Superhero Streetfight

Once again, our filthy Hollywood "street entertainers" in their ragged, stained and in all likelihood stolen costumes are keeping things real down on the boulevard. Many millions of tourists hit Hollywood Boulevard every year expecting to see movie stars and/or be discovered by a director out scouting for the next big thing. It's more likely that they will see a mentally ill, piss soaked specimen who claims to be Clark Gable and yells at traffic and/or be offered some free "headshots" that it turns out, require you to be naked and an animal lover.

I have written before about the anti-climax that is Hollywood Boulevard. Store after store selling the same cheap, tacky t-shirts that shrink after one wash, plastic Oscar statues that proclaim the unimpressed receiver "World's Best Tea Drinker" and postcards with pictures of stars taken 10 years ago. To the credit of the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce, they have spruced it up a bit but if you ask me, the best thing they could do would be to get rid of the star impersonators. The impersonators themselves, like to be called '"actors", what they really are is "out of work actors". I was there last week and there were no less than 3 Capt. Jack Sparrow 's all vying for the tourists money by having their pictures taken with a very confused kid. I did not see Chewbacca, he has not been there the last few times I have been by, quite possible incarcerated due to his antics recorded here and here

The latest incident that I am aware of, and I don't know when this was recorded, has Spiderman and Batman attacking some guy for reasons that are not clear. This video has given me an idea for a new attraction down on Hollywood Blvd. Rent one of the many shuttered and closed down stores, put a wrestling ring inside and some seating and charge tourists to come in and watch Ultimate Celebrity Fighting. I am sure that I could easily get $10 per person, maybe 50 people per show, 8 shows per day. That's 4 grand per day, open 7 days...28 grand per week minus rent, wages and operating expenses ( a mop, some disinfectant and band-aids) I could probably clear about 15k a week. Not to mention the merchandising, tacky t-shirt sales, dvd's and plastic Oscar statues.... This time next year Rodders we'll be millionaires...

Sausage-Fest

Just What The Doctor Ordered....(me not to eat)

Lovely.... What a great start to the day. Nothing says Sunday morning like a frying pan full of sausages. Not the weak Americano kind, no, Farmer John can kiss my hairy English arse. These are the kind of sausages that made Britain Great. It's a little documented fact that Sir Geoff Hurst ate a plateful before scoring a hat-trick to defeat the Germans in the 1966 World Cup Final and what did he do right after the game? That's right, he had some more but this time on toast with Daddies Sauce.

It's no wonder that the European Union tried to restrict the contents of British sausages. Several of the other member nations reportedly filed a complaint that the sausages gave us Brits an unfair advantage in the marketplace. The UN have so far refused to intervene, mainly because Kofi Annan enjoys 2 or 3 with some Heinz Baked Beans and a slice of fried bread for his tea on Fridays.

I like to think that eating sausages has made me the strapping, virile man I am today, few who know me would argue. Even Mrs. Waring admitted, before rushing out of the kitchen (presumably to masturbate) that she was extremely turned on by the sight of me, in my string vest and best Sunday boxer shorts standing turning the sausages in the pan. I made a mental note that the next time our sex life gets a bit stale to throw a few in the pan and suggest doing it in the kitchen while they cook. On second thoughts though, that might not be such a wise decision, I might begin to associate the smell of cooking sausages with sex. It's hard enough not to be self conscious while eating one, olfactory stimulation might just be a bridge to far... Maybe the answer is to cook them in advance then just pretend to cook them while she watches through a hole in a piece of plywood.

All this talk of sex is making me hungry....

Dinner For One

Tonights choice of curry house turned out to be a poor one. After getting off work at 7pm, I was hungry and didn't fancy the old stand by, a bag of Funyuns and some big cans of beer.
I have been trying to eat well and lately have been stopping by Safeways to pick up some salad or some cooked chicken. I didn't feel like that though and since I am still 0 of 8 towards my free deli sandwich (0 of 8 what? Million dollars?) I am boycotting them until they lower the bar on their BS free sandwich gimmick. I must have been in that fuckin' store 10 times over the past 5 weeks and I still only have 0 of 8 towards my free sandwich. They don't even specify what 'kind' of free sandwich you get. Is it pimento loaf? If it is I don't want it as I don't care for pimento loaf. Jam would be preferable but it probably wouldn't be that good. I have been tempted to call the 800 number to clear things up but I'm not sure it would be worth the hold time listening to some shite soft jazz version of Love On The Rocks. Do I actually have a choice of free sandwich? I wouldn't think so. They have, I am sure, a large pile of ready made sandwiches piled high with the end bits from a loaf of processed, compressed chicken parts that they couldn't sell. In fact, I'm not sure I even want my free sandwich, should I ever atain the "Diamond Elite" level of Safeway Club membership that allows me to claim it. Maybe the cash equivalent (0.0001 cents) would be more edible.

So, I decided on the other old stand by, a curry. Foolishly I passed up a curry house that I know to perfectly good in favour of an untried establishment which I failed to notice until I left, was located next to a feed store. In I go, it looked okay, it was clean and didn't smell much. There was nobody else there which is always a good sign because it means that the service is quick. I order a big Kingfisher and some lamb dish, taar something or other. When it arrived, quickly, the first couple of mouthfulls were rapidly washed down with the Kingfisher. This was going to be a long meal. I usually don't mind spicy, hot flavourful food. This however was the hottest, sourest, stuff I have ever tasted. I sat there with sweat running down my brow as I ate. I looked like a dog chewing a caramel. I know because I caught sight of myself in the classy mirrorred wall that I was facing. While watching myself eat, I noticed that behind me was a bar with a TV in the corner. The waiter was watching a show on Animal Planet in which a dog appeared to be having it's spleen removed. Nice! I don't even know for sure if dogs have spleens. If they don't, maybe that's why this one was on telly and the waiter was so interested in watching it. It may have been a miracle dog....

So, it was a tough meal and the first time in my life that I have been unable to finish a curry. I think that I should be okay to retain my membership of "Hard Man Curry Eaters of America" as it was the dog's fault, not mine.

I'm not going to lower the tone of this post by getting into the goings on in the bathroom suffice to say that it could do with a coat of paint. I had barely closed the door of the van when the pressure valve opened and overpowered even the smell of rotting fruit (that's where that apple went to...) and sour milk (don't know where that came from.)

As this week's random act of kindness and in the interest of serving the community, I shall be leaving a note inside the microwave in my hotel room. "Avoid The Heritage of India", hopefully somebody will find it before they go.

Saints On A Plane

I usually do not get many takers for the middle seat next to me on airplanes. Maybe I look intimidating, maybe I stink, maybe people take one look and think “fat bastard, no way am I sitting there”, maybe it’s the joke plastic dog turd that I place strategically on the seat next to me to ward off would be invaders of my space. I don't know, but whatever the reason, I'm not complaining.
For those who don’t know, Southwest Airlines do not have assigned seating, fine if you are one of the first on board, horrid if you are one of the last. I make sure I am always one of the first and usually get lucky with two seats to myself. Every now and again though, on a full flight I am forced to try and make myself small so that somebody can squeeze into the unlucky middle seat. Yesterday, it was an elderly Hispanic woman who smelled like she had recently taken a bath in pine sol floor cleaner, shake ‘n’ vac and a whole bottle of highly concentrated ‘Eau De Auld Lass’ perfume. The shit she was wearing had to be toxic, it made my eyes water and my nostrils itch. If Bin Laden got his hands on a bottle of this stuff who knows what damage he could do.

So she gets settled in and after rooting around in her ridiculously oversized handbag for a while, pulls out a tatty paperback entitled “The Miracles of The Saints”. She immediately turns to the index and I notice that several words have been highlighted, one of which was “skin rashes.”

Now I have never claimed to be a good catholic, to do so would have been a lie and would therefore have nudged me a little bit closer to hell. I stopped going to church when I was about 10 and never paid attention in Religion class at school (although I wish I had), and so only know very little about the saints and the various causes to which they are patrons. I know all I need to know to get by in a casual conversation about St. Christopher, St. Francis and St. Patrick, should I ever find myself in that position. If the conversation was to turn to even a slightly more obscure saint, I may as well get my coat.

So, sitting next to this overpoweringly perfumed old lady turned out to be an edumacation as I tried to read her book without her noticing. I learned that St. Jude is the patron saint of impossible causes. I learned that St. Bernadine of Sienna is the patron saint of people with respiratory problems. Naturally this aroused my interest and has led me to research further. What surprises me most is that many saints patronize multiple causes. I did not know this. I also learned that the patron saint of skin rashes, amongst many other things is St. Anthony the Abbot. In fact I learned that no fewer than 5 saints patronize skin rashes, so if you have a skin rash you are somewhat spoiled for choice when it comes to choosing a saint to pray to. You can pick from Anthony the Abbott, George, Marculf, Peregrine Laziosi or Roch. A tough choice! It can be hard to think about anything else though when you have an irritating rash that won’t stop itching can’t it? So to assist those of you who may be afflicted, I am happy to provide you with a quick rundown on the candidates….

• Anthony the Abbott – Also the patron saint of Swineherds, Basket Weavers and Amputees. Lived alone in an abandoned fort in the desert for 20 years. Was a good fried of St. Paul the Hermit and is often depicted with a pig which he used to rub against when his rash acted up. Marks out of 10 – 5
• George – Also the patron saint of England, Syphilis, Leprosy and Boy Scouts. A popular saint, supposedly killed a sheep eating dragon but was tortured and beheaded by Palestinians. May have been homosexual, often depicted holding a huge lance. Marks out of 10 – 3.

Swallow My Lance...Filthy Animal

• Marculf – Also the patron saint of Scrofulous Diseases and Hot Pockets. Little is known about Marculf but apparently if you touch his relics your scrofula will go away. Invented microwaveable pastry snacks and founded the Hooters chain of restaurants. Marks out of 10 – 7.
• Peregrine Laziosi – Also patron saint of AIDS sufferers and open sores. Got into a fight with St. Philip Benzini after spilling his pint and calling him a queer. So-called hard man who claimed to have cancer of the foot but it got better all of a sudden the night before they were due to amputate it…soft bastard. Marks out of 10 - 5.
• Roch – Also patron saint of Diseased Cattle, Knee Problems, Tile Makers and Dogs. Supposedly born with a birth mark shaped like Elvis on his chest. Caught the plague and went into the forest to die where he made friends with a dog after eating a big red mushroom with white spots on it. Was arrested and jailed in France for being a spy. Often depicted with a dog licking his “plague spot”. Marks out of 10 - 6.

Come on lad...Give it a quick lick. Good boy....

Hopefully this helps make your choice easier. I know many of the regular readers of LB suffer from a nasty rash every now and again, if praying to your choice of saint from above doesn't work for you, try applying some spray on "I Can't Believe Its Not Butter". If that doesn't work either, take a leaf out of Roch's book and have the dog lick it off.

Taxi's

Up until a few weeks ago I had never been in a taxi in the States. I don't know why I found this mind numbingly boring fact interesting, but it seemed odd that in 12 years I had never had the need for one. I have been very lucky in many respects, owning my own transportation is one of them. I had been in airport shuttles, which are kind of the same but with less pressure and stress. There are usually other people on board with you and it's easy to start up a conversation to pass the time, unless they are non English speaking types, in which case it's becomes more of a game.

So, I'm now working up in Northern California. As I live in LA, this involves weekly air travel and taxi rides. I have to say that the standard of hackney carriages in San Jose is woeful, every single one I get in stinks and many scare the shit out of me, the drivers are, perhaps unsurprisingly horrible and are possibly the source of the smells that seem have been absorbed by the headliner in every last vehicle. I usually like the smell of curry, as you know, but there is a time and a place for it. The backseat of an 89 Crown Victoria is not the one.

Monday morning. I get into a cab, not one of my own choosing though, you are directed to the first one in line by an airport employee, presumably to avoid fighting between cabbies. To disapprove of the chosen vehicle or it's driver is probably more trouble than it is worth so I just get in. Immediately the smell is like a punch, full in the face. A mixture of cabbage, socks and old bologna. A faded magic tree swings from the rear view mirror, it's pine fresh scent long since spent. I try to lower the window for fresh air but it's either broken or locked and I immediately start to feel ill. I give the driver my location and ask him how his morning is so far. "Very good, very good" he says. I decide to offer an observation on the weather, "A bit nippy this morning" I say. "Very good, very good" he answers again. "How is traffic?" I ask. "Very good, very good"......fuck! I give up.
As we approach the freeway entrance, someone cuts along the right side of the cab and makes a left without stopping, he bangs on the horn and yells "You are fucking cowboy!!" then he turns to me and repeats for the sake of clarification, "Fucking cowboy!!". I notice that his turban is not on straight, I am surprised and curious, I always thought that they took great care when applying turbans. I have never noticed a crooked turban on anyone before, but it was early on a Monday morning so I suppose he could be forgiven.
We get on the freeway and as we speed up I notice for the first time that he has a semi violent twitch which seemed to occur every 20-30 seconds and which caused him to pull the cab to the left every time one hit. Coupled with the smell, now amplified because he had the heater on full blast, the sudden lurches to the left were causing me to feel extremely car sick. How can they let this fucker drive a cab? I ask him if he could open a window, the fucker opens his window like two inches and tells me "broken...it is broken....will not go more down." Great....

Luckily, being a holiday for much of the country, traffic was light and the horror only lasted 15 minutes before we arrived at the office. Swallowing big gulps of fresh air I got out of the cab and shakily handed over the fare...."keep the change mate" I tell him, "have a good one, drive safely". "Very good, very good" I hear him saying as I slammed the door shut and on legs like snapped candles ,walked towards the building. I would be passing on breakfast....

A Room With A View

.....of the freeway.

Living in a hotel sucks. It's not a bad hotel, but it's not great. It's a Best Western which I found out today are all independantly owned and operated. Generally speaking that could be translated into 'some are okay, some are shite'. Happily this one falls under okay. The name however is slightly misleading.

I feel like Alan Partridge. I feel like dismantling things just to pass the time. I miss the missus, the kid and even the dog ( who still has not been forgiven for shitting all over my beanbag). Some of the good points and saving graces of this place are:

• Close proximity to the freeway.
• Close proximity to a shithole Mexican restaraunt.
• Even closer proximity to a curry house (on the fuckin' premises no less - SCORE!!!)
• Close proximity to a liquor store and a fridge in the room in which to store beer.
• A fitness center (as yet unused)
• Free cornflakes in the morning although the label on the dispenser claims they are Kelloggs but they are obviously not.
• Super powerful fans in the bathrooms, needed due to the Indian.

Flicking through the channels I notice that there is no porn channel available. I can imagine how disappointing it would be if I was into that kind of thing. Luckily, if I were into that kind of thing I could buy myself a fine art magazine round at the liquor store while buying my beer, but that isn't me. There is something desperately lonely about buying a 6 pack and a jazzmag at the same time. It really makes a statement about the state of your life. I don't think I could do it, I would have to take a good long look at myself in the mirror if I found myself in that position. No, a sixer and a copy of Womens World is the way to go. Much less guilt....

I have already filled out the comment card they leave in the room. This week's comment, "In no way am I responsible for the stain on the underside of the mattress - it was like that when I got here." Last week's - "It wasn't me who put boogers in the cornflakes."

Christ I'm bored.....

Put Yer Tits Back For The Lads....

There was a time when the NHS was the envy of the world, or so we were told as kids. Things have changed a lot since then, a population explosion of asylum seekers and immigrants, cuts in funding, rises in the cost of health care etc. Nowadays in the UK, if you have the money, you are okay, you can get whatever ails you sorted out relatively quickly and with only minor medical malpractice. If you happen to be a jobless male who suffers from gynecomastia - or manboobs - you are shit out of luck.

Love The Picture Of The Kid

Lee Jardine, aged 23 from Mansfield, Nottinghamshire claims that he has become a prisoner in his own home after suffering from moobs for the last 10 years. He tried to get the NHS to do a breast reduction on the taxpayers coin but they told him to fuck off as it would cost between 5,000 and 9,000 quid.

Mr.Jardine claims that because of his NGT's, he can't get a job and that just to leave the house he has to have several layers of clothes on and a belt tied around his chest.

"People that sort of know me will call me names. You don't know what strangers are thinking when they look at you. I don't know whether they think I have breasts or not." He also added "I got bullied at school but then I stopped going so that solved that."

Bollocks. He could get the cash if he really had too. He's obviously not that shy as he just got 'em out for the local paper, and now they are on the internet. If he was going to do that, he should have had the missus take some pictures of him in her bra and undies, set up a tranny website and charge punters to look at him. He really didn't think this through very well. He would have had the money in no time.

Apparently the NHS told him they would do the op if he lost some weight and got down to 11 1/2 stone. He currently weighs 14 stone and isn't willing to put the work in to meet their demands either, the lazy twat. He says that he doesn't believe them.
His girlfriend, Diane Cassidy aged 19 and mother of their 2 year old son (do the math) is standing by her man and claims to like him for his personality (yeah, his depressed, paranoid personality) and not his looks. "He could be 60 stone and I would still love him. It's not the looks that count" she said. How awkward was their first date? Notice that she refers to his weight, not his having tits.

She also added "I can't go out for a walk or do anything like go for a swim or go to the beach because people come up and say stuff about Lee." Go to the beach? There are no fuckin' beaches in Mansfield love and given that he is out of work and unable to pay for having his tits deflated you can't be affording to go anywhere near a beach anyway, can you? If yer off on a walk and anyone says owt, tell 'em to fuck off. Which is what he should do. Just scream "YEAH....I'VE GOT WOMENS TITS....SO FUCKIN' WHAT? YOU WANT TO LICK 'EM? DO YOU? DO YOU?" at his taunters. It might not give them food for thought and start to question their own sexuality because strictly speaking, they are after all, tits and the natural urge of every man when confronted by a tit is to lick the nipple, is it not?

Personal preference for tits - I'm not fussy, I like 'em all, small and perky or big swinging udders, it matters not unless they are on some ugly fucking bloke like this lad, in which case I will pass.