Friday, March 25, 2011

Bloody Pus...

You really can't call this a blog yet. But I started reading great blogs and I wanted to be as good as them. I'm drunk so I can't figure out how to link their blogs, but I need to reconize them:

Nurse K: Angry bitter divorcee, who is a hell of a nurse... (Still Bitter Tho...)
Jason Mulgrew: Great stupid stories until he got a book deal... then kinda got old
Waiter Rant: Great stories until he got a book deal... then he thought his outside life was interesting.
Jack's Texas Music... The absolute best stories have been removed from his blog. They were mostly involving his police work. He could tell a story that made you believe you were there with him. Even his fiction was awesome. Last I checked, he was telling tourist stories...
Happy Hospitalist: Nurse K describes him best as a total Metrosexual.... I think he is must be Jewish because he totally fits the stereotype.
Momma Fargo: Just read her..
Press Hard 3 Copies: Not sure if he can post anymore (never good to be honest in the police department)... Ask Johnny Law, Jack and so many others)
Erstories.Net... Bloody pus passed on

Saturday, November 20, 2010


It's been 7 months since I posted... Mostly because I couldn't remeber my log on. (Remember I only do this when i am really drunk.. and maybe medically stoned.) In all that time... I have had 4 people read this blog. Now that is swap meet bad..

My secondary excuse is that I had some health problems and they say I have a 30% chance of thyroid cancer. Sounds scary, but it is easier than skin cancer. I just haven't been willing to remove my thyroid and then have to take another daily pill and have to take more lab tests. The radiation part where I can't be around anyone for 5 days sounds awesome.

Shit... got to go deal with bar crap. See you in a few months!

Sunday, September 5, 2010

Sunday, May 16, 2010

ارهابي في مطار تورنتوhussam canada

I'm a left wing liberal, most of the time, but I really hate political correctness. I am a fat/obese Polock! I hear there is a movement afoot to change the word obese! Come on now! Not only am I obese, I AM A FAT FUCKER. The only word I will not use is the "N" word (historical reasons). Now that goes for anyone in my bar, no matter what color you are. I will get in your face if you are black or a skinhead. Use it twice and get the fuck out. I have employed fags, lazy mexicans (yes they are legal Arizona!), blacks, rag heads, emotional cripples and well... women...

Have I offended you yet? If I have, you don't get it, so you might as well get the fuck out.

I have always had a regular cab driver. Usually a rag head, but white trash (yes I am part white trash) is a close second. They don't make great money off my small fares, but I am regular money. And once in awhile, I can send some big fares their way. I develop a relationship with them. When I have an emergency, they have been there. Some even bring me dinner. But boiled lamb and rice just doesn't do it for me. As they quit jobs or areas, they have to find me a new personal driver.

My current rag head driver finds stereotypes as funny as I do. He obviously passed that on to his kid who wore a towel to school on Halloween.

In that vein, he sent me this video tonight.

I blame him for me being on the FBI watchlist...

Thursday, April 29, 2010

That Happens

It's kind of stupid how many ways I could write this drunk post.

It was a few weeks ago that I noticed I couldn't breathe. I couldn't breathe just a few weeks before that, because my upper back hurt so bad. So bad I drank as much as I could without throwing up, smoked as much pot as I could, took a couple of tranquilizers, a handful of ibuprophin and when I couldn't take the pain anymore, I took a vicodin. Yeah it should have killed me, but I didn't care. Anything to take the pain away. (After all that, I passed out and got a whopping 3 hours of sleep after having none for the past two days.)

I have been praying to God to take my emotional pain away, and it ended up being the physical pain that made me cry out to him.

As I SLOWLY got used to the pain in my back decreasing, I noticed I couldn't breathe. I blew it off as another cold. But I knew what it was, and I igonored it. So I walked around acting like it was a cold. I woke up the next day with a strained calf muscle. Ok a limp helped me walk slower and keep my breath.

Fuck! Two days after that, I woke up with my leg looking like a sausage. The blood clots are back! Fuck,fuck,fuck! They call them pulimonary embolisms. It's like the tampon that is clogging up your toilet, but in your lungs! (On a side note, my plumber pulled out tampons, rags and a pair of painties out of my sewer line this week)

So I waited until the slowest day of the week to go to the ER. I avoid the ER at all costs, I can't stand the wait (and I have only been there about 3 or 4 times in my life!) So it's kind of cool when you know you have a life threatening condition and can walk in and they rush you to the front of the line. I guess it would be like being a super VIP.

Anyway, things got worse from there. So fuck god.

Friday, March 26, 2010

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Signs....

Do you ever notice all the warning signs we have, because of dumasses? They had to even go and make universal blue picture signs so that even the biggest dumbass can understand. The restroom signs... with a woman with a skirt and the freakishly straight and skinny guy in pants. The blue wheelchair sign in front of the parking space you so desperately want. The red and white no parking signs, the white and black suggested speed limit sign. Let's not even go into the yellow and black signs.

So walk to my bar and I have signs that are required by law, and that must be in a certain font and size, and must be readable from outside the premises by so many feet away. Inside, I have to post a sign that says you shouldn't drink while pregnant or your kid maybe the next gold medalist in the special olympics. The sales tax sign that says (in exatly 1 and 1/2 inches in Times New Roman) that the drink prices include sales tax, which must be placed in an obvious area near the register. By law I also have to post my liquor license, my license that allows you to sing publicly, my license that allows you to dance, my food license, my cigarette license, my business license, the sign that says the door must remain unlocked during business hours, the fire extinguisher signs, the lighted exit signs, and the signs in the bathrooms that tell my employees to wash their hands after wiping their ass. You really need a sign for that?

Then there are the signs that I am encouraged to put up by the authorities or insurance companies. Wet floor, Don't Drink and Drive, the Alcohol Consumption Chart, the Tripping Hazard Sign, the no loitering sign, the tow away sign. Then there is the advertisments which sell every type of beer or liquor you can imagine. It's fucking crazy.

No wonder I am a stress case. So I was having one of those days that if you even tried to talk to me about some stupid ass shit, I would rip your fucking head off. So I'm just trying to sit in my corner and relax for a little while. Maybe get a chance to talk to the few people who don't make me want to shove ice picks in my ears. I get about and hour of non-aggravation in, when I see mr preppy who just walked in, take a big old punch across the bar at my bartender. I'm already out of my seat before my bartender could call for me. I get face to face with the guy and realize he's about 6'4" and 260. A physically fit stud. I am so fucking glad that he is so fucking drunk that I am amazed that he can stand upright.

I think I actually scared him because he never met someone bigger than him. Thank God he didn't realize my fat ass can't fight, although, I am damn good at grabbing and holding on for dear life! The buddy he is with, has obviously done this before because he is extremely adept at talking him out the door. It clearly wasn't his first rodeo.

So it was kind of cool that when I returned, my bartender still had his ID and credit card, when I noticed the 8"X11" sign that is in Size 24, Ariel Font, located within 3' from the main entryway and 48 inches above the floor, in highly contrasting black and white, that said that:

"By entering this establishment, you agree to the following automatic charges to your credit card. $100 for attempting to punch an employee, or $500 for making contact."

It may not standup, but I'm going to have fun with it...

Sunday, March 14, 2010


My bar is in a working class community. I can pick a tweaker out a mile away (with one exception which I will tell you in the future) But I first got my taste of what coke looks like. Let me interject that I have never done a drug harder than hash. Which I think is just concentrated pot. But the pot I smoke, which I have been known to smoke once in awhile before bedtime, is usually far better. Other than that, I have never tried meth, coke, pcp, shrooms, or even ecstacy.

So last night it was slow. But it was super stupid, although not as bad as two weeks ago. I think every week shows just how fucking stupid humanity has become. The neighboring business had a plumbing clog, so they had a plumber cleaning out all the lines. About 50 gallons of sewer water (which would be almost all food) came out of the drain in the parking lot. So boy wonder starts bitching how the water got on his tires and how he was going to sue. Not my problem as it had nothing to do with my business. But boy wonder decides it must be criminal and calls the police. So that is another service call to my business and the cop is rightfully pissed. He tells one of my employees it is the stupidest call he has ever been on in his career. I can't say I disagree with that assessment.

Normally I would toss that person for GP. But he has been a great customer. So I don't know what I am going to do.

So I roll into the bar around 9:30pm and as expected because of the local events, it was slow.

We had been watching this guy all night. He didn't do any thing wrong, but he stuck out. Usually it would be what clothes he was wearing or how he was acting. But he was perfectly cleancut and not doing anything wrong. I had called my cab and walked out to wait for my ride, only to find my three doormen about ready to call the police because Mr Cleancut wouldn't leave. I still don't know what got him kicked out but when I saw him it was obvious he was out of control and spinning very hard on something.

I made the fake call to the cops. After years, I can be pretty damn convincing. I can't act, but I have played this role so long, I should get an award. I even make sure I hit a button to show that the light is on and it appears a call is taking place. Me and the dispatcher that doesn't exist have weird difficult conversations. Now I am am usually playing to a drunk audience and they are completely convinced that the cops are coming for their ass. Well at least 95% of the time.

This night, he heard me and walked down the street. But lo and behold he was back 5 minutes later. He was screaming about us refusing to give him back his car key. I'm not really sure how we got it, but if you are even close to appearing intoxicated, we won't give you your car key back.

He was more fidgety than a cat and jumping up and down on his truck bed. Since my doormen had failed, I figured I didn't have much to lose trying to talk to him. But whenever I got within 20 feet of him, he started to freak out. Screaming, telling, claiming I was out to get him.

Well obviously this wasn't going to workout. So I finally dialed the PD myself. And Mr. Sean O'Conner, thought I was bluffing and yelled everything I needed to say to the dispatcher. So we sat there quietly awaiting the PD. I'm guessing they were busy as it took them awhile. But when the PD rolled up Mr Oconner, decided it was smart to run across four lanes of traffic to get away. Up a hill that had no exit.

The PD didn't even run after him. Just a quick walk. After a few minutes they brought him bcak and asked me if we had a hose. We thought he had spit or puked on the back of the patrol car. So I yelled at my doorman to get the hose or a couple pitchers of water. Now my doormen are good. They are used to dealing with the everyday drunk/tweaker. Yet they aren't the brightest when it comes to thinking for themselves.

What do they do? They bring out two pitchers of water full of ice, like they are waiters. I can only look at them and ask why they think we may need ice water? Are we going to have a party in the lot? And the guests need their water glasses filled?

So after they finally bring me a couple of pitchers of tap water do I realize, Mr O'conner got a taste of the capsium spray. It's amazing how this spray can tame the wildest of assholes. If I could use it, I would probably spray 10% of my customers in a given night.

He is now way cool as I poured the water over his eyes and kept telling him to blink to wash it out. All of a sudden, he was the most appreciative guy I ever met. But then when the pain subsided just enough, he became Mr dumbass again.

Other than going to jail, I don't know what happened to him. I only found out later he was looking for Crack. No one, including my employees, dared to come near me during this, so I only found out later. I'm glad I finally got to see it and reconize it, but a crackhead in "White Pride" community, scare the fuck out of me.