And When It Comes.

Watching baseball. Religiously. It is our Jesus.

The cuntbags at the temp gig continue to monumentally annoy. But one was mercifully fired. She may have just left, but I doubt she would have contributed to the office lotto pool had she realized that come Monday her desk would be replaced by a document shredder. Delicious.

Please hold.

Take This Irrelevance.

I

I did an audible b-line into the Paul Hastings food court. Quite unexpected, but mama had a hunger, and the hunger was positively screaming for hash browns and a pickle. Done. The hash browns disappeared like vapor while the pickle may survive til tiffin. Or quite possibly not. But at some point today, mark my words, this face is going to wrapped around a hunormous pickle, and it's going to make many, many  people uncomfortable. 

Looking positively amazing in double-barreled vintage Benetton and Helmut Lang. The walk to work was a flash mob of fat Asian chicks flipping their dried out hair; Desperately trying to navigate the  sidewalk in flip-flops, gracefully they hope. There was a dude in Starbucks who was hotter than God knows what. That generally doesn't happen, but we liked it. Kinda sportin a crush on the thug barista at Coffee Bean anyway. Gotta mix it up.

Feeling bad about writing about not being deliberately cruel, but then gleefully retweeting news of poseur emporium Blackbird's closure. But I couldn't help it. It's like muffin's casting off this mortal coil has imparted some special power where shit happens when I just think about it hard enough. Which if true would be super. But better to count one's blessings, which are immense. And yours?

I Just Bought Ned's Atomic Dustbin For The Third And Last Time.

So right. I may be a pissy cunt, but I try, and possibly often fail, to not be outwardly cruel. I truly do.

I mean I thought I was quick and clever. I mean figured out that Big Sad Girl's engagement was a fiction, a sham, a big imaginary not really so much. Like unicorns or New Zealand. But I at least have the decency not to question her, Perry Mason style, like my co-mammals did. 

I was breathless. It was unspeakable. Ghastly. And desperately sad. Because BSG answered all the questions, down to what type of identification her and her fictitious spouse would have to produce. She apparently anticipated the widespread and indecent incredulity. researched it, predicted the obvious questions, but instead of saying "Wait? Do you fucking not believe me dicks?", she just submitted to the mock cross-examination. Nauseating on so many levels.

I've careened into a place where standards are low, manners are irrelevant, but the pay is decent. I'm also equidistant to all three downtown Farmer's Markets, but, but not being a superficial gypsy bobo, I don't so much give a shit about that. 

Homeostasis maintained. 

Lights. Camera. Sodomy.

The tarrists are straight up out to get me. Yes me! Not stupid driveling 'street eaters and coffee carriers'*, but me specifically. 

A bomb, concussion, cluster, dirty, whatever you want to call it, it went off yesterday morning at 12:34 in the LACC parking lot. Business sent me shooting out of bed, hitting the deck, bruising my knee, just mussing stuff up generally.

Took me hours to get back to sleep because LAPD arrived, then a black lady in a nightgown (just like the ones in the movies) trundles over, and collectively the brain trust decide it was a quote, cherry bomb, unquote.

Oh hells the eff no.

Now I know why the Obama has to spy, snoop, lie, & say everything it has to say in triple colorful metaphors. They really have no other option, and even with all of that shit they still can't prevent stuff like the Boston Marathon Bombing, even though there were actual invites to it on The Facebook. Shoot. Now they think this was a cherry bomb. Huh.

They wised up. Sent in the helicopters, moved, discretely, what I imagine was a bombed out mass of junk, and quietly swathed the area in squad cars, never once alerting the people of LA that their city was being turned into a proving ground for God knows who. Probably Voldemort. But I am. Letting you know. Right now. 

I'm also, incidentally, whoopin ass and takin names in my fantasy baseball league. Which is to say I am no longer dead last, but second from dead last. 

Feel the earth shake.

_________________

* Patsy Stone