this story I and my partners in crime had a batch of LSD called Black Magic. BM got its name for the Black Abstract Swirling Design on one side. BM was the strongest acid We ever had by far, and because of that We cut the Hits in half and sold them as regular Tabs.

Ladies & Gentalmen here for the first time ever, I give you Ivy Savage and The LSD Incident!

It was one of those long monotonous summer days the kind where you feel like you’ve been suspended in time and space. The Armenian and I decided to forego collage to loitering around town selling drugs. Our trademark drug if you will, the one we were best known for was our LSD.

We had just picked up 3 new sheets of blotter acid from our connection who was some weird androgynous motherfucker named Sam Antha  that we met along our travels. It was a friend of a friend type deal, and we met him when we where looking to score some weed. For some reason I always felt the urge to hit him which I never did, but dear god did I want to.

That day we were bumming around Ivy’s parent’s house in the Upper Middle Class Suburbs with its large houses and big green lawns. It just so happened Ivy’s little brother Tidbit was also hanging around with a few of his Preppy wannabe be Hippy friends.

Now killing time was a fucking art form where I’m from, and thats why all the kids did was drink/drugs was out of nothing more than sheer boredom. I was out on the backyard deck drinking beer and smoking pot with The Armenian when Tidbit came outside to join us. Tidbit inquired about obtaining some acid so We hooked him and his little buddies up. When Ivy found out she got pissed off but not why you may think. She wasn’t angry because We hooked Tidbit up with the acid, but rather that she would have to keep an eye on him and she had her own drugs to do.

Tidbit and his Pals went off to his room to drop the acid and listen to classic rock like the cliques the were. The Armenian and I continued to party out on the deck while Ivy darted about franticly ranting about god knows what. Ivy was doped up on a cocktail of pharmaceutical drugs for being completely batshit crazy so we tended to ignore her when she started bugging out. The Armenian finally talked Ivy off the ledge (which was no small task I assure you) and she was sitting on the couch drinking Gin out of a Tea Cup.

We were sitting around the living room having decided to abandon the deck for the A/C inside when We heard a commotion. We could make out that it was coming from upstairs so We went up to investigate what was happening. The noise got louder as We reached the 2nd floor, and We could establish the sound coming from the Bathroom. Tidbit’s friends were no where in sight to shed any light on the current state of affairs. The Armenian leaned towards the bathroom door so he could hear a bit better and reported it was Tidbit but he had no idea what the issue was. At last We figured We had only one choice and that was to open the bathroom door and see for ourselves and thats what We did.

Once We flung the bathroom door open We saw Tidbit sitting on the toilet with his pants around his ankles. He had this look a combination of shock, awe, and trama that left him looking utterly horrified. I then asked Tidbit what in the hell was his problem was and no one was prepared for his answer.

Tidbit told us that he was tripping balls and had to talk a shit so he went to the bathroom, sat down, and got ready to handle his business. Apparently half way through the process things went slightly astray. When asked to elaborate further because unless this was an LSD inspired celebratory shit scenario he had more explaining to do. That is when Tidbit said

“I came in here to take a dump and my shit fucked me in the ass, I know what its like to be Gay.”

The Armenian and I broke into instant laughter and were shoved abruptly into the hall by an irate Ivy. Ivy managed to calm Tidbit who then retreated back into his room. I have no idea what he told his Pals about what happen if at all, but I do wonder from time to time.

Thanks for READING,

Les Sober  

The Deviant Detective Ep 3 : Looking For The Cock Rock King

Rock kicked his feet up onto his desk with a solid thud. Rock picked up a copy of the local paper “The Fanatic” because you’d be surprised what ideas one can come up with by just reading the paper.

Rock flipped through the pages casually until he reached the back of the paper.  At the back of “The Fanatic” was the local entertainment/art scene.

Rock never paid mind to the entertainment section it was all shit. Today though Rock realized he’d not only have to read the entertainment section, but also pay struck attention looking for any possible leads. His new client the underground self proclaimed Queen of Punk Ivy Savage had little patience and a huge fucking drug habit.

Rock scanned the concert section and found Ivy’s missing boyfriend Eddie Oi’s band The Fuck Me Pumps were scheduled to play that night down at a small hole in the wall called The Boozehound Lounge. The Boozehound was only a couple of blocks from The BarFly Bar which Ivy had mentioned as a possible hangout of Eddie’s.

Rock placed his feet back on the floor, downed 4 fingers of Kentucky White Whisky, lit a cigarette and exhaled with a labored sigh. Rock knew what he had to do. Rock called a cab and headed down to what was referred to as the dive district.

The dive district was a run down part of the city with abandoned factories, dive bars, shitty clubs, Soup kitchens, Hobo Haven (a tent city of sorts consisting of the cities many homeless), methadone clinics, the county mental health hospital, mom and pop liquor stores, Pawn shops, Strip clubs, Old school Porno theaters most converted into sex shops, the slums run by lecherous so called land lords, and the solid waste authority.

On the ride Rock decided it be best to pick the cabbies brain. Next to bartenders cabbies were the unofficial information sources of street knowledge the who’s, what’s, when’s and where’s the life blood of the city.

“Hey buddy how long you been driving the dive district route?,” inquired Rock

“22 years and thats 20 to damn many,” gripped the cabbie

“I’m looking for some punk rock guy named Eddie Oi. You know the prime punk scene hangouts and clubs?”

“Fuck that shit. The Fuck Me Pump’s aren’t punk rock, their fucking cock rock. your looking in the right neighborhood but wrong street if ya know what I’m saying pal.,”

“What in the name of Christ is Cock Rock?,” asked Rock as he reached for his trusty flask.

“Cock Rock,”said the cabbie “Its like punk rock, 3 chord shit played as fast as humanly possible. Instead of politics or social commentary Cock Rock is  essentially a shitty porno put to music. Think 2 Live Crew but with guitars and all that shit.”

“Shit and I thought Punk was the soundtrack of the gutter but damn just like always theres something worse than what you think. Wheres a good place to start the search?” Rock wondered aloud.

“Easy you go to The BarFly Bar. When you get there ask for Bloody Sod Bollocks he’s the godfather of underground hardcore scene. He used to be in some famous British hardcore punk band back in the day called Shit Out of Luck or something like that. He’s been here in the city so long he knows every-fucking-body. You looking for a musical you go talk to Bloody Sod.” claimed the cabbie in utter confidence as he pulled up to the curb outside of The BarFly Bar.

Well isn’t that convenient as hell thought Rock. All signs seemed to point to The BarFly Bar and that would be Rock’s jumping off point. Rock exited the cab making sure to give the cabbie a hefty tip not for the ride but the information. Any asshole can drive a car.

The BarFly Bar looked like the kind of establishment one would expect to get stabbed in. The bar smelled foul like a locker room and a well used port-o-potty combined. Jesus Christ Rock thought I’ve been in shitty bars before but this is by far the shittiest. It’s like every other shitty bar came to The BarFly and took a massive shit in it.

The windows where blacked out to spare the bottom dwelling patrons having to face the light of day. Cigarette smoke hung in the air wafting around the lights like restless spirits. The bar was located to the left of the main entrance. The bar itself was lined with decreped and wobbly stools patched together with duct tape.

The bartender/owner was a stout man in his early 60’s whose collection of tattoos had deteriorated into sloppy blurs over the decades. His large gnarled hands with thick calluses spoke hard life of manual labor and long hours. The wrinkles in his face where etched through time like the feordes  and ran just as deep.

The handful of patrons were spread through out the bar all of them alone. The exception being a middle aged couple who seemed oblivious to the world around them as the slobbered all over one another. It was the equivalent of watching a extremely shitty home made sex tape.

Rock saddled up to the bar preferring to stand over sitting on one of the STD ridden bar stools.

“Hey Bartender let me get 3 fingers of Westminster Whiskey and an ash tray while your at it,” Said Rock slowly rescanning the bar.

“I’m Gunny bartending is what I do.”replied Gunny as he angrily pulled the cork from the whiskey bottle “Ive got no problem letting you know that I don’t like dicks in my bar private or otherwise.”

“Well at least you didn’t say cop. I’m looking for Eddie Oi he owes my client money. Thats where I come in.”

“Who doesn’t that grimy little shit owe money to? I haven’t seen him since I 86ed his bar tab, and told him until he repays it all drinks will be on a cash transaction.”

“You have any idea where he might be Gunny?”

“Hell no. But Justin Sane the drummer in his little shit band is in the stock room.” said Gunny as he started to wipe down the warped bar top.

“What the hell is he doing in the stock room?” Rock asked downing his drink in one gulp before signaling for another.

“Some junkie groupie took him back there, sad the high light of this pitiful girls rough life will be sucking Justin’s baby dick in the back of a shitty bar.”

Rock downed his second drink in the same fashion as the first. Turned to face the stock room door at the back of the building. Rock steadily approached the stockroom door preparing for whatever maybe behind it. Rock stopped right in front of the door, grasped the greasy door knob firmly, and shoved it open like a steroid ridden line backer.

Stockroom more like storeroom is more like it Rock thought the instant the door gave way. None the less there was Justin propped up against a pallet of beer boxes with his red liberty spike mohawk, tattered leather vest infested with a collage of various band’s pins and patches, generic white t-shirt with a anarchy sign spray painted on it in a sickly green, slew of amateur India ink tattoos that gave way to the track marks beginning to establish themselves. His cut off jean shorts around his ankles while some skanky bleached blonde was on her knees in front of him her head bobbing like she’d been infected with a potent fast acting poison, and the only cure was located in Justin’s cock.

Before Rock had a chance to react all hell broke loose. Rock was grabbed from behind and thrown violently backward into the door frame . Ivy Savage came barreling past Rock in a goddamn flash, then she snatched the groupie by the hair and tossed her aside like a fucking rag doll. The instant the groupie was sent tumbling into a near by liquor rack Ivy dropped to her knees. She grabbed Justin’s massive member at the base with one hand and the tip with the other. What happened next defies logic. Ivy now with Justin’s huge lap hog in her hands bite down on it full force like she was rabidly attacking an ear of corn. Inspire of Gunny’s disparaging comments pertaining to the size of Justin’s “baby dick” Justin was hung like a goddamn donkey. The kid was 5′ 9″ and a 100 pounds soaking wet and 10 of those pounds were due to his dick Rock thought sarcastically. Justin’s porn star sized cock was inevitably too thick for Ivy to bite it clean in half which seemed to be her true intent.

In spite of Justin’s unforeseen girth Ivy earned her moniker of savage. Ivy gleefully started biting mouthfuls of Justin’s schlong spitting them out one after the other while screaming like a blood thirsty banshee “I’M IVY FUCKING SAVAGE! I’LL POISON YOU LIKE IVY AND BRUTALIZE YOU LIKE A FUCKING SAVAGE!!!!”

Rock had had enough of this bullshit for the day. The groupie cowering in a corner kicking and screaming, Ivy’s genital based cannibalism, and Justine guttural growls as blood splatter covered the entire room. Rock reached over and took a bottle of cheap rot gut booze and brought it crashing down upon Ivy’s head knocking out cold. Rock turned and exited the storeroom shutting the door behind him.

“Holy Hell what the fuck is going on in there?!!,” demanded Gunny scowling at Rock intensity.

“Gunny, your closed for the evening,” replied Rock with calculated calm before promptly leaving the confines of The BarFly for the soothing insanity of the city streets. Then it suddenly occurred he had failed to locate the so called underground godfather Bloody Sod Bolloks.

“Goddamn it! Shit,shit,shit!! Goddamn Bloody Sod!” Rock said aloud in utter frustration.

“You looking to find Bloody he’s at the Methadone Clinic everyday at 5pm to hook up his daily dose.” commented a disheveled homeless kid who was  lurking in a dark doorway like a ghost of society.

“Thanks for the tip,” Rock said handing the homeless kid a twenty “Buy some fucking food. Don’t spend all this on dope or drink.”

“Sure thing,” the homeless kid chirped excitedly at the sight of the twenty.

Sure thing my ass thought Rock as he turned away from the kid and headed off towards the City’s sole methadone clinic at a quick clip.

To Be Continued…

In

The Deviant Detective Ep.4 : Shit Sandwich Lunch Special

The Deviant Detective Ep.2 : Getting Directions From The Blind

Readers: There are a great deal of Obscenities and Blasphemies in the following Story. Heads up and Have A Nice Day.

 

 

“Rock Hard that you,” asked the stranger as they leaned against the wall for support.

“Yeah I’m Rock Hard come into my office and tell me what the problem of yours is.” said Rock in his authoritative professional detective voice.

Buy the time Rock reached his office door he knew who the stranger was. It was underground punk rock icon and lead singer for The Furiously Fingered Five Ivy Savage.

She wreaked of cheap gin and cheaper cigarillos. Jesus Christ Rock thought to himself she’s a fucking train wreck. It was obvious the rumors where more than true.

The Meth induced orgies, shooting smack in her snatch, drug smuggling, assault, DUIs, countless rehabs, grand theft auto, drug possession, and possession of an illegal fire arm 4 times in 6 months that fucking Ivy Savage.

Rock jingled his key in the office door until it begrudgingly opened.

The door swung open slamming into the wall so hard the glass shook like a new prostitutes on her first “date.”

Rock walked over to his antique solid oak desk he had salvaged when the city demolished the 1930’s repossession power house Snide, Pompous and Braggart back in 1974. Rock slowly lowered himself into his chair as it creaked in protest.

“So if it isn’t the infamous Queen of Punk Ivy Savage, your reputation precedes you,” Rock said eying his new client up and down.

“I’m fucking used to that propaganda puke, its all horse shit a huge fucking load of steaming hot horse shit.,” Ivy replied angrily.

Ivy was pacing like a jack rabbit on a coke bender constantly fidgeting with her hands. As she spoke Rock took note of her eyes and how the darted around his office unable to stay focused on a damn thing. These were the classic signs of a rock bottom gutter dwelling druggie.

“Whats the problem,” Rock asked bluntly.

“My motherfucking boyfriend is fucking missing and I can’t find my bitch,” Ivy replied coldly.

“How do you know he didn’t just split or end up in the ER for overdosing something along those lines?!”

“I’m his goddamn meal ticket and that little scummy shit damn well knows it. I pay for our booze, drugs, food and hotel room down at The Opulent Oasis for christ’s sake. He’s a fucking moron but he’s not that goddamn dumb.”

“Alright then when did you see your boyfriend last Ms. Savage?”

“Call me Ivy for fuck’s sake, theres no Ms. about me thats for sure. I saw him just last night when we were having a private party in our hotel room. I went to take a shit, it was round 3 am or so and nodded off on the toilet. When I came to it this morning it was 11 fucking thirty and he was gone.”

“Whats his name, whats he go by,” asked Rock as he started to get rather irritated. To calm his nerves he took a long slow sip from his flask and let the whiskey do the rest.

“He goes by Eddie Oi he’s the base player for The Fuck Me Pumps,” said Ivy mattarfactly her voice void of emotion.

“Where does Eddie and his band or friends hang out at. Where do they spend their time? Where do they go? What do they do all damn day?”

“I’m not his fucking biographer. This is the shit I know bout to answer your fucking questions. Eddie doesn’t have any fucking friends just goddamn dope dealers and drug buddies. As for him and his shitty band they spend a good amount of time at The Barfly Lounge down on the skids. He sees his main dealer at least 8 times a day scoring dope and all that drug shit.”

“Eddie got a record?”

“No and thats a fucking surprise and a half. He’s never even been arrested for drunk and disorderly nothing, not a single goddamn thing so that won’t help your search.”

Rock lazily moved the files on his desk around randomly just to look more than what he was a dinosaur and a goddamn drunk with a violent disposition. Rock shunned technology whenever possible unless it was absolutely necessary, but Rock decided to revisit the idea of getting a computer so he could fain interest while surfing the internet.

“Look just find the fucker and let me know so I can bitch slap his stupid ass back in fucking line,” demanded Ivy.

“Calm down I’m taking your case and I’ll find Eddie no matter where he is or where he may be hiding at I assure you of that,” Rock said in total confidence.

“Thank god for that then.”

“I’ll need a retainer of $1,200 plus daily expenses. Take it or leave it I’m not the one with the problem.”

“Call my fucking manager Harvey Schister. His number is 555-7683 and he’s a real son of a bitch but don’t take his shit because he’s full of shit.”

“Alright then I will call Mr. Schister this afternoon and get started immediately after I get my retainer.”

“Well I’m gonna piss off then, but I’ll be on top of you like a 600 pound prison booty bandit, I don’t take shit from anyone ever.”

With that Rock showed Ivy to the door locking it behind her. Rock didn’t want to be disturbed he had to process his meeting with his new client Ivy Savage. Where could he find the best leads he wondered as he lit a cigarette blowing the smoke out of his nose like a exhausted dragon.

This case is going to be a goddamn drunken drugged out insanely dark horror show Rock was convinced of that.

To Be Continued in The Deviant Detective Ep.3 : Finding The Cock Rock King.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amazon Reviews are for Assholes: My review of Worthington’s “How to be a savvy restaurant Reviewer

I used to be just another average Joe who’s idea of fine dining was eating in at a McDonald’s. That was until I stumbled across Sam Worthington’s book How to be a savvy restaurant reviewer one day tooling around on Amazon killing time before my gastrointestinal doctor’s appointment. This book changed my life transforming a fast food schlub into a refined food critic that is revered and feared in my home town. After reading Worthington’s book I developed an intense ego to a point that I felt almost god like. I started dressing in expensive 3 piece suits, bought a brand new Mercedes and started saying things like “This dish has a nice mouth feel” and started using descriptive words for dishes like acidulated, gastropod, omakase, and salmagundi for example. I developed a french accent out of the blue as well. I started walking in a slow stride with my nose pointed to the sky. For the first time in my life I became overly opinionated, arrogant and pompous. In just a couple of weeks I had built a reputation around town that preceded me wherever I went to dine. Cooks quivered when they were informed I was in the dining room. Restaurateurs waited in angst for my reviews to be published. One bad review from me had the power and ability to cause a restaurant to go bankrupt the same day as the review was published. Nowadays when I order the waiter/waitress comes running to take my order upon bended knee and fawns over me like royalty. The Food Channel offered me a 25 year contract this morning and every celebrity chef such as Anthony Bourdain or Gordon Ramsey are blowing up my phone 24/7. I only urinate Fine Wine, crap Caviar coated Kobe Beef and wipe my ass with Foie Gras nowadays thanks to this 62 page powerhouse.

Centralist by Spacedog

I am not a fuckin’ savior. I peel away at people like onions. We all do. Some of us are the peeled and we cry. Some of us are the instruments that scalp. Away. Away. Away.

 

We peel away the layers.

We peel away the sunshine.

We prefer it this way. Peeling away until there is nothing but barren terrain. Nakedness of the soul.

I see that barren flesh. I run. I hide. I capture but I do not seize. I growl at myself. I cannot kill the already dead. I cannot usurp what is already fallen at my feet. I plot. I ponder. I smile, I beckon them forth.

 

Centralist

I have always stood in between time and reality. I have always liked my part in this pathway towards truth, towards honesty, towards good.

I have always hated my lack of proofreading, my lack of utter care over things that most writers would throw hissy-fits about. Is this proper grammar? Am I spelled this write? Yes I know right.

I play dumb for the prey to think I am as such. It is not a very nice thing to do, but do it I shall. It was how the wolves conditioned me. Maybe I’m still just a wolf.

Most likely though, I fall in between. I am a centralist or centrist. I care not to look up spellings in dictionary.com. Usually words flow in my head that don’t make sense. Nine out of ten times, they are real words and I do a little spellcheck and poof they become what they were intended to be. Microcosisms of my head spewed out to the masses herky-jerkedly like a disenfranchised orgasm at a self-righteous porno store.

Yes. yes. YES. !!! I would think if I had a bigger ego, that yes I am the fuckin’ Dr. Phil of the next generation. I have been in the middle of many things. I somehow italicized my shit and have no clue how. I havent been in the middle of any bi relationships but if I could have would have just so I could enlighten you all further. But that is not the point of this blog. The point is this………………………………………

there comes a time…….. when we as people need something more. I need more. I hear my friends call me after many a beer and I hear my friends after many a sober evening. I do not hear stability call. I hear everything but.

I write and write and write some more. There is no sense to the melody. There is no reason to the rhyme. Perhpas if I could hear the music. I could tell the tale better. But I have equal melodies of those captured by the waves of the substances and I hear equal melodies of those not captured by such.

What road should I travel? What road will hurt me less? I care not. I care to live.

HOA’s The Legal Mafia

For those who are lucky enough not to know what the hell an HOA is allow me to explain.

What does HOA stand for?

It stands for Homeowners Association.

The History of HOA’s: HOA’s started very simply. Everyone who has or hasn’t owned a house is aware there is always a neighbor who’s a complete shit, and their house/yard reflects this shitty attitude. You know the house with the over grown lawn, mattress on the porch, car or some major household appliance rusting away in the yard etc. point being their house looks like a true dump. HOA’s used to be a basic agreement amongst the residents of a neighborhood that everyone should maintain their houses and lawns in a proper and respectable manner. If a neighbor’s house started to look shabby then the other residents would address it with the owner to resolve the said situation.

What Happened then to make HOA’s so detestable?

Thats an easy answer what happened was basic human behavior. People have a great knack for taking something simple and good and bastardizing it to death until its complicated and a MASSIVE pain in the ass. Homeowners self policing evolved under the force of human behavior into having HOA boards with Presidents (and vice presidents, treasurers and the like), childish elections, moronic monthly HOA meetings (imagine a town hall meeting where everyone is clinically insane and hopped up on Bath Salts.), idiotic infighting, and bullshit newsletters. Again we learn peoples desire for power makes them act like bastards and if they get a modicum of power it goes straight to their fucking heads, and thats not all by a long shot. The HOA has given themselves the right to dictate such things as what color you can paint your house, the type of front door you can have, if you can fly a flag, when you can water your lawn, demand you replace your roof at their discretion, demand that you paint your house again at their discretion regardless of peoples personal finances (example a new roof cost between $15,000 to $17,000 so most people plan to reroof years ahead of time so they can save up the money needed. Its a real fucker to have some asshole tell you out of the blue that you have to reroof your house immediately or else.)

Can I avoid buying a house without an HOA?

In most cases no unless you want to live in the shitty ghetto at the corner of Crack and Heroin because the neighborhoods are such utter shit no one living there gives a damn about petty shit they just want to stay alive. The other place you can buy a house without an HOA is the middle of the fucking boonies where there so few fucking people no one cares because out in the sticks there houses not neighborhoods.

HOA’s gave themselves the power to demand quarterly payments under the pretense that all the dues collected will go to the betterment of the neighborhood like repaving parking lots, roof repair, and landscaping to name a few. Not only that but if you are in violation of the set rules the HOA can fine you (usually $100) every day until you fix the issue at hand. HOA’s also have the self appointed authority to put a lean on your house if things get batshit crazy outta control as it were.

HOA is Legal Extortion. If I buy a house in a certain neighborhood why should I have to pay them quarterly? Thats a play right out of organized crime’s handbook. You see if a new store opens in a particular Mob family’s territory then the shop owner has to pay “Protection Money”. If a shop owner refuses to pay  the Mob will destroy their business, make their (along with friends and family) lives miserable, beat up/ torture the owner, and possibly murder them. All this because of the geographical location alone.

There 2 types of HOA’s The HOA Nazis and The HOA Do Nothings.

The HOA Nazi’s patrol the neighborhood daily looking for infractions of the mandated rules of the HOA. They are brutal and extremely judgmental. They believe they are superior to their neighbors and enforce the rules as forcefully as they can over the smallest infraction. They write nasty fucking letters, set high daily fines for offenders, lecture about “Those Neighbors” (those who didn’t comply) at HOA meetings reminiscent of Adolf Hitler’s speeches in tone and intensity. They are hated and disposed by the rest of their neighborhoods.

The HOA DO Nothings collect they dues BUT don’t use them to improve a damn thing. They do the absolute base minimum and they do that begrudgingly. They are lax on the rules (so you can get away with shit like having 2 dogs when the HOA rules say only one dog not to mention the HOA decides what breed and size of said dog) but theirs a lot more childish drama. At one point my HOA meetings got so emotionally intense the local Police were present to keep order. The bitch about Do Nothing HOA’s is they change their minds more than parents change their new born baby’s diapers. The only fucking thing my current HOA is responsible for is maintaining/ replacing the roofs. Well they just sent me a bullshit letter stating that for the next 7 years they are instituting an ADDITIONAL $500 payment because they are going to replace the roofs. My point is this why the fuck should I pay them an additional $500 when I already pay them quarterly AND THAT MONEY (from the quarterly payment) IS FOR PAYING FOR NEW ROOFS, thus I’m being double billed if you will. There is a SHIT LOAD more infighting amongst the board members resulting in raucous HOA meetings and TONS of bullshit letters because they have much more free time than the HOA Nazi’s.

In Summation HOA’s are fucking unAmerican and operate on the principles of extortion. HOA’s only have power because they gave it to themselves and everyone else instead of calling bullshit bitched about it and then complied. I have no fucking idea why neighborhoods don’t unite and dismantle their HOA’s. HOA’s are comprised off cranky, over opinionated, better than you, mean, depressed, vengeful, nosy, moronic, idiotic assholes who get their rocks off with the power they get being on the HOA board. FUCK EVERY HOA AND EVERY BOARD MEMBER. It’s the fucking American dream to buy your own home, but now with unnecessary HOA policies and institutional horse shit can crap all over your dream, extort money from you, harass you constantly, spy on you, and fine you or even putting a fucking lean on your dream home. The entire HOA system is as corrupt as any government on the fucking planet.

Good News I’m moving in a couple of months to a different state and managed to buy a house WITHOUT AN HOA and I can’t be fucking happier.

HOA should stand for Huge Outrageous Assholes because thats who runs them.

 

 

The Delinquent Detective Ep.1 : Screaming at a Deaf Dog

Heads Up For Readers: There is a good bit of obscene language and blasphemies contained within this piece.
Rock Hard woke with a startle one hand one his set of bulbous brass balls, and in the other empty bottle of Lithuanian Whisky.
The goddamn phone was ringing relentlessly BRING! BRING! like a goddamn banshee. Rock sat up and wearily rubbing his face trying to dispel the thick fog of yesterday.
Rock was no stranger to the endless trials and tribulations of life not by a long shot. Bullshit was his bread and butter.
Rock slowly made his way to the phone his feet shuffling across the thick scummy orange shag carpet barefoot.
Rock lit a cigarette irritated that some dumb son of a bitch had the fucking nerve to call him this early in the goddamn day. Rock reached the phone and unplugged it. Whoever it was fuck them thought Rock to himself.
Finally Rock thought to himself. Rock found people to be unbelievably irritating at best.
Rock proceeded to get ready for the dismal day that lay before him. Once Rock had shit, showered, and shaved Rock headed out to the office.
Locking the door behind him he started down the hall of The Royal Hotel lined with various delinquents. The monthly crew of cantankerous characters that inhabited The Royal Hotel, one of the BigCity’s finest flop house, was an unending revolving door of debauchery.
Rock tolerated these assholes because in a flea bag shithole no one sees shit, hears shit or says shit especially the police.
The residents of The Royal were the lowest of the low. There were junkies, hookers, pimps, cults, drunks, drug dealers, shut ins, welfare cases, white trash, Neo Nazi’s (that hangout at the lobby bar), traumatized Vietnam vets, thieves, bikers,and the mentally ill with no family.
It wasn’t always that way though. Back in its heyday The Royal played host to musicians, writers, artists, film makers running the entire gamete of the art world.
Business men booked suites for their corrupt conferences where they found ways to fuck over the working man. The staff was professional and proud to be part of The Royal.
Now Tina “Two Tits” Earner the local hooker was constantly prowling for pricks in the Hotels shitty dive-like bar. Homeless Hank the blocks beloved gutter dwelling bum was living in the lobby. The rest of The Royal was a fucking freak show a goddamn insane circus.
Ignoring the nasty noises of fighting and fucking that bled through the paper thin walls Rock made his way to the downstairs. Rock stopped briefly to shoot the shit with the front desk clerk.
The clerk was an anciently old man who worked the front desk and had for 52 years named Barnabas.
“Whats going on you nasty old bastard?” Rock asked casually with no real interest.
“I’m just a goddamn gargoyle perched on this goddamn stool watching the derelicts and dopers coming and going, it’s an endless parade of the broken and disheveled . Once the sun sets the city streets flood with sinners,” replied Barnabas weirdly staring off into space.
Rock stared at Barnabas wondering if he was senile or just being a mean old shit .
Rock walked briskly to the front door to escape the scum of the Earth confined within the rancid Royal.
Before exiting Rock checked to make sure he had his two faithful companions with him his flask and his revolver. Once he had established he was in possession of both Rock burst out on to the street.
Rock waded through the littered streets coated in filth and grim. The bums lurking in doorways like living corpses that had abandoned all hope in humanity.
The hookers were returning home after a long cold night on the street selling their souls as well as their snatches.
Junkies posted on the corners heckling change from the few regular folk who hadn’t fled the dying neighborhood bathed in decay.
Over laying graffiti adorned the street plastered across walls and any available space was now coated in spray paint.
Rock didn’t mind the dereliction in fact he welcomed it. People are parasites that don’t belong in palaces was his opinion.
At least when your deep in the shit surrounded by the dregs of society you know where you stand.
There is honesty in hooliganism. You can take everything at face fucking value, no bullshit required.
Rock chain smoked a whole pack of cigarettes on his wayward walk to work. So what if smoking led to fucking cancer Rock didn’t give a rats ass what the Surgeon General had to say on the subject.
Rock picked up a couple of new packs of smokes at newspaper stand around the corner from his office. Rock’s office was a located in the Burner building within walking distance from The Royal.
The Burner was a small building sandwiched between to sky scrappers. The Burner had always been a mega for unorthodox and unconventional professions such as psychics, weapons dealers, and in Rock’s case Private Detectives.
As he approached the front door of his office on the 3rd floor of the Burner he saw a person pacing in the dimly lit hallway.
Rock was already wondering what the stranger was all about when the stranger turned towards him and said……………

To Be Continued in
The Deviant Detective Ep.2 : Getting Directions from the Blind.

Murder And Mayhem At Trump’s Insidious Impromptu News Conference Of Death & Damnation

Have you ever woken up in the morning and the first though you have is that you really want to pick a fight? I have many times and today I decided the person I was to pick a fight with would be the one and only Donald Trump. I ,along with the rest of the American people , have been bombarded by Donald Trump on television, printed interviews/articles in newspapers and magazines alike, Twitter, Youtube, and even radio. I must be clear I hate Donald Trump politically and personally as he is an extremely shitty person to begin with. Now why, or for what reason do I dislike Trump so highly?
Donald Trump looks quite similar to the past 44 presidents (excluding Obama obviously). He dresses in expensive high end suits worth thousands, predominately wears red or blue ties, is a 70 year old white man, and has a rather large belly. That is where the similarities end. Trump’s unique physical characteristic being found in his ungodly fake spray tan that leaves him looking like he has the worst case of jaundice in recorded history. The second primary physical characteristic is his hair which has remained a mystery for so long it can finally been called the 8th wonder of the world.
As for Donald Trump’s personality characteristics they are truly deplorable as he seems to have a Pandora’s box of bad behavior. Trump is a narcissist of Freudian proportions who’s extreme ego borders on megalomania. Also, for being completely ignorant of the American political system, Trump is over opinionated as well as ruthlessly aggressive on every front and every platform because his unquenchable thirst for power and control are unparalleled. For a president, Trump seems ignorant of the issues and takes every negative comment as a personal attack upon his character. Trump’s immature attitude has him tweeting like a tween and seems to cater to his child-like mentality that causes him to have terrible tantrums reminiscent of a 2 year old. Trump also is a sexist who’s views are almost on par with pedophilia. He is a closet racist and blatant anti semite. Trump is not only rude and insulting, but he always remains unapologetic as he points his finger at anyone but himself.
I just so happen to live in Florida and am located so geographically close to Trump’s Mar-a-Lago mansion that when I saw he was due for another visit I decided this was my chance. I drove to the Palm Beach Post newspaper headquarters down in West Palm Beach to meet up with a buddy of mine that works for the paper. He hooked me up with an official press pass and credentials which (unless you were in the know) made me look like a legitimate reporter. I then made my way to the Trump National Golf Club also located in Mar-a-Lago where Trump was due to throw an impromptu press conference. I strolled past the news truck barricade parked directly out front and past the handful of reporters shooting pre news conference pieces. I entered the club’s front door where a large security man who scowled at my press pass before ordering me through a metal detector. On the other side of the metal detector I was met by another rather large looking security man who gave me a pat down that was so intense it was more like a massage. I made my way into the conference room and managed to finagle my way into the 2nd row front and center where I waited for my prey to enter the room.
It didn’t take long before the rest of the press personnel were herded into the conference room like cattle. About a minute later Donald Trump entered from behind a curtain lazily wandering over to the podium as he smiled with self satisfaction. Once behind the podium Trump proceeded to slowly scan the room from side to side with his classically vacant stare. The conference was a fiasco and made little to absolutely no sense at all as Trump dodged questions, made false allegations and rambled on about subjects that weren’t addressed in the news conference. After 45 minutes or so Trump finally wound down his inane diatribe and opened the floor to questions. This was my opening because to fight Donald Trump your best weapon is Donald Trump. All one has to do to pick a fight with Trump is to say anything remotely critical about him and he launches himself into a terrific tirade which surpasses self defense. He then plunges head first into full on attack mode.
By the time fourth or fifth question had been asked Trump was already leaning aggressively forward over the podium his face flushed with outrageous anger. Trump’s facial features had twisted and contorted into an insane mask of rage filled disgust and endless contempt. He was cracking quickly and I knew it was now or never. I raised my hand and was lucky enough to have him call upon me.
I simply asked the president how he plans to make America great again if his bartenders at Trump’s Bar and Grill couldn’t even make a proper cocktail? Without pausing for a millisecond I continued by explaining. A patron of his eating establishment photographed a $22 gin martini because it was served in wine glass filled with a generous handful of ice. I was some unknown brand of gin, and had a very weak looking olive.
This was the straw that broke the Donald’s back as it were. Trump started waving his hands in the air like a demonically possessed air traffic controller screaming at the top of his lungs that in fact, the world has been making martinis wrong, and Trump’s bar staff actually know the correct recipe. Thats when the shit really hit the fan as they say.
Trump’s private security burst open the conference room doors with the force of an atom bomb and came charging in like rabid bulls. Unfortunately the private security team had had a miscommunication issue as to what was happening and who they were supposed to subdue. This miscommunication led Trump’s private security personnel to engage in an all out fucking fist fight with the Secret Service who too where there for the protection of the president. Steve Bannon appeared out of no where holding a copy of “Mien Komf” which he immediately started reading in German. I wanted to punch Bannon in his white nationalist fat fucking face, but I didn’t want my hand to stink of cheap whiskey, sweat and nazi for the rest of the day. Mike Pence, being the giant pussy that he is, had been methodically backing up since the opening of the Q and A to the curtain behind the podium, which he now utilized to hide with only his expensive Italian loafers poking out from the bottom. Reporters scrambled to defensive positions tripping over each other’s camera cords, and misplaced chairs in an attempt to capture as much footage as possible. Kellyanne Conway showed up to pander to the remaining cameras and reporters jumping around like a jack rabbit on crystal meth. Kellyanne was trying in vain to convince the reporters that this was not a riot of any kind, BUT it was a rally born of over exuberance, love and support for Trump. This over exuberance had caused a spontaneous outbreak of fanatical joy and sincere celebration. Moments after appearing on the scene Kellyanne was struck violently on the top of her head in the misguided attack by a Trump supporter armed with a confiscated boom microphone. The boom microphone crashed down upon Kellyanne’s skull with such brute force it split her head in half in a volcanic explosion of blood. Kellyanne’s body wavered a second with her eyes still blinking in such a way it was reminiscent of a Hammerhead Shark before collapsing lifelessly on the floor. Just then I spotted the one person I hate worse than Donald Trump, the British journalist Milo “I will say anything or back anything outrageous for attention” Yiannopoulos who is employed by the GOP to run interference using the most vile propaganda to distract the public from the president. Milo was dressed in a British school boys uniform to accommodate his latest travesty of defending, exuding and virtually promoting pedophilia. My attention was drawn to Yiannopoulos. He was fleeing franticly towards the fire exit at the back of the room when he got knocked flat on his back by an improvised nazi salute from Bannon. I ran over to Milo and informed him I was the vice president of NAMBLA (may all members of NAMBLA be castrated and left to bleed out)and I was here to help him escape. Once Milo was on his feet again I led him to the center of the conference room directly under the industrial fan that was humming like monster truck engine.
Once we were positioned under the gigantic fan I bent down, grabbed Milo behind his legs under his buttocks, and hoisted him strait up into the fury of the fan blades. The fan blades turned Milo’s head, arms and upper torso into minced meat with a shower of blood, bone and body parts raining down upon the entire room. I dropped Milo’s mutilated and mangled carcass and looked back at Steve Bannon. Bannon had worked himself into such a fury he had triggered a massive fucking heart attack. His face as white as his KKK hood, sweating like a pig at the slaughtering house, gasping for air and clutching at his heart with his right hand while still kept on reading. Seconds later Bannon dropped to his knees, explosively shit his pants and fell over dead as a door nail, and his eyes looked like 2 fucking blowfish due to Bannon’s extremely insane blood pressure right before death. The chaos was reaching a climax when I realized if I believed in self preservation this was time to make my exit. Trump’s security had surrounded him and were ushering him out the door with great difficulty because Trump kept stopping to turn around and yell ridiculous claims such as this was a media plot to destroy and discredit him, this is part of the Liberal agenda, this was in all reality fake news, the electoral college, the boarder wall, molesting women, his bank account, Putin and how it was mother Russia marrying father America, questioning Obama’s birth certificate, China hackers that plagued the election, hair care, tanning tips, advertisements for Trump Towers/ Trump casino’s/Trump Hotels, unifying America, Rosie O’Donell, preaching he never once went bankrupt, the annoying planes that fly over his mansion, tweeting, and vast voter fraud. I ducked and weaved my way to and fro, out the conference room door into the foyer. As I made a beeline for the club’s front door I saw radio personality and Trump lover Alex Jones standing in the middle of the foyer like he was the eye of a hurricane. Jones was spouting Trump propaganda and undying support for him, like a deranged circus barker. I couldn’t resist so I got in front of him and when he opened his mouth for another decree I rammed my microphone into it, and then proceeded to jam the microphone as far as humanly possible down his throat into his esophagus rendering Jones silent as well as dead the mic cord hanging out the corner of his mouth like a wayward piece of spaghetti.

As I strode towards my car drenched in blood I thought to myself what a wonderful little riot that was.