off the books…

the bastard feels that honesty is the best policy…

but with a provision…

when I go off the books…

I like to stay off the books…

so I gets out of the office an hour early, I go to get a brew at the hoek.

this is a differing view point that I have with the wife.

when she gets out of work early…

she goes straight home…

and then the nanny takes a powder.

the bastard feels differently.

every hour the bastard gets free from the machine is frikkin gold…

so he'll spend it off the books at the hoek.

nice and smooth

—the bastard

ruckus…

there was a bit of a ruckus the other night upon returning from the chairman's den of iniquity.

can you describe the ruckus?

why yes.

the ruckus was the last 10 minutes of the beer bar's cask beer fest… the PM shift.

I wasn't worried about this as they legally can't have anyone out back past 10pm…

and it was 10 minutes to 10…

and I was already drunk.

so I let my wife do the heavy lifting on that knowing full well that she would get the empowerment that comes with calling 10 minutes before the beer bar fulfills it's legal obligations to the neighborhood.

but the wasn't the ruckus.

the ruckus came 40 minutes later when the people who paid upwards of 120 dollars to drink all the cask conditioned local brew they could drink spilled out onto the streets to hump all of the traffic cones to their hearts content.

yes

traffic cones.

now to be fair, the bar did state on their build out blog that they would never be a cheap drinks special kind of place.

this was an expensive drink special kind of place.

but also to their build out blog's point, their staff was supposedly train to spot people who have had too much to drink and shut that shit down.

which they clearly didn't.

which didn't matter to me in the long run because it went out the front door to the hood.

where the people who have been living here for longer than any of us people in the fancy glass buildings have.

the people who don't want drunken rich kids humping traffic cones on their block on a Saturday night.

and may kick their asses.

and that is something the bastard can get on board with.

—the bastard

could any hell be more real…

…or more now

…again

the bastard thought he'd left this behind in the fhills but…

the noise it follows him.

tonight the bar was host to a rather large corporate card which came in the form of caterwauling assholes.

not again, the bastard said.

and rather than resort to violence…

I went down to the bar to appeal to the caterwauling masses' better judgement

this was a mistake.

first to one it was 'awesome' that I lived upstairs

no asshole… it isn't awesome.

you are an asshole

to another, I said that their caterwauling was keeping my child up.

and she said 'aaawwwww'

which is what drunken women who don't have children say when children are mentioned.

a third asked me why I moved in next door to a bar and rather than stab her in the face which was a growing reality to this idiot I replied that there WAS no bar when I moved in.

which prompted the second idiot to say 'awwwww' again.

it was at this point that I wanted to beat them all senseless.

then the owner came to me and oddly enough calmed me down.

asked me to come to him, not the caterwauling idiots under the speed of a corporate card.

he was right.

but it was hard to resist trying to see if idiots can actually have that 'a-ha' moment that they are being inconsiderate and that is not the case.

and in many ways, it somes up what I dislike about younger folks. these things aren't their concern until its their problem.

so here is my wish.

I want them all to have many children.

problem children.

screaming children that keep them up at night.

and when they grow up, I hope their children break their hearts.

except for the third one. I hope she is barren.

and instead has a miserable hole in her life to keep her up at night.

I really wish this wasn't happening again.

—the bastard

bad scene…

the bastard is finally coming out of his coma by the good graces of a bottle of kombucha and some noodles.

but he has to tell you that he felt like hell this morning.

the recipe for a bad scene is as follows:

take and afternoon celebratory beer or two because your big kampf is through

add some early evening whiskey to keep in the "thank god this awful production is at an end."

finish bottle with left hand rob.

deposit dead soldier in garbage.

go home.

have a beer or three with wife and brother in law.

after wife goes to bed, have comparison taste test between white whiskey and bourbon.

mix it all together in a big jug and sleep on it.

and in a mere 7 hours, you have something very bad.

enjoythanxbai.

—the bastard