the bastard has to tell you something...

...the taking of pelhan 1-2-3 is the shit. i just got finished with it and i have to say that this is one of my more favorite walter matthau films. i've seen him in a number of flicks but this was a frikkin gem. fantastic cast. fantastic story. and above all else, it was a very new york film. in the same vein as the warriors but, obviously a standard for new york films. fantastic. see it. go on. see it! you jerk!

—the bastard

..on the little things 2

has the bastard ever gone on ad nauseam about how much he loves having a 7-11 near his place?

i mean seriously.

what could be better than getting some icee coffee after moving crap to my garage? yes, the bastard rents a garage. where else am i putting the damn bike and the chairman's truck. anyway, the bastard enjoys the convenience of getting the caffeine my body depends on to keep the voices out of my head.

come on i'm saving lives out here. your lives. show some gratitude.

jerks

—the bastard

...on major awards

...or win, place, or show.

so, the bastard went down to the marriot marquis on sunday to pick this up. you see it was back in 2005 that selling bullets 7 times a year won a major award (even though it gets screwed the rest of the time). i was kind of hoping to go home with something better (mostly so i can bitch about my shitty office situation) but, beggars can't be choosers and it's better placement than i had hoped for a layout with 3 handguns shot with ring light flash. not bad. we try again next year.

—the bastard

...on risk 3

...or worst day off ever!

now the bastard isn't one for vacations. i mean, i like vacations and all but, i never seem to take one unless i actually have somewhere to go. that's why i haven't taken a proper vacation since i went to ireland in 2003. don't get me wrong. i've taken time off. i have to take time off to see the boy and that burns vacation time and all but, that's not a vacation, that's visiting. so i decided to take a week off and spend it taking care of crap around the house.

now the bastard has to tell you something. he's NEVER going to take a week off ever again. the first act of my week off was to finally get my motorcycle license in order. so the bastard has to ask you.

have you ever had one of those days off where you go to the DMV?

and a cab stops short in front of you?

and you look in the rear view mirror real quick to swerve but not the blind spot?

and you sideswipe someone else's automobile?

yeah, me too.

so i pull over to the side of the road and to hash it out with the owner of this black toyota that someone must have taken a hammer to and the driver gets out and he's like 2 heads taller than me, and i already know that it's my fault. cause it is! and we exchange pleasantries and he clamly tells me that as i can see, he doesn't have collision on his car. i can tell this by the spray painted piece of cardboard he's currently using for a trunk. either way we do the info exchange and i tell the driver that more than likely, we won't speak again as this is my problem, not his. and that's the god's honest truth. why give this poor kid grief because of the bastard's screw up. and it didn't look like he was planning on fixing up his ride any time soon. so needless to say, i'm thinking that the next time i take a week off, i'm going to HAVE to be doing something because this is the suckiest vacation ever.

on the bright side however, it only cost the bastard 10 bucks to alter his license to put an "M" next to the "D". yay cheap fees. and it'll only cost me a grand to fix the car. nice and smooth. >:-O

—the bastard

...on the living dead

so the other night, rather than house cleaning, the bastard was watching the second resident evil movie. nah, i didn't see the first one. i figure you can just dive into crap like this. it's a hack zombie movie based on a video game, what am i going to miss in the plot? at some point i had a zombie movie problem arise. there was this teacher who is going through a school house to find her kids and, to her horror, have all become zombies.

then they eat her.

and they either were really not good at eating people or they were just taking their time because she seemed to scream for a good long time. i mean why didn't they just go for the throat and stop all of that noise?

anyway the bastard starts wondering why did all of those zombies wait for their teacher to show up when they could have killed just as much time eating each other?

i mean why do zombies only eat the living?

it's not like they can think or anything. they're ZOMBIES.

FLASH FORWARD: so this afternoon puzzled by this, the bastard asks left hand rob about this zombie dilemma and he ponders and we decide to ask the k about it. and the k says this:

"zombies only eat the living because they are dead and thus not appetizing"

"but how would they know?"

"ahh," says left hand rob, "living flesh is warm zombie flesh is cold. it's just like how it is with brains"

makes sense to me. stupid zombies.

—the bastard

...on antiquities

the bastard doesn't have much today but, sometimes you gotta just leave em laughing. saw this at an antique shop next door to a fine fine place to get a slice of red velvet cake. i had no idea that flip wilson had a biographer, let alone a biography.
the bastard actually bought this ad because, man, this is whiskey. you know, whiskey isn't just for breakfast anymore.

—the bastard

threshhold

okay.

i think the bastard has hit his threshold for righteous indignation. generally i don't give a crap about this sort fo thing but, it's kind of become epidemic in the office. i clean my grief after lunch. mostly because it i didn't, i'd have food junk in my bag for the ride home but, i've noticed that on occasion that some folks who have dishes leave them overnight. but, this is ridiculous.

yeah, i left the note. i know what your saying, "why don't you just do it and be a good corporate citizen?" well mostly because it isn't my job but secondly, the bastard has been going through life believing that there are people that don't know how to function in a polite society and have no signs that they will have one of those "A HA" moments that they are doing something wrong until someone hits them in the nose with a newspaper and says "bad doggy".

i mean, what kind of person are you? who the fuck raised you? are you a man? are you a woman? doesn't matter because you're a slob. what kind of college dorm room do you live in ansd i totally weep for the significant other that has to deal with your kind of slobbery. hmmmm. do you have bugs in your home? or is the office just your toilet? these questions need to be answered. or maybe i just need to sleep it off.

—the bastard

what would jesus do?

well the bastard can at least tell you what jesus wouldn't do. read my scripture, jerks. READ MY FUCKING SCRIPTURE!

i'm making the transfer at lexington and standing in the same spot i stand at every day (unless i am expecting to buy breakfast. those days, i'm closer to a spot where i get dumped off on 32nd street) and what should my wandering eye see but two "men of the cloth" standing on the same spot. one of them is sweating excessively. the kind of sweat that comes with years of benefiting from the largess of lots of eating over his lifetime. the other who reeked of cigarette smoke, looking kind of like mister eko from lost looked at me. no. scowled at me. there was also a woman on our little piece of platform as well.

now here is where our little discussion turns to a what would jesus do discussion. now that bastard asks you, when the train pulls in,
what would jesus do?

would he give the white boy a dirty look?

would he block the white boy's path with his arm to reveal to white boy his jewel encrusted hand and while doing so, become so preoccupied with making sure that his divine ass can get on the train before the white boy that he totally cock blocks the woman from getting on the train before he does?

would he press himself so close to the door he just passed , that he would prevent the white boy and the woman from getting on the train properly and then subsequently give the gas face to the white boy when he presses in right behind him (yeah, i figured out somewhere along the way that this shit was about the bastard, so i wasn't going to make it easy for him)?

no i would have to argue that he wouldn't. not on the son of man's worst day.


so why, the bastard asks, does the "man of the cloth" in question feel that this is acceptable behavior? i didn't provoke him. he saw me. he made a judgement call. he consciously decided to single me out, the knowing look on his fat friend's face speaks to his decision to act upon me, albeit passive aggresively. i'll tell you why. because he has hate in his heart. i don't know if it's for the bastard's skin color or for his shades, his ipod, his ben sherman bag, his baldness, his swagger. it could be a combination of things. but it begs the question, is it morally right, religiously speaking of course, for a representative of god to act like a racist thug when he's out and about in his white collar? can a man of the cloth live the life of christ while being a racist piece of shit?

now the bastard has done more than his fair share of fun of religion but, i had to lay in. turn the other cheek jackass. turn the other cheek. and while your at it, take off your fucking rings jerk, it sends the wrong message to your flock. it tells me that i'm using your tithing to buy a big ass amethyst pinky ring and you should all feel like suckers for tithing to the likes of me. I'M SKIMMING!!! that's what i'm doing and i hate white folks too. there's a reason why monks take a vow of poverty and chastity. because christ opted to be poor and chaste. so there you have it. you see, the bastard isn't a minster so i don't have to turn the other cheek. fuck you.

—the bastard

...on whispering

pst.

pst.

pst.

hey buddy.

yeah you.

unless you're whispering stock tips to the bastard to make him rich, please stop whispering in the stall.

you're creeping me out. makes me think a certain senator from idaho is in the next stall. stop it.

—the bastard

...on the joys of the hunt

...or is it two for THURSDAY jerks!

"do you shee the beasht? do you ave it in your shites"

"clear enough miss moneypenny. thish shouldn't be a problem at tall."

—trainspotting

so instead of eating my leftovers, i join the silver k's lunchtime raiding party. for the first few weeks of living in our crapper of new space, we have been eating lunch together in various parts of the floor. kind of like bedouin nomads. and our frequent lunchroom which was shanghai'd by the yoga people yesterday has been commandeered from us by sales monkeys from popular science.

so we took it on the road.

we decided to go to our favorite sock monkey decored mexican restaurant.

and we saw sites.

in fact we saw two.

this first specimen of mulletus erectus was first seen crossing park avenue was clearly the better specimen of the two. witness if you will his long flowing mexi

mullet.

the second on was a complete fluke.

after i bagged the first one, the bastard noticed this one down the road.

not taking the subway like the first. it wasn't as good as the first mullet but it still counts for two in one sitting.

hell, two in one block.

two within feet of each other.

it was a fantastic feat. or at least a fantastic chain of events. it made my day.

hell, it made my week.

—the bastard

...2 step

excuse me could you step in a step or two. just a two steps. look, i'm sure the full back tattoo makes you a really respected worker bee around the brothel and all but just step into the car. this ain't just YOUR subway car.

—the bastard

...on matters of size

sunday morning

getting coffee

hot town

summer in the city

back of mah neck gettin dirty and gritty.

okay it wasn't so hot.

it wasn't so gritty.

hell, it wasn't so shitty. but, this cocksmoker in the suv almost took my door off with his truck in his mad rush to get that selfsame cup of coffee from the coffee-a-teria. i decide to not size up the driver, i decide to not get all upons. i decide to get my goddam coffee. bhind me, a british guy ordrs some manner of something or other macchiato. i think it's the sort of coffee one orders to sound swanky. it's kind of like kobe beef. everyone wants to order kobe beef. no one really knows if it tastes better than regular beef (i mean maybe some foodies know), they just like to say it.

kobe beef

kobe beef

kobe beef

kobe beef

and can i get a vente caramel macchiato half caf with a twist.

go

die

please.

anyway, it gets me away from the suv and gets me to thinking about the amount of folks who can afford to price regular folks out of manhattan due to the fact that the pound is worth twice that of the dollar and that they want a little corner of the west village to call little britain and how they can all go fuck off. respectively of course, i mean we still LOVE those tourist dollars.....um....er...pounds.

by this time i'm out the door and i see this little dog in the suv and it makes the bastard think about the absurdity of scale and then i'm wondering if the suv is compensating for the mans small penis or the miniature dog is compensating for his ugly mug, or lack or personality but by the time the bastard is postulating this latest theory, he's already made a u-turn and is picking up his lady at the bagel place across the street, no longer thinking about assholes in suv's but, bagels.

—the bastard