2Pacalypse Now

The Arsonists Anonymous field trip to the zoo ended prematurely

After burning over 800 acres of "chaparral", the Griffith Park fire is largely contained. No animals at the LA Zoo were hurt, no structures were damaged and no lives lost. Much of one of LA's areas of natural beauty however is gone, for a year or two until it grows back. The newly renovated Griffith Observatory was untouched and the precious Hollywood sign remains. Something tells me that if it were forced into a choice between saving rare and exotic animals or the famous sign, the City of LA would be out shopping for Elephants today. There were evacuations, just in case, although none mandatory and probably more for the sake of the TV news crews than anyone else. Don't misunderstand me, I'm sad about it all, the hillside looks horrible today and the landscape behind the Observatory just looks....well, weird. Where I am used to seeing green and brown, now all I see is grey and black. Kind of like my blog.

There are of course many tales and news reports about the fire, but one in particular caught my eye in the LA Times, or rather one sentence:

"Gabriella Parra, 40, and her son, Tupac Otero, 3, fled their Richland Avenue apartment about 8 p.m. while her husband stayed behind."

Tupac? Fuckin' Tupac? Who in the name of G.M.Chrysler would call their kid Tupac? What, Biggie Otero didn't quite have the same ring? Afraid the other kids might tease if you called him Snoop? Ol' Dirty Bastard just didn't do it for you? Come on people, have some decorum. Besides, the kid is 3 years old, meaning he was born in 2003 at the earliest. Tupac was offed back in 1996. I could almost understand if you were the worlds biggest Tupac fan and your kid just happened to be born on the day Tupac died, then and only then you might consider, whilst in a state of epidural induced bliss calling the little angel Tupac but only because you would certainly change your mind later when you came around. But to actually do it. That is some keerrraaayzzeee shit you be smokin' sista.

Now I know that according to some people Tupac is considered the Worlds greatest ever rapper. I don't know much about rap but if he is better than the bloke out of Cameo then he gets my vote too. Tupac was obviously idolized by millions, at least 75 million if you go by record sales, so it's feasible that somebody, somewhere is going to be daft enough to name their kid after him.

In a town like LA, crazy kid names are the norm but it isn't just here. I have friends back in the UK who are calling their kids after all sorts of poor role models. My cousin named his little boy Liam, after Liam Gallagher, the nob head. I know people with girls called Britney, Phoebe, Courtney. If people are intent on naming their kids after TV stars and pop singers, where are the Hilda's or the Vera's? The Norman's or the Englebert's? What happened to keeping family names going in memory of loved ones? ....shit, look at the time. I have put Galaxy Sparkle to bed, she gets cranky if it gets too late.

Colour Me Bad

I'm not good with colours. Neither do I enjoy shopping for throw pillows or skipping through puddles. I don't go in for long walks in the forest with a "young friend."

I tried to liven up my blog with a little colour and a fancy font or two but thanks to some kind suggestions and one or two insults, I now know that when it comes to aesthetics I am to say the least, challenged. So it's back to boring old grey. At least it is easy on the eyes.

I have been in bed all day, sick. This is the first time I have called off work sick in at least 6 or 7 years. I had the worst headache all night and a sore throat but managed to sleep most of the day, highly unusual for me. I am thankful that I don't get sick very often, hardly at all, but this one floored me. I managed to get out of bed about 4.30 and feebly took a shower and got dressed as I had class tonight. In utter misery, I dragged my sorry arse down to the garage and winced as I got into the car. The parking situation at the college was its usual clusterfuck with next to no spaces available so I parked in a remote lot, making note of any landmarks and began the trek to the school, cursing and muttering to myself as I went. I must have been giving off ugly vibes as even the Armenian lads were giving me a wide one instead of closing ranks to force physical contact as a precursor to a fight. Up the many steps I laboured and across the footbridge, up some more steps and then some more only to find an empty classroom and the dreaded pink notice informing all suckers that class was cancelled. Bastards.

If this post seems familiar, it is. I think I posted about a cancelled class several weeks ago, due at the time to high winds. Today one can only assume that it is due to the fire in Griffith Park, 3 or 4 miles away. It's a nasty fire and to be fair, Glendale is suffering from smoke and ash fallout as it happens to be the way the breeze is blowing. My professor, in addition to being a boring old twat, is quite obviously a pussy. He is also very absent minded. Last week, he attempted to show the class a video (yes, VHS) about the hiring and firing process. After about 20 minutes fiddle-fucking around with the VCR, he finally got it to work with the projector and up on the screen appeared an episode of Starsky & Hutch he had taped back in '81. He had brought the wrong tape from home. As a consolation, he then passed around his holiday photos from a trip to Moscow he took prior to the demise of the USSR. I firmly believe, having bought the textbook, I could pass the class without his help.

Yappy The Dog

First of all, let me say that I am a dog lover (if that doesn't get me 100 extra hits from Germany, I don't know what will.) The Waring household has a long history of being benevolent towards dogs, we have always had at least one and Mrs. Waring spent many years devoting her life to rescuing stray or abandoned dogs. In the eyes of many dogs, at least, she is a saint. I just tolerated them, sometimes.

We live in an area where there are many dog owners, I say owners not lovers because most of them keep their dogs tied to a chain around a tree in their yard or let them roam the area shitting on peoples property. Going for a walk round here is about as wise as climbing into the lion enclosure at the zoo to recover your $5 sunglasses, hardly worth the trouble. Besides not being very scenic it is definitely not very relaxing, you never know what is around the next corner. Despite all this, I bear no ill will toward mans best friend. I treat dogs like I treat Armenians, in a friendly but cautious manner. To be honest, dogs deserve better and I would never kick a dog.

There is one exception. Somewhere, not too many houses away, there is an as yet unidentified but very noticeable canine. His name is Yappy. Yappy is on my shit list. Yappy needs to go away, for good. A long walk in the desert would do Yappy, and my sanity the world of good. Yappy, has a big problem. Yappy, as his name suggests, yaps.... a lot. A shrill, high pitched, incessant, fury inducing, sleep depriving yap.

I would target Yappy's apparently deaf owners for punishment for Yappy's crimes. But last time I checked, the law provided for much stiffer penalties for acts of violence commited upon a person than it did for those upon a dog. Obviously, depending upon which State you live in, concessions can be made depending upon the ethnic background of either the perpetrator or the victim. California, I am happy to say is not generally one of them since an unfortunate incident back in '92 when a certain section of society, upset by some amateur video, decided to protest.

Say your prayers Muthafuckaaaaaaa!

This may seem callous and may anger some readers but even Mutley might agree that Yappy has it coming. I know that it isn't his fault. I know he probably just wants to be let back into the house so he can shit in his favourite spot behind the sofa. I know he probably just wants to bark at the telly or tear up the throw pillows. He doesn't know any better. He's just a wittle doggie. Bollocks! Our dog knows not to do any of those things, the shock collar told him so. Besides, his owners would thank me. They just don't have the balls to do it themselves.

My Arse

Well over at The Infomaniac, dirty old MJ has been soliciting pictures of blokes arses under the thin veil of an online beauty pageant type thing. We all know that is just a red herring and she wants them for her own, shall we say, viewing pleasure. I felt sorry for her though and submitted mine anyway (as did Old Knudsen) and for those of you not lucky enough to have visited MJ's blog, you should. Some people have complained that it is pornography, I prefer to think of it as smut as there aren't enough pictures of naked ladies for it to be porn.

Anyway, Mrs. Waring caught me standing at the computer, pants round my ankles while attempting to take a picture of my arse for MJ. The look of distaste on her face indicated that not only was this exactly what it looked like (me taking a picture of my arse) but that she did not approve and that she also suspected that other more sordid activities were about to take place. She started to back away from me with a scowl which suggested she may be off to call her mother and/or a divorce lawyer so I thought it best to try and explain. Also, I was having trouble getting the lighting and the angle right and really needed another pair of hands to assist. Asking our 6 year old daughter to help Daddy take a picture of his bum was probably not acceptable, so it would have to be the wife. Reluctantly and with an edgy silence, she agreed, handed me the camera and walked away shaking her head.

So here, for your consideration, is my hairy white arse.

Fuzzy, like a peach. You all owe me a tenner.

Bollocks!!

I awoke this morning with high expectations. I awoke happy and enthused. I didn't feel like waking up early to watch football, instead I slept in until 10am. When I woke, I did the usual ball scratching, toast eating routine and made my way happily to the computer. Today was going to be a good day. Brimming with positive energy I logged on and went to the BBC web site where I scanned the headlines. "Holiday girl abducted but alive," not very nice but good news in a way I suppose. " Plane crashes in Cameroon," slightly less of a feel good factor about that one. In sport, "Man Utd on brink of winning title," at least it isn't Chelsea. "West fuckingHam 3 Bolton 1," fuck. This is bad news. Fuck West fucking Ham and fuck Sam Allardyce, this would not have happened had he not resigned last week. If you think I'm upset because Notlob lost, you are wrong. I couldn't give a flying fuck about them. Nervously I clicked on Sport, then Football, then Premiership with eyes closed. I opened one eye:

15	Fulham	37	-20	39
16	Sheff Utd	36	-19	38
17	West Fucking Ham	37	-25	38
18	Wigan	37	-23	35
19	Charlton	36	-24	33
20	Watford	37	-30	27

Fuck, fuck fuckity fuck! The cunts! How the fuck has this happened? Only one game left and its a must win if my beloved Wigan are to avoid the drop. West fucking Ham deserve to go down, not Wigan. No one, except West fucking Ham want Wigan to go down. Bollocks! Fuck! Shit!

I'm sorry to subject you to my woe, I generally don't post about football but I can't talk to the wife about it, she is under the impression that it's "just a game" and American friends just smile politely and nod without a fucking clue what I'm talking about.

West fucking Ham should have been docked 10 points for those dodgy transfer deals and should be going down instead along with Watford, who I wanted to do well but didn't and Charlton who can fuck off 'cause they have been asking for it for years. Fair enough Wigan haven't had a great season, but have had some bad luck, a lot of bad luck and lost a lot of games from winning positions but at least they are entertaining.

There is still a chance, one game left and West Fucking Ham play Man Utd away. A definate spanking as it's the last game of the season and Utd will want to win the prem in style in front of their fans. Wigan travel to Sheffield where they have to win, if they do, goal difference should see them through and justice done.

Bollocks!

Trust Me, I'm a Dentist

Dentists are getting a bum rap these days. Don't misunderstand me, they deserve it, the sadistic bastards. Not only do they practically have a license to print their own money but mine recently went on a two week vacation, leaving me with a temporary filling where there should have been a crown, then he came back all suntanned and smiling only to inflict upon me 2 hours of misery and a temporary crown made of metal. So now I have to go back again next week for the real thing.

First of all, MJ exposed the antics of one dirty dentist who got himself into a spot of bother for relieving himself in the sink and cleaning his ears with his dental tools. As I lay in the chair the other day, I thought about this as everything the fucker does when he isn't poking around inside my mouth or telling me to look to the side and cough, he does behind me. He could be up to all sorts of things back there. Shooting up with heroin, making faces behind my back, fondling the assistant. Who knows?

Then I read about the 'dentist' in Florida who was arrested and charged with performing dental work without a license in his filthy garage. Roger Bean was being held on $6,000 bond for allegedly performing denture fittings of the false teeth he was making in the filthy conditions of his garage. He was charging patients $200 for what would normally cost them $2,000.

Another satisfied customer....

Ron St.Mary, 73, head of the local neighbourhood crime watch said that Bean was no criminal. "He's helping the old people who don't have a few dollars, I think the world of him."
I'm not sure that this is the kind of man who you would want heading up your local neighbourhood crime watch. He obviously endorses criminal activity if the elderly benefit from it, so presumably if I were to go and rob a pharmacy and sell the drugs to the likes of Ron for less than what they would normally pay, that would be okay. I think you just lost the next election Ron and I would watch it if I were you, that kind of talk could lead to impeachment.

Then I read about a Polish dentist operating in England and Scotland who was responsible for a catalog of mistakes including perforating a womans nose when she missed the mark with the needle, giving someone unnecessary dentures, drilling through the wrong tooth and using twice the normal concentration of bleach during a root canal treatment which caused the patients face to swell up and possible nerve damage. " I meant no harm," said the dentist.

At least Roger Bean's patients appreciated him enough not to sue him.

The Week That Wasn't

First of all, thanks to those of you who took time to email or post your concern over my lack of posts this last week. Even those of you who disguised your concern as attacks on my personal integrity. Showing compassion can be difficult when mummy and daddy never told you they loved you, so I understand where you where coming from.

I needed to spend my 1 to 2 hours a day of time not spent working or sleeping doing things other than blogging and/or concerning myself with the ways of the world. Don't ask me what I did instead 'cause I can't remember. I did go to bed very early a couple of nights, and no, Mrs. Waring did not get lucky. At least not with me.

A lot can happen in a week. I'm tempted to make one huge post and shoot my proverbial wad in one go, but I will save some stuff for later. It's been a good week but one that ended on something of a sour note when I was hit on by one of the ladyboys in the club last night. Luckily, I am not the type of lad that responds to such advances by punching the offender full in the face. I rather took it as a compliment but politely declined the offer by telling him/her that I already had a boyfriend. That seemed to confuse Arthur (that's what I call her) for a moment as (s)he seemed to be considering coming clean and 'fessing up but obviously thought better of blowing their cover and just smiled and gave me a hug (!) instead. Why the fuck are there no dry cleaners open on a Sunday?

Anyway, yesterday I ventured out to buy myself a new black shirt. I'm a big lad, 6 foot 3 to be exact and so prefer to buy shirts at stores for big lads. I wear a 2XL tall, most regular stores do not sell 2XL tall or if they do, all such stock is bought within seconds of being put on display by 5 foot 3 hispanic or african american types. That just fuckin' kills me y'know. I see these little twats parading down the street wearing shit that is 10 sizes too fuckin big for them and I think "Where the fuck did you get that?" Whenever I go shopping for clothes all they have is small boys medium that I could barely get one arm inside. Little bastards.

So, as I said, I'm out shopping for a nice black shirt and I go to 'Casual Male XL' where I am amused to find a fellow shopper loudly procuring for himself some new threads. By the looks of this guy, he doesn't get out often without the aid of the fire department and a winch. He's a bit on the large side and has a voice to match. After 5 minutes of debate with the assistant over whether the 4X or the 5X would be better, he settles on the latter and proceeds to the cash register where he already has several items ready for purchase and where another customer was waiting in line. The conversation was priceless......

Fat Guy - "So, what do you do?"
Innocent Bystander - "I'm a draftsman"
FG - "What's that?"
IB - "I draw blue prints"
FG - "I did that in college!"
IB - "Oh....really?"
FG - "Yes."
IB - "Oh....okay....well....."
Awkward silence.....
FG - "I'm going out on a date tonight!"
IB - "Yeah...."
FG - " Well, it's not really a date....it's bingo.....OA bingo. You know what OA is?"
IB - "Ummm.....no"
FG - "Overeaters Anonymous, that where I met her." (I had to hide behind the suit rack at this point.)
IB - "Really?"
FG - "Yeah....I have an eating problem...."
IB - "Huh?"
At this point, fat guy has an afterthought and yells back across the store to the assistant "Do you guys sell swimming trunks?"

Thanks for the image you fat fuck....

Sadly, I had left my cell phone in the car. A picture would have told told a thousand words.