Shut up, you don’t care (A rant about being offended)

Shut up, you don’t care (A rant about being offended)

Guys, readers, people who give me cyber affection…which sounds kinda dirty when I think about it…it happened.

Something actually happened that offends me. Or it should have, anyway. I should have been ALL up in arms gone to the mayor of Whereeverthefucksville and been like “Oi! Something JUST happened to me that incited such a strong feely feeling straight in my feels that I FEEL the need to express how it makes me feel.

You know what she’d say? (yes, there has been a long consecutive line of woman mayors in Whereeverthefucksville)

She’d say “get over yourself, don’t you have something to write?”

and I’d probably say “Dammit!…Ms. Mayor, you’re right, gah I HATE it when you’re right”

the fuck were we talking about? I dunno, it’ll come to me. Oh, before I forget (too late [isn’t it ironic, doncha think?])

the following content may or may not be Safe for Work


OH YEAH! this thing, this thing that happened. It’s funny. Ok, we’re gonna talk about it.

So I’ll provide you first with a little context. I have a kilt that I wear regularly. It’s awesome. I feel hott and masculine and really like I’m embracing my Celtic (with a ‘Kh’ sound) me wearing my kilt, I would imagine, is why anyone wears anything that they feel their best, smartest, suavest, sexiest, most delectable in. I love this kilt.  it’s nothing too fancy. but I can dress it up with a wide belt and a sporran (the pouchy-thing in front the allows me to carry my shtuff) and it looks pretty good.

I was still wearing this awesome garment after my bands Battle of the Bands (that we won, no big deal) in which I play the drums (not-relevant. I’m just bragging now).

My band mate and I were at the bar that we met each other at and talking with some people that we knew, you know, doing what people do at bars, until closing time came around.

I was standing outside on the patio when a group of girls, a couple of which I had met previously but couldn’t, for the life of me, remember their names passes me on their way out. As I’m catching a whiff of the pungent mixture created by perfume and cigarette smoke, one of the lovely ladies of the night decides that she NEEDS to know what’s under my kilt and playfully, in passing, LIFTS IT UP to take a peek.

I’m of a Scotch/Irish heritage (I just say Irish, it’s easier). I wear my kilt correctly; in the traditional style with nothing BUT the kilt covering me for legal purposes. Needless to say, little miss Thing got the eyeful she was looking for.

Now, I’m not sure which thought came first so I’m just gonna wing it and you can read them in whichever order you like.

ummm…I kinda liked it.

Now, I didn’t kinda like it because I’m a stripper and taking my clothes off for random people just…*le sigh* just does it for me. I’m not a stripper. I’m twisted, but I just don’t have the moves for that kinda revue.

I kinda liked it because this random girl up-kilting me means that she found me attractive enough to get my attention in some way. That way was partially disrobing me. Innately, on some sort of primal level, whether conscious or subconscious, she wanted to see if I was naked under that kilt which I was wearing so dashingly. And so conveniently happened to be completely naked under (we’ve

MEANING…she wanted to bang, right there, right then. That’s what I took from it. I’m a guy…so, uh, duh.

This thought was either preceded by or followed by the reasonable side of me thinking to myself: “Now, wait a minute there champ. I was just violated without my permission or my immediate knowledge. This…this is WRONG, EVERYTHING IS WRONG. GUARDS! Hand that Wench! Off with her head!”

Ok, I didn’t want her dead but the action in question did cause me a little hesitation.

Then I thought about double standards and how gender policies and roles and shit are really twisted and how nobody is right and nobody is wrong. CUZ NOBODY KNOWS THE FUCKIN’ difference.

AT FACE VALUE, a girl lifting a dude’s kilt to take a peek is flirty and kinda cute. It means she’s a little feisty maybe a little slutty (which, I personally see as a term of endearment and is no longer an insult. Not in MY vocabulary, anyway. YOUR vocabulary can fuck itself if it has an issue.)

FLIP SIDE, a dude lifting up a girl’s skirt in passing is creepy, slimy, and ALWAYS a violation of the lady’s space and a reflection on his upbringing cuz fuck that guy, that’s why.

These are very superficial examples ofa double standard that could be encapsulated within the same sentiment. READY? *Deep Breath*


That being said, almost anybody has consent to take my clothes off until I stop them at any given time…I’m just twisted like that…We’ve been over that. It’s whatever.

The thing is, and the namesake of this rant is this; I Guess I should’ve been offended…? I wasn’t. It really didn’t matter to me. and in the Great Grand scheme of things, a lotta shit that people get all up-in-arms about, or offended over REALLY doesn’t fuckin’ matter. As far as I’m concerned, if you’re “offended” you’re whining. No one likes a whiner.

So, do me a favor, shut THEE ACTUAL FUCK up and talk about it with someone. Or if there is absolutely no one you enjoy talking to about anything, WRITE IT OUT. I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what Socrates did. He just talked with himself and asked questions (ok, also in the company of a select few) until he figured shit out. Which, I dunno, does anyone REALLY have everything figured out? I know I don’t. I just like to think I do.

If I’ve hurt your feelings or stated something that is disagreeable with your personal ideals talk at me, I still love you. Let’s talk about it. Until the next time.

Cheers, beautiful people,



Be the Nice Guy (but don’t be THAT nice guy)

Be the Nice Guy (but don’t be THAT nice guy)

This post probably won’t be Safe for Work, as in NSFW. Get it? Fantastic.

Turns out writing is fuckin’ tough, man. It’s not like a job that you can just roll in, bleary eyed, and sit down, type your words, get paid and be done with it. There’s a leeeettle bit more to it, and I’m starting to discover that.

I mean, whatever, right? I’m gonna be honest, I really cannot see myself doing anything else…wait, what do you mean I’m not getting paid for this?

For this vocation to work-cuz, you know, that’s what it is, anyone in their right and proper mind wouldn’t CHOOSE this. But maybe we’re all mad here…

I guess what I’m REALLY trying to say is that I was REALLY stoked about opening up this little corner of the interwebs so I set my posting goal just a leeeettle (I really like that word) too high. So here it is, the final writing schedule Let’s see if we can consistently keep it to Wed-nes-days and Saturdays, eh?

SO whilst my upstairs neighbor’s children continue to STOMP their little feet across the ENTIRETY of the floor (MY ceiling) as fast as they fuckin’ can while SCREAMING ABSOLUTE NONSENSE at the TOP of their tiny, little lungs until they disorient themselves…I’ll be here, disgruntled, pumping out words.

Let’s talk about the “nice guy” shall we? Yes. Yes, let’s.

Here’s something for all the “nice guys” out there……MAN THE FUCK UP. sorry, I didn’t mean that…

Yes I did.

Ok, lemme take a step back. Because someone can go on and on and on and on…and on…about the phrase “Man the Fuck Up” there’s an incredibly classy, kind of old-fashioned website devoted to it called “The Art of Manliness” I recommend it, it’s one of my favorites. But that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about the “nice guys” out there.

In my opinion, (which may or may not mean anything considering the vastness of the multiverse) this Millennial day in age holds two types of “nice guys” the Nice-Guy Douchebags and the Nice-Guy Pansy. The difference, as it usually is, is how each conducts himself around whomever he’s attracted to.

The Nice-Guy Douchebag will conduct himself just like any other douchebag…in fact, now that I think of it, the Nice-Guy Douchebag is still just a douchebag; only after the assertion of his douchebaggery does he PROCLAIM (falsely) to be a “nice guy”

Example: A guy expresses interest in a person. That person is not interested rejected guy COMPLETELY overreacts. I only know this because I’ve seen it.

Girl: “Oh, I’m flattered, but no thank you…”
Guy: “w/e bitch, fuck u anyway ur so fuckin stuck up you had a chance with a NICE GUY like me, but w/e u fucked that up for urself lol”

Let’s just clear something up, I NEVER take “lol” seriously…never.

Secondly, yes, essentially that is what will happen. This weird phenomenon where dudes think it’s ok to bash a girl because he isn’t confident enough to take her rejection.

Fuck that, and fuck you, douche, go play lead guitar in your metal-core band.


NEXTLY, and FINALLY, (thank gawd) is the Nice-Guy Pansy. This is the “nice guy” who’s too mice for his own good. We’ve all met him, I guess think George McFly, Marty’s dad in Back to the Future…or…if you’ve committed the unthinkable and HAVE NEVER SEEN BACK TO THE FUTURE 1) watch it and 2) then I guess think of, oh I dunno, a cupcake that’s too sweet.

…what? you don’t eat cupcakes? Not even gluten-free. dairy free, pasture-raised, vegetarian carrot-cake cupcakes?

Then I, uh, I dunno…the door is that way…

but you get it, right? TOO nice. The flaw in THIS “nice guy” is that he’s a whiner. He’ll complain about lack of attention from girls or guys or whomever and he won’t know that it’s because everyone just wants to be his friend and almost no one wants to see him naked …except for that really sweet girl who works at the frozen yogurt shop. she might.

Anyways,  what I’m gettin’ at is that, if you HAD to choose one and only one, it is better to be the “nice guy” as opposed to the bad boy (this conclusion is purely based on the karma factor, in which I starkly believe) BUT the trick is, as it is with EVERYTHING, is that there has to be a balance. Balance the nice guy with the bad boy and you get someone who knows how to respect people, but you also get someone who knows and feels when that primal attraction kicks in. Find a balance. It’s better with both. You can be the nice guy and still not finish last.


If I Don’t Hear from You, I’m Assuming You’re Dead (A rant about the communication debacle)

If I Don’t Hear from You, I’m Assuming You’re Dead (A rant about the communication debacle)

I gotta be honest; definitely been droppin’ the ball with this consistency thing. I guess that’s life but I also I think I’ve been sick.

Like, physically. I already know I’m twisted in my head. That’s evident.

But I say I think I’ve been sick because I haven’t ACTUALLY been out of commission. My body has just been taking the necessary precautions to ensure that I do not, in fact, succumb to the day to day hazards of the human condition…

You know, germs ‘n shit

Or maybe I’ve been asking too much of myself. Too many days bitchin’ about shit is unhealthy…or is it the healthiest thing ever…? Fuck man, I don’t know. Anyways, if you haven’t guessed by now the language in this post will not be appropriate in a professional environment…once again, NOT the environment I wanna be in.

Alright, this one is layin’ in out on the proverbial clothesline and encompasses everyone involved.

If I call you, text you, email you, Instagram DM you, Snap you, Kik you or try to get a hold of you on any and every form of social media and/or communicatory (might be a word) platform and what I said warrants a response, and I don’t receive a response…

…you’re dead.

This is not to be confused with the phrase “you’re dead to me” because the latter specifically holds the notion that I, in fact, know you’re alive and choose not to acknowledge this detail.

No, I don’t get an answer within 12 hours of my initial outreaching, you’ve died, and the only possible way you can reanimate yourself is to contact me in some way, shape, or form.

Carrier pigeon is the preferred media.

For the sake of argument and keeping things interesting, we’ll remain within the dating realm (i.e. if some guy/girl is trying to get a hold of some other guy/girl in the interest of getting to know said guy/girl and also maybe, subliminally, to see the guy/girl in question without any clothes on).

It is unfortunately necessary sometimes (ok…most times) to distance yourself from someone who you no longer want to be affiliated with. And the only way to do that is to cut off communication completely. The most common way to do THAT is to LITERALLY not talk to the person…at all…on anything…ever. This means, no calls, texts, emails, snaps, DMs, chats, or kiks despite how much the other party might try to get into contact.

Like I said, most times this is unfortunately necessary even if you’ve told the person in question GENUINELY “Hey, I’m glad to have met you but I don’t think this is going to work out.” Sometimes you just don’t have chemistry and that’s TOTALLY ok.

I want to reiterate that (shh, listen): NOT HAVING CHEMISTRY WITH SOMEONE ELSE IS OK. You’re not supposed to. Jeezus..could you imagine? That’d be exhausting.

I understand, (since, it seems, we’re actually, talking about me this time around); I’m kind of a dork. I’m kind of a geek, and I’m DEFINITELY fuckin’ weird (I’m a creep I’m a weirdo what the fuck am I doin’ here).

I am not everyone’s cup of coffee. I mean, I could be the richest, boldest, darkest (HA!) smoothest roast of espresso bean this side of the western hemisphere…but there are still A LOT of girls who aren’t going to dig espresso (they can’t handle the ‘kick’ hashtag winkyface…[I’m a dork])

You could be INSANELY HOTT to one person and someone else still isn’t going to like the way your face looks, or they’re gonna think you’re too skinny, or too muscular, or any number of other things because people (myself included) are shallow, and superficial…at face value (see what I did there?) You could be the richest, smoothest, creamiest avocado of the bunch, and someone still isn’t going to like avocados (by the way, RUN, you don’t need that kind of negativity in your life).

There is one rule that I have with regards to trying to get a hold of someone, and that is the four strike rule (because three is too few and baseball is boring). You have four chances to try to connect or re-connect with someone before you move on (and If you have to move on, it’s ok, their loss). If you call, text, email, blah, blah, blah, or blah on 4 SEPARATE occasions without any type of response (regardless of the time that it took to receive that response) then let it go (NO!…STOP SINGING). Persistence is admirable, it shows a sincere desire to want to see someone, but OVER persistence equals creepiness. If someone doesn’t make an effort to communicate with you, then they don’t deserve your effort. It’s healthy to move on. Someone somewhere will DIG avocados.


Imma end on that note. We’ll resume THAT thought the next time around.

Cheers, Beautiful People,


Be Where You Are When You’re There (A musing about Carpe-ing the Diem)

Be Where You Are When You’re There (A musing about Carpe-ing the Diem)

I know. I missed not one but TWO posting days. I was out at a country festival doing country things like drinking beer, wearing boots (I actually don’t wear a large variety of footwear), wearing jeans when any other Southern California native would wear board shorts (for THIS native, it means A LOT less sunscreen), eating legs that were advertised as being from a turkey but which I’m pretty sure were from a small species of pterodactyl, wearing cowboy hats (which I feel incredibly hott [2 ‘t’s] in. Can’t say too much as to how I look, but if the former [‘feels hott’] is greater than the latter [‘looks hott’] then I guess it doesn’t really matter then does it?), and, well, you know, listening to country bands play country music…because country and America, that’s why.

Anyways, that’s where I was with some friends and I decided not to bring my laptop because 1). I didn’t think I was going to WANT to write (Saturday rolled around and it turned out I had A LOT to say, which is encouraging, I suppose) and 2). I didn’t think I was actually going to have time to (I could’ve MADE time. I fucked up). The result is that I’m going to be writing A LOT this week and I’m going to be off schedule until I’m on schedule again, cuz I made a promise, Mr. Frodo. Let’s get to it then, shall we?

Firstly, I have a confession to make,

I didn’t want to go. *cue gasp…pause for dramatic effect*

I know, but it’s true. And to my friends who invited me, if you’re reading, I thank you and I love you but I don’t want to lie upon rethinking, I was not stoked about going. There, I said it. Now shut up, cuz I have some shit to say.

Oh, yeah, this post will probably Not be Safe For Work, but you’ll be cooler if you show it off…just sayin’

The first invitation came last minute, on my birthday, when I was stoked about being around great people, and great energy…while also being slightly intoxicated. But THAT’S not an excuse, nor should it ever be for anything.

“Oh, I was drunk I didn’t mean it”


That’s the mostest basicest (not a word, I’m aware) form of describing the  situation but ultimately I feel that that’s what it comes down to. Alcohol impaired your judgement, but even I’ve yacked from making out with someone who I would not have kissed on the cheek when I was sober (true story). No matter what alcohol says, your subconscious will tell you the truth. You were thinking or feeling that way even if you didn’t want to admit it.

That’s not the point.

I decided to go. I viewed the trip as fun, and spontaneous if not a little irresponsible and it was all those things. Everything I could have expected. But three days before we were going to leave, I had what addicts refer to as a moment of clarity.

Driving to work, thinking about life, I said, out loud, to absolutely no one:

“Fuck…I don’t wanna go.” I then proceeded to berate myself…*lemme just make sure I’m using ‘berate’ correctly… Yep, nailed it.* berate (good word) myself for making such an irresponsibly spontaneous choice to go play. But wristbands were bought, plans were set and there was no going back.

Plus, I’m one of those people who likes to, you know, FOLLOW FUCKIN’ THROUGH with the plans that I make. Flakiness is one of the least attractive characteristics in a human being, in my opinion, anyway. But yes, we did the thing, and it was good. I can’t say that I didn’t enjoy myself because I did very much. Even if I wasn’t, I would have, each of the three days, made a conscious decision to do so, if not for me, for my lovely country mates.

Be where you are when you’re there. Be in the moment.

Now, that doesn’t mean always be enjoying what you’re doing all the time, taking everything in with every ounce of your granola-crunching being…I don’t know what that means, but it sounds exhausting and I’m almost positive that’s not what I’m talking about.

No. I’m talking about being present where you are. I went to that country festival and had a blast. The only thing I wanted to do while I was there watching was play the drums in a kick-ass band on a big-ass stage for thousands of people. And I reveled in that the entire time. My favorite part? oh, glad you asked.

There’s a cat named Kip Moore, he’s a country rock-star. He was playing at the festival opening up for Kenny Chesney. During his set, he had this portion where it was just him singing some kinda charming string of words that only a country artist would be able to get away with. He stopped in the middle of his song, and said with a smile on his face to some girl in the audience who was filming him “Oh no no no, put that fuckin’ phone away, just look me in the eye and let me sing to you for a bit”

That, I think, is the epitome of what I’m gettin’ at.

A couple weeks ago, I was sitting alone, like I usually do, in a coffee somewhere in L.A. staring into space and time. I was watching this one couple (falling, of course, within the millennial demographic  of which I begrudgingly belong to) sitting across from each other, completely engrossed in whatever the fuck was on the respective screen in front of their face.

A few DAYS ago, I was standing at the bar that I provide security for (ok, I’m a bouncer, shut the fuck up) looking at this one dude completely disregarding the adorable girl that he had brought with him.

Now, I don’t know any of these humans’ back-stories. The only thing I can think to say…to lament about…to pound my fists, gnash my teeth, tear at my hair, and curse the sky about…

Fuckin’ BE WITH WHO YOU ARE WITH, WHERE, WHEN, HOW, AND WHY YOU ARE WITH THEM. YOU”RE THERE. BE…there. Be there. Then talk about why you were unhappy later. Until later arrives, suck it up and be there.

Who knows, you might like it.

As always, if you wanna talk at me, talk at me in the comments or whatever, I don’t bite…at least not if you don’t want me to.

Cheers, beautiful people,