Observation of the Veterans Administration Police

     I have begun to have an at least once a month pilgramage to The West Los Angeles Veterans Hospital on Santa Monica Blvd in West LA. I had been given transportation to the Salvation Army's "Haven", a VA campus Emergency Overnight housing due to a mix-up with my overnight stay at the hospital. (I have to ride a bus from Santa Maria to WLO, a one way ride of around 4 hours. Often, the clinics I must attend are on different days, so I must stay at a motel provided by the Veteran's Administration.)
     I was riding in a van, driven by a Veteran that has a job driving one of the many vans on the rather large hospital campus. The VA Police rushed by with lights flashing and siren screaming. The driver told me, "You know, this security forsce are over zealous men. They are scared cops that over react ot any threat real or imagined. They are scared because they know that with all the Veterans they have to deal with suffer from PTSD, and anyone of them, any age or physical ability are seasoned warriors. At any time, they could run into a little old guy with the power or means to take them out in the blink of an eye. These guys are just plain paranoid. You know what though? They should be paranoid. Some of these guys are just plain crazy.

The New Politics

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

          Mitt is swearing that he’s gonna win, Santorum does win, Ron Paul keeps his happy little group and Gingrich winds up finishing third. This is just an example of how screwed up the Republican Party is. They have been so focused on screwing Obama, they haven’t bothered to keep their own house clean. Talk about cutting off your nose and throwing out the baby, these guys are doing to themselves what they’ve been trying to do to the Democrats. I have a huge worry that by some chance enough Republicans get into office due their hatred or racial prejudice by default. Hate Obama, find a name with an (R) in front of it and vote blindly and without thought of the consequences. 

          A country that has been the optimum of finding a compromise for the good of the majority is now frightened and duped into being sheeple. I recall when there were differences between a Right and a Left. Now the Right is so far to the Right, it is ready to fall off the edge, and they are dragging the ones who were on the Left into the gutter of the Right.  To be Liberal anymore is as bad as being a mental case was 20 years ago. We suffer the chance of plunging into a “small government” that wants to be so small they want to make sure that you don’t have any rights if you don’t agree with their principals exactly. They want to be “small” enough that they want to go into your bedroom and condemn you for having sex for enjoyment rather than only for reproduction.   They want to be so “small” that they can determine that your right to pursue happiness is only adhered to by their “small minds”.

          Why are these people who want to keep a “small” Government are so small minded that they cannot accept the fact that marriage is for love and not as a testament as to how Christian you are. Last time I looked, the Ten Commandments had been tossed aside by Jesus and replaced with  simply “Love your neighbor as you would love yourself. Just what in hell are they trying to do? This is the 21^st  Century, and they want to plunge us back into the 1950s.

The Cisco Kid, He Was No Friend of Mine

The Cisco Kid, He Was No Friend Of Mine

          I think everyone knows Doug, or a person like Doug. Even if you don’t want to hang out with Doug, he always shows up. In my case, he was my neighbor in a very cheap rooming house in California in the early 70s.

           Doug was a stoner. He lived ate, dreamed and pursued marijuana on a duel track with rock music. He saw little beyond the two, except for his fumbling inadequacy with females. There really wasn’t a lot going on between his ears, the music drowned out the empty echoes that filled the blank, empty spaces that were not occupied with sex.

          He liked to hang around me. I knew a lot of people, many were female, and many were into smoking pot or playing music in bands, band practice, (a euphemism for party) where people were baked, basted in alcohol and left to rock in large groups of people in smoke filled houses. I think I liked Doug because he had a van; he liked to listen to loud music, drive and smoke. It was a party bus going from party to party.

          My preferences were stacked in an opposing direction. I loved alcohol, women, music and then pot. Pot was what I reserved for times when I had no money and no alcohol, and no unattached women in the vicinity.  It effectively took the pressure off me to be the gregarious cheer leader of the party movement. I believe it there was a place on the ballot for “Leader of the Party Movement”, I would have been a prime candidate. Doug’s fumbles turned into my touchdowns. Yes, I used Doug, but for Doug, it was a good payoff. He got to go to lots of parties, music jams, and he got to meet a plethora of females of legal age.  Unfortunately, the feeling wasn’t reciprocated.

          In all the time I knew him, I never recall at anytime of his ever getting laid. The only kiss I ever saw him get was when a girl asked him if he had ever had a doggy kiss. For Doug, he immediately got the impression of kissing and doggy style. So, of course, he said “No!”  The girl asked if he wanted one. He resounded with an enthusiastic “Yes!” At this point, the girl took her cue and licked him along the side of his face from jaw line to hairline. A sloppy lick, and as Doug used his shirt tail to wipe his face, he was saying, “Well, I got a (doggy) kiss!”  He was a very nice guy for the most part, but that didn’t get him very far.

          There were a bunch of us sitting around the group room, which in this case was the basement of the rooming house. It was much larger than the living room upstairs, and had the advantage of dark corners. Some people were playing guitars, some people were rolling joints and lighting them, taking a hit and passing them on to the person next to them. Others, like me, would take an occasional hit on a doobie, and then go back to the bottle of wine, the preferred drink that you could have at a party, easy to share, easy to get back and was there in large quantities. It also did not need refrigeration, which put it a party point above beer, which needed constant replenishment from cold storage.

     One time, a new wine came out, and no one knew what it tasted like. I had a half gallon, and after taking pulls off the wine and pulls off a pint of tequila, I noticed it was easier to pour the tequila into the bottle of wine and make a whole new taste treat. I didn’t tell anyone of this shortcut, but I am sure that tho people liked the taste, would put them on the edge of the line going over the line between being drunk and being violently ill; but back to the topic of Doug.

          We were at one of these parties, and I noticed my wine reserves dwindling, so I summoned up a beer run, grabbing a couple of girls who wanted to go along for the ride, and with this ammunition, got Doug to drive us to the liquor store to get more wine, some whiskey, and some beer, just to balance out the whole liquid intake thing.

          Because of the women, I was easily able to convince Doug that driving to the liquor store was the logical thing to do, and off we rocked into the darkness, speakers blasting out Meddle by Pink Floyd, (Doug’s current favorite), and off to Fat Wu’s liquor store.  (Fat Wu’s was one of those lucky metaphors that had a double entendre built right in. Fat Wu, was fat. Happily, his liquor store was named after him, but not for him, which, intentional or not, left us all off the hook for any stupid remark to fall out of someone’s mouth.  

          Just as we were leaving Fat Wu’s, a carload of friends pulled up on a beer run of their own.  They were stopping for a load of alcohol before they headed off to a birthday party for one of their friends. We all came to the conclusion that we should all head off to the party together, so Doug, me and the two ladies pulled in behind their car, an old Rambler. (At one time, a mechanically minded neighbor had taken the letters from Rambler and rearranged them to spell Marbler), so we stuck to them as they drove us across town to the party.

          At this period in the drug culture, hippies were more inclined to drink smoke pot and drop acid. The party was at a Mexican acquaintance of one of the people in the Marbler. The Mexican-Americans were more inclined to drink, smoke pot and drop reds, or barbiturates. The anger management factor of barbiturates was more or less non-existent, so a person with average social skills was aware of this and acted accordingly. Doug was not exactly socially aware, period. I was not aware that Doug was that unaware. At that time, it was a near fatal mistake on my part.

          We all grabbed some goodies and headed into the house. There was a pretty much mixed crowd of people, not unusual for parties of this period. We were all ready to party, or as in my case, had been partying. Soon, we found our little niche, and settled in, talking, flirting and drinking and having a pretty good time. I was watching Doug trying to hook up with this lady at the party, and it looked like he was doing pretty well. I was not surprised because he often got along well in the first fifteen to twenty minutes before he would blow it. The girl that had sat next to me, (she was quite good looking, and was feeling her alcohol in a fairly happy place.), she said her name was Gail.

“She said, “Hey, your friend Doug looks like he is going to score with that girl.” 

“You don’t know Doug” I said, “He is gonna fuck it up any minute now”.

“Wanna bet?”

“Sure, I’ll bet you a dollar.”

“I don’t have a dollar, how about if I bet my body against your dollar?”

This was a sure win for me, but I didn’t do the honorable thing, I accepted her bet.  We continued to talk and flirt, drink and consume substances of questionable legality.  Soon, Gail and I are discussing in a more intimate level, occasionally coming up for air long enough to check Doug’s progress. We finally looked up and Doug was sitting there alone, looking at his hands. We don’t know what happened, but he had blown it. I had come home with the gold, and I was feeling pretty good. I could only thank Doug for holding his end of the bargain, as I knew he would.

The music that had been playing was an 8 track with Carlos Santana. The song, “The Cisco Kid, He Was A Friend of Mine” came up quite regularly, no one was actually paying much attention to the music by this time anyway, except Doug. I have mentioned before that he had a tendency to love Pink Floyd. Suddenly, the poignant lyrics, Cisco Kid stopped. I looked up and I saw that Doug had pulled the 8 track out and was holding his 8 track of Meddle, trying to lean around a big Mexican guy who was getting angry and trying to talk to him. I realized that the big Mexican was the one celebrating his birthday. It was his house, his party, and most important of all, his stereo and music. I realized that Doug was getting himself into trouble. Feeling sorry for the guy that had just guaranteed me a toss in the hay, I excused myself and approached the couple with the intent of defusing the situation before it got too bad.

Suddenly, the music started up again, and once again, it was Santana doing Cisco Kid.  I figured it was all settled, but decided I had better get Doug out of range, and went up to them, putting my hand on Doug’s shoulder and saying I was sorry to the big Mexican dude. I was starting to Doug away, when the big Mexican began to rain blows upon my head and shoulders. I got it in the face and immediately went into defense mode and curled up in the fetal position on the floor. My only chance was if the big guy would get tired and go away, and not pull a knife or a gun. I recall the music playing, the Cisco Kid he was a friend of mine, over and over. The big Mexican’s wife was standing there screaming, “Not in front of the kids, not in front of the kids!” I wanted to agree with her, but the guy wasn’t even slowing down. Finally, after what seemed like forever, the guy stopped and Santana was still singing the refrain, Cisco Kid he was a friend of mine, so I gauged that it wasn’t that long of a pounding I had gotten, but a rather intense one. I looked up, the big Mexican was arguing with his wife, Doug was way across the room, and Gail was looking pretty freaked. I climbed to my feet, grabbed the girl and headed for the door, intending to wait in the van till the ambulance came for him, or Doug came out. To my surprise, he was already in the van starting it up. The other people we had come along with were in the van and as soon as Gail and I had crawled into the back of the Van, we were on our way home.

I wound up looking like Rocky Raccoon and hurting from every possible exposed area on my body. Doug didn’t get laid, but I did. Ever since that day, the Cisco Kid was no longer a friend of mine.

   

     Ahhh, Sunday! Tomorrow may be a Monday, but to me, it is just another Sunday! Tonight will be Saturday night, and every night next week as well. It is a tough job being a worthless disabled Veteran, but someone has to do it.
     Sometimes, I really do miss working, it seems so long ago, but I think I will adjust just fine.
Meanwhile, enjoy your Sunday, and remeber, Monday's are there to give you perspective!

I saw a woman wearing a kilt the other day. She looked nice, but I just had to wonder if she was a cross dresser.

The Shit List

THE GHOST SHIT
The kind where you feel shit coming out, have shit on the toilet paper but there is no shit in the bowl.

THE CLEAN SHIT
The kind where you shit it out, there is shit in the bowl, but t3ere is not shit on the to

THE WET SHIT
The kind where you wipe your ass fifty times and it still feels unwiped, so you have to put toilet paper between your ass and your underwear so you don’t ruin them with those dreadful skid marks.

THE SECOND WAVESHIT
This shit usually happens when you’re finished shitting, you’ve pulled your pants up to your knees, and you realize that you have to shit some more.

THE BRAIN HEMMORAGE THROUGH YOUR NOSE SHIT
This kind of shit you strain so hard to get it out that you practically have a stroke

THE CORN SHIT No explanation necessary

THE LINCOLN LOG SHIT
This kind of shit that’s so huge that you’re afraid to flush the toilet without first breaking I up into little pieces with the toilet brush.

THE GEE I WISH I COULD SHIT
The kind where you want to shit but all you can do is sit on the toilet bowl, cramped and farting

THE NOTORIOUS DRINKER SHIT
This is the kind where you have after a long night of drinking. Its most notable trait is the tread mark It leaves on the bottom of the bowl.

THE POWER DUMP SHIT
This is the kind that comes out your ass so fast you barely get your pants down and you’re done
THE LIQUIDSHIT
The kind where yellowish-brown liquid shoots out of your ass, splatters all over the inside of the toilet bowl, the whole time burning your tender anus.

THE LIQUID PLUMMER SHIT
The kind of shit that’s so big it plugs up the toilet and you end up with shit all over the floor.
THE SPINAL TAP SHIT
The kind of shit that hurts so much coming out that you swear it must be coming out sideways.
THE I THINK I’M GIVING BIRTH TROUGH MY ASSHOLE SHIT
Similar to the “Lincoln Log” and “Spinal Tap” shits. The shape of the turd seems to resemble a beer can. Vacuous air space remains in the rectum for some time afterwards.

THE PORRIGE SHIT
The type of shit that comes out like toothpaste but just keeps coming out. You have two choices with this shit: a) flush it and keep going or b) risk it piling up to your butt while you sit there helpless.

THE I’M GOING TO START CHEWING MY FOOD BETTER SHIT
This is where those Doritos you ate before going to bed last night scrape the sides of your asshole till it bleeds.

THE AM I TURNING NTO A RABBIT? SHIT
The kind when you drop cute little rounds ones that look like marbles and make little splashing sounds when they hit the water.

THE WHAT THE HELL DIED IN THERE? SHIT
This is also sometimes referred to as the “Toxic Dump”. Of course you don’t warn anybody about the obnoxious bathroom odor. Instead you stand near the door and watch their faces as they run gagging and gasping for air…

THE I JUST KNOW THERE’S A TURD STILL DANGLING THERE
This is where you just sit and wait for the last cling-on drop to fall off because if you were to wipe it now, it would be rather messy.

THE GROANER SHIT
A shit so large it must be vocally assisted.
THE CROWD PLEASE SHIT
A shit so intriguing shape in shape or size that you must show it to someone else before you flush it.
THE RICHARD SIMMONS SHIT
The kind where you shit so much you lose 40 pounds instantly.

The Poncho Villa Will Never Die Shit
This is the kind of shit that comes reminds you that your were drinking tequila, eating incredibly hot tortilla chips and putting half a bottle of Tabasco in each beer to prove how damn tough you are.

Groups Names and an Observation

If a group of dogs is a pack, and a group of lions is a pride, then a group of house cats has gotta be an "uppity"!

I saw a lady with 2 kids today. One was bigger than the other. Brother and Sister? I asked?" "No, twins", she said. Why is the boy so much bigger? I asked. "He always fed on the right." she answered.