Category Archives: Rant

False sense of entitlement: Case study #1

Three out of four days I work here I’m miserable and I’m ready to walk off the job. It’s not the job (wait, yes it is) but it’s also the people.

 

These people think they live on another planet, and they’re just visiting. These people have such a ridiculous sense of entitlement. I want to kick them in the balls/box and throw them down an elevator shaft.

Example:
I deliver an order to a guy (a bacon cheeseburger blah.) He opens the door. He’s wearing a red and black velvet houndstooth jacket, purple deep v t-shirt, white jeans and purple high top sneakers, topped off with a Hall and Oates style faux hawk /mullet. The combination of colors, style and grooming choices are horrendous. Bad hair, bad fashion, and bad music can literally cripple me at times.

I rush in, ‘Where would you like this sir?’
‘You don’t have to call me sir. I’m younger then you are. Wait, sorry man. Are we ok?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ I put the tray down on the table.
‘So I got a big room. Spacious. Is this normally a room they give to a cripple or handicap? Ha ha ha.’
I grin. I wanted to say ‘if the shoe fits.’ But I knew better.
‘Sorry man I’m from New York I’m not really about PC you know, politically correct.’
Fucking dork.
‘Yeah haha,’ I force a laugh. Which by the way is one of the most painful things you can do to yourself, forcing a laugh is like forcing tears. It’s bullshit and ultimately doesn’t do anybody any good.
The New York I’m from, or the Los Angeles I’ve experienced this guy would have his ass beaten within an inch of his life.

-BY THE WAY (RANT TIME)

Being from New York meant something years ago. First of all ”I’m sorry I’m from New York.” Real New Yorker’s would never apologize for where they’re from! Period! And that’s a good thing! Old New York, FUCK YEAH!
It was ruff tough and violent. I left in the 90’s. It had a Great low brow artistic edge, Haring and Basquiat reigning supreme. Hip-hop like you still haven’t heard in ages. More political hip hop shit, not this hip hop hair band – youtube shallow ass shit. Alphabet city was the dope capital of the east side. The bucket lowers, you get the dope, crack viles littered the gutters I was smokin’ and kicking them all the way down the fucking sewer. You didn’t even need to say you were from New York. People fucking knew they felt it coming off of you.

 

Back to the current assholery-

 So I put the order down on the table.
‘Where you from man.’
‘A lot of different places,’ I answer darkly. He grabs the bill and backs away slowly,
‘Hey man, I’m really sorry if I offended you in any way.
The tip is included right?’
‘You didn’t offend me in any way and yes the tip is included. Says it right on the bill.’
‘Okay, I just want to make sure you’re getting taken care of.’
‘Oh yeah, I’m getting taken care of. That 20% there on that cheeseburger is about nine dollars, it goes into a pool, and gets split between six of us.’
We stood looking at each other for a moment he looked very scared he walked over to the desk and grabbed his wallet pulled out a $20 bill gave it to me and said ‘Hey man once again I’m sorry if I offended you in any way, here bro.’ I walked out and said nothing. I didn’t have too, I punked his ass without saying a word. That’s New York. That’s L.A. That’s being real.

 

AWARD SEASON PT. 2

TBT ONE OF MY MANY SHITTY JOBS…

Rated R: For retardation, redundancy, rudeness, & rhetoric.

Let’s start off with the ‘glam squad,’ and the assistants to the ‘stars.’  These are people whose self-importance reigns supreme. They possess entitlement that depends on the proximity of the celebrity they’re sucking the ass of.

J-Lo’s people first; extremely dismissive, totally cheap.  They’ve been ordering all day and night and never tip, and are surly, contemptuous and angry. But most of Hollywood is just wolves in hipster clothing anyway.

Knock knock, ‘room service’

I get in the suite and they’re ordering me around all servant style.

First an agro pierced Chubby girl: ‘Um, yeah, hi or whatever, just quickly push the cart over there.’ She’s wearing skintight jeans and a sweater that shows every roll.

Me: ‘Ok’ I say, handing her the bill. Pushing the cart as slowly as possible.

Agro: ‘Ok so we’re gonna need all this other shit out of here, like yesterday!’ She says this while sweeping her hand on the air then points to a HUGE conference table that’s loaded with dirty plates, glasses, Perrier bottles, Fiji Bottles, et al. More than will fit on two or three carts. There are small flies and gnats en masse around the buffet. I have no cart or any way to remove all of it. (By the way delivering & clearing the room is usually a no-no, but this hotel is so incredibly fucking cheap they expect you to do all of that, two guys for eight floors.)

‘I’ll have to go get some carts for this.’

She says, ‘Oh my god! Can we call somebody and get those up here immediately!? We need this all CLEARED OUT!’

Now I’m fucking annoyed, ‘Nope. I have to go down and get them, give me 10 or 20 minutes and I’ll be right back.’

‘Oh my god! Okay, whatever!’

I left. I never returned to that room again. 

Let somebody else do it.

-At three o’clock we get a rush order for champagne and hors-d’oeuvres. A fancy word for quesadillas, deep-fried rock shrimp, chicken wings, and other less than big word worthy greasy goodness…and cheap champagne (Sharfenberger? Wtf is that?) I Rush the order up to the room, woman answers in what looks like a Met ball gown. The room is filled with people dressed to the nines, ‘Wow you all going to the Academy Awards?’

A couple of people laugh, and I here scoffing.

‘No love,’ she says. Gross. Please don’t call me love. Ever. 

‘Oh.’ I say.

‘We’re having a little Oscar gathering. Um, it’s a little more than just a party.’

‘Oh.’ I say. I hand her the bill. It’s 450.00 for a spread of garbage that you could have bought at a low-end grocery store and made yourself for about $114.00. She doesn’t tip. Of course, she doesn’t. None of these people do.

I’m drained from the sycophantic non-stop star fucking and the very idea that awards should be given for art. Especially ‘based on’ bullshit movies that are revisionist history. (I.e. American Sniper fuck that movie).

The orders keep coming, I continue my night and become a completely disinterested, disenfranchised, disassociated shell of a man. I think of moving to a third world country, and helping lepers or hair lipped children. Somewhere else, something else, somewhere, anywhere, but here. 

 

Fourscore And A Little More

Fantastic Scams™

Bait And Switch®

Meteoric Rise©

Easy Money™

You’d be a fool not to fall for a this! Don’t miss the boat! The trains leaving the station! You’ll be living a lifelong vacation! Work from home! Make $8000.00 monthly posting ads for Sir E-Bay & Lady Google!

Jack off or diddle your cunt, while you watch the latest version of Alan Funt!

Excuse the candor and rancor But let’s get to the pointless meaning of what I’m screaming. The easy money is for easy wallets, with disposable Dead Presidents past and present. Otherwise, You’re the pheasant for a ‘Cheney like’ hunter, you’ll be put out to pasture in a dead field of wheatgrass, just what do I mean?

They’ll wax that ass, then put you in the Unseen Museum… Where a thousand dead souls spend recess doing the dance of a thousand recessions, coupled with a line dance featuring the legacy and the lord of this dance the one and only, Sir Ronnie Ray Gun – cutting a rug and a budget with a trickle-down break dancing routine that will have you squirming in your (once upon a time) Wrangler Jeans.

…Meanwhile, Tommy Two times at the outdoor bar repeating, “You know what I mean? You know what I mean?”

If that isn’t enough, Well I don’t mean to get gruff, but you can high tail it (or Low ride) back to Toonerville, Tommy! And take that Pitbull with ya’- He’s bad for business! Seems he ate all the gunpowder and blood sausage. And he makes whitey uptighty. He’s not fixed and his balls collide with the consciousness of dimly lit buffoons. And you there, yes you, where you from, Rangoon? Or another place?

I can’t place the face, but we don’t allow that click-click language in this here saloon so hit the bricks and tell your story walking or face La Migra, who are suffering from maximum migraines brought on by the same paranoia of the simple solipsistic suckas that sing and dance to the drum of Sir Donnie’s Republican Tantrum.

Just A Bill

JUST A BILL

Bill DeSantis was an alcoholic. He was a young-looking 59. Six feet one inch. Lean and trim, a full head of hair. And relatively soft dark features and hazel eyes. He really could knock ‘em back. Somehow he held his job at the Petunia’s liquor and mini-mart. It was located out in Simi Valley. A quiet refrigerator-white town, which primarily hosted policemen and upper-middle-class residents. Petunia was a family owned super convenience store. Petunia was Bill’s mother in law. At 86 she was still sharp as a whip. She liked Bill. He worked the graveyard shift. Which was real freedom, his time to do what he pleased.

He stocked shelves, handled general clean up, and matched the orders as they came in from vendors: The dairies, bakeries, soda companies, beer and wine distributors. He really didn’t need the job. He had a pension and retirement, but no hobbies. He grew bored sitting around the house. At work, he’d sneak out for a shot and a beer. Like clockwork, usually every hour, or until his head would nearly explode with the anxiety of the everyday rigor morale that would drive even the sanest man to drink.

Bill loved graveyard for two reasons:

1) His wife Myrna wouldn’t fuck with him and his drinking.

2) Fewer shoppers and people to deal with.

Bill disliked people and wanted to be left alone. Bill had a serious problem when he drank into his blackout potential, which even occurred at work. Bill mistook everything for a toilet. Bill would piss on the Hostess display racks, in the cold storage, and once on the safe. At home, he would piss on the sofa, the ottoman, and a couple of times in the cat’s litter box (which was okay so long as Felix wasn’t in there.) On one occasion, when Felix was in there, Bill pissed on him and Felix leaped at Bill, his claws (3 on the right paw, to be exact) got stuck on Bill’s cock. Bill ran through the house with Felix, a seventeen-pound rescue tabby, attached to his cock. Luckily, Myrna was at work. Bill screamed in agony. Felix hissed in fear. Finally, Felix was un-hooked from his vine.

Bill soaked his cock in rubbing alcohol, fearful of feline leukemia, or some unknown disease you can contract from the shit & bacteria under a cat’s claws. He rarely had sex with Myrna, so she never found out. Bill couldn’t escape his drinking. He tried 12 step programs, exercise, therapy, gambling, even took a ceramics class at the learning annex. He gave up. He was going to drink. Period. One night at work Bill had two new people to train. There were also three skids of groceries, from three different vendors. There was also plenty of inventories to stock from the earlier shift. The day man, Phil Mazzone, called in sick and left Bill a stack of merchandise to sort, stock, price, and inventory.

Bill felt the pressure, He went out on his first break and took four shots of 151 and drank an Old English 22 oz. He was on the side of the building looking up at the sky grateful for the immediate effects of liquor. He came back into the store, plenty buzzed. The trainees and his lack of solitude and space aggravated him. He looked at them. Sue was a pierced and tattooed overweight 21-year-old with a green faux hawk, piercing blue eyes, and cystic acne. She wore sagging tight jeans and a 1/2 shirt that revealed her morbidly obese midriff.

‘Girl has no shame’ bill said to himself. As he was pondering this she quickly rifled off three questions,

‘Do we have to clock out for lunch if we bring lunch? Is overtime after eight hours? Do we get plenty of overtime? Where can I get a smock?

‘Whoa Whoa, easy! Quit asking so many damn questions, I’ll get to all that.’

Then the other trainee, Steve, a struggling actor who thought nights would be good so he could maybe audition during the day, piped in. ‘Hey man, no need to talk to her that way.’ Bill looked at him. He looked like a typical starving actor, distressed torn leather jacket,  hair mousse, ‘Affliction’ (whatever the fuck that means) t-shirt, faded big thread jeans, basically a ‘Costas Mandylor’ look alike.

‘Who the fuck asked you, Shut you’re fuckin’ rat hole or you’ll be doing work as an extra in General Hospital.’’ Then Sue, ‘Hey watch it Bill, you asshole!’

‘I don’t have to take this’, Steve said with a quivering lip, ‘I’m outta here!’

‘Good. See ya. Break a neck or a leg. One less fuckin’ moron to train.’’

‘You old tub a shit!’ The girl with a thousand questions screamed, ‘We’ll take you to the labor board.’

‘Do whatever you want pizza face!’ Bill was furious. They both walked

out, the actor mumbling something and taking a six-pack.

Bill was alone. He sat down on a box of pork and beans, took a couple more shots, and had a 40 oz. Old English and he was feeling like a new man. He was really drunk now.

’Fuck ‘em. Fuck them all’

Bill got up to piss, walked over by the register, whipped out his shriveled, cat-scratched cock, and pissed on a 240-volt outlet where the lottery machine was plugged in until it was removed after Priscilla revealed she had a compulsive gambling problem. Bill wasn’t thinking about that, though. He had 240 volts going inside him; the excruciating sensation this produced was so hideous. He would rather have had six cats latch on to his cock than this.

‘Am I going to die?’ He mused. Every drunken episode passed before his eyes. He wished suddenly that he didn’t drink so much, then blackness. He woke up in the hospital mumbling about the Felix the cat.

‘Bill, Mr. DeSantis, Sir, can you hear me,’ Dr. Cohn said.

‘Yeah, yeah, I hear ya.’

‘Do you remember what happened?’

‘Yes. I was over at the register at the store and I got a terrible shock, I think I need an attorney.’

‘What was your penis doing out of your pants when they found you?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Sir, you’re penis was out of your trousers. There was urine near an electrical outlet. Also, your blood alcohol level was .34  again, point three four.’

‘Sounds like a setup to me, I want to speak to my lawyer!’

Dr. Cohen shook his head and left the room.

A lawyer showed up at about two-thirty, wearing a cheap, old, brown Men’s Wearhouse suit.

The pants one size too small at the waist and two sizes too small at the length.

‘Christ, what an embarrassing sight you are.’

‘I hope we have a case, Bill,’ Martin Duckworth said.

Martin was from a long line of ambulance chasers. His father and his father’s father was an attorney. He got Bill a settlement from an accident and won a slip and fall case for Myrna about a year ago. So Bill thought he might have a chance. That night Bill had incredible dreams. He was suffering from DT’s. Big bottles of 151 Rum and Old English 800. Armies of bottles chasing him. Bill screamed in his sleep, awoke very quickly, ran out into the street and was run over by a delivery truck. It was on its way to Petunia’s Mini Market. It was carrying wine and spirits.

Smokin’ Cigs & Talkin’ Shit

 

Mark Louie & Stevie on the patio of the Betty Ford Center. 1996

 

MARK: “Across the board, that Debbie is the worst counselor I’ve ever had, in any fucking rehab, that I’ve ever been in. Fucking hands down.”

LOUIE: “What do you want? She’s an ex-table dancer meth addict from Fontana.”

MARK: “Little fucking compassion would be nice, Jesus it’s like scared straight, the lifetime version with that broad.”

STEVIE: “You’re an alky and a crack head; the last thing you need is compassion. What? You want her to french kiss your cock.”

LOUIE: “Nah, Nah, Stevie, she talks to everybody like they’re shit. Fuck her with her cheap red shoes, swap meet Prada handbag. Bitch probably has a seven-year loan on that Lexus.”

STEVIE: “I’m here because my life is an absolute disaster from Oxy and Vodka. You think I give a Desert Hot Springs fuck about Debbie Carlucci and her fake handbag?”

MARK: “Yeah. You got a point; I’m really screwed if this doesn’t pan out. I’m homeless, jobless. Thank God for Motion Picture insurance. I wouldn’t be in this high-end daycare center.”

LOUIE: (ignoring MARK) “Fuck you Stevie, Don’t change the subject. Her husband looks Like a Sinaloa Cartel boss.”

MARK: “Yeah. I saw him the other Day. Looks shady, incidentally, at one point my mother was the head nurse at a rehab. And at the same time she was living with a big time coke dealer.”

STEVIE: “Really? No wonder why you’re so fucked up. Hey Louie, give me a cigarette. Those Export A’s are the fucking real deal!”

LOUIE: “They are also $8.00 a pack, buy your own you cheap fuck, mister garment industry mogul, you been bumming butts from me since the day you got here.”

STEVIE: “Awe. Poor Louie. Write about it in your journal or tell that half a fag of a counselor of yours. Maybe he’ll give you a tissue for your issue.”

LOUIE: (flipping off Stevie) “Yeah he seems a little light in the loafers, huh? All that lovey-dovey recovery shit gets on my nerves. He’s another one whose home life is probably twisted. Probably cruises hustlers on Santa Monica Blvd, after his shift.”

MARK: “Hey both of you listen for a minute. (He motions them both forward and speaks low) Mygirlfriendd stashed an ounce of blow in the care package She dropped off. I want to’ sneak over to the kitchen get some chore boy and baking soda.”

STEVIE & LOUIE: “What the fuck is a Chore Boy.”

MARK: “You know, screen to smoke coke with.”

LOUIE: “You kidding man?”

MARK: “Nope. My roommate paid for it. Said he wanted to try it. I was like, okay. He sent a check to my girlfriend for it. She drove out here and delivered it.”

LOUIE: “Fenix! Jesus! Did the check clear? I wouldn’t trust that guy.Post-traumatic Stress from ’Nam! Fuck man delusions of grandeur. Man, that dude is fucked up.”

MARK: “Yes the check cleared, forget about that. Can you guys cover me while I run over to the dining hall to round up my needs? I got needs.”

LOUIE: “I’m just saying, that guy is not playing with a full deck, as a matter of fact, ha, Jokers only, you know what I’m saying. Says he was in Nam, but he isn’t really even old enough. I did the math; he would have been fourteen years old at the peak of Nam. I gotcha Marky do what you need to do.”

STEVIE: “I ain’t covering for shit. I don’t want to hear about it again. Free basin’ in a rehab? With Fenix? That mental case, your gonna’ introduce him to the pipe! In a rehab! He’ll go batshit homicidal. Come on man! Are you fucking nuts!”

MARK: “Nope. Just an addict…like you.”

LOUIE: “Stevie. Don’t get all high and mighty, watch the attitude. You had your girl stash a quart of vodka in the bushes. You picked it up on the serenity walk and guzzled it down before the morning process group.”

STEVIE: “LOU! Why the fuck you ratting’ me out over here?”

MARK: “Really? And you’re judging me?”

LOUIE: “Now we both got something on you.”

MARK: “Fenix is cool man. He might have work for me if I can’t get my studio gig back. He’s part Cherokee; he raises Tundra Shepard’s for the CIA, guys Loaded! His family owns tons of property in Texas.”

LOUIE: “Bunch of horseshit. Guy was born with a silver spoon up his ass. His family has money; He’s still sucking on his mammy’s tit. What the fuck, he raises Tundra Shepards for the CIA. Man, you buying that bullshit?”

MARK: “I dunno what to believe anymore.”

STEVIE: “What’s that suppose to mean? The last person you trust is some asshole in a rehab, who has all these ideas and promises.”

Vinnie The Guinea’s Rant

Fucking Joey exploded man! He flew into a rage after the Jets lost to New England. He fucking backhanded Maria, split her fucking lip! Supposedly Maria told him, ‘get a life, and your fucking emotional state of being when your teams lose is like a twelve-year-old girl.’

That was it, “BLAM!” Maria’s dad Sal, You know Sal, built like a brick shithouse, he was a wheelman for Fat Tommy, Sal Man! Ex-Marine fought in ‘Nam – killin’ zips in the wire. Had like a necklace of gook ears! Fucking Sal beat up 14 Puerto Ricans in the parking lot of Fucking Yankee stadium they tried to rob him. He found out about the back-hand Joey served up to Maria and like went over there after the game while Joey was watching 60 minutes, like some segment about that asshole who started Facebook that Zuckerjew fuck.

Anyway I mean he fucking rolled Joey out like cheap carpet! Maria had to beg, “Daddy Daddy, please!” He says, “Shut the fuck up, Maria! I’ll beat this Mother-less fuck within an inch of his shitty fucking life!” He laid into him, screaming things at him like at the same time “you wanna hit my baby you fucking bag of shit, HUH?! HIT ME, C’MON! You sorry fuck I’ll make you wish you was never fuckin’ borned!” Then threw him against a wall and fucked up all the wedding pics and family photos, and, to like make it even more fucked up and worser Joey went face first into Angela’s picture (you know Sal’s dead wife and Maria’s saint of a fucking mother, helped retarded kids and disabled old fuckers, you know dead by cancer.

But hey not for nuthin’ years ago they lived by the Fresh Kills Landfill dump on Staten Island, so…. But then like Sal was really like super pissed! “MY ANGELA!” He was like crying and screaming, “YOU FUCKING COCK SUCKER! LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO MY ANGELA!” He picked up that heavy leather footrest thing, ottomans, whatever the fuck, you know the one they bought from Roma D’Italia in Brooklyn and started like BLAM BLAM like beating him wit it! Like the bottom part of it, it has like these black marble legs, and those lil’ legs were kicking the shit outta Joey with every fucking hit.

The neighbors called the cops but they never come there on account of Joey’s dad was the like the desk commander of the 69th precinct and they know Joey’s a loser or some shit and why trouble Joey Sr. with Joey Jr’s. fucking bullshit he’s got hypertension and gout and had to pay off loan sharks and junk dealers on account of Joey Jr.’s degenerate gambling or his dope habit and not for nuthin’ but Joe sr was probably at one time or anotha’ taking payoffs and gifts from Sal as well as Fat Tommy at the Tommy T’s social club where Joey sr. had a espresso and a t-bone steak like clockwork every fuckin Tuesday at like noon.

I can tell you this it looked like The Shining in there, like blood all over the walls, shit all tore up, broken glass and frameless black n’ white photos on the floor and what not, I saw and heard the whole thing from my place next door and like they got like no fucking shame they got the drapes and windows wide open on a Sunday night and screaming and yelling like Sicilian banshees like it sounds like fucking Raging Bull in there with these motherfuckers.

I ain’t gonna say shit cause these scum bags like either one of ‘em will beat me senseless, plus when Joey was in AC Gambling me and Maria fooled around like, let’s just say my sausage fell between her buns and we fucked til the cows came home and she called it a mercy fuck on account of I got like one leg smaller then the other and I gotta wear these orthopedic shoes but I told her not for nuthin’ I don’t need no charity, fuck you Maria I can get laid, just last week Josephine who’s temping in the office of 18th avenue plumbing supply gave me a hand job behind a dumpster and plus I got other prospects, and she said “yeah but a handjob and getting laid are in like in to different galaxies so what the fuck Vinnie?”

She was right and it was amazing to having had fucked her and I’m thinking about her a lot and plus I called her dad about the back-hand thing because fuck Joey Jr anyway! He called me a “lame” and “wobble walk” and “Vinnie Stutter step” in school so fucking his wife was like revenge you only read about in books, or see on television. And plus even my Father who is kind of soft, and quiet compared to other tuff motherfuckers in the neighborhood was like “Jesus Stevie, you gotta get laid, I mean Christ you must be walking around sexually frustrated with a heavy sack or like you must beat off like your going to the electric chair.”

Which both things are true but like I don’t want my father saying that to me I’m thirty-seven and plus I still live at home, but a lot a guys live at home, even into there like 50’s and fuck it’s expensive to move and not for nothing I chip in for food and clean up but my mother insists on doing my underwears and shit ‘cuz I bleached out the a bunch of colors and turned the whites blue cuz I don’t pay attention to what colors go with what cleaning chemicals so anyway, I was having this idea that maybe Sal will beat Little Joey like into a comatose type deal, so like I can be with Maria or console her through her trials and tribulations and however you say that.

Like I think about how much I enjoyed bangin’ her out I actually can’t stop thinking about her and sometimes I mean like once in a while I peak in on her through da window when she’s taking a dump or showering or pissing. Like a coma type deal or even like I mean if he died to, that wouldn’t be the worse thing that ever happened on this block either, like not for nothing you know father Mc Murphy diddled little cocks and fiddled with boys and girlses assholes and he like got off free as a fucking bird and moved out west, the church is like the mafia they take care of there own, but one of those kids was Fat Tommy’s godson and he was fucking like super pissed and word has it he put 25k on the street to have Mc Murphys cook and balls put in a mason jar, and I guess he put a couple of his soldiers on the street and even one went out west supposedly allegedly.

“Fuck You Huero!” A rant from Marisella Morales (aKa) sHyGrRl

*Excuse the vernacular, spelling errors and outright butchering of the English language. Trying to keep it hood.

Thass right you pinche fuck head. It’s Friday nite aye and we jus burly started to party cuz liL SpOoKy brought over a kegger and mi abolita made menudo and carne asada and my cousin RaScAl jus burly got out of Wayside cuz he was in there for some bullshit violations of probation like he was hangin’ out with another homeboy and some bullshit about not supposed to disasscociate with known gang members so like anyways we were getting’ down listening to narcos corridos music and like Sylvia (aKa LoNeLy) my homegirl from v13 came over and like she’s cool but that chica’s always judges me like how I’m a mother, how I keep house and there’s roaches and everything is greasy and filthy and especially when she says like, ‘don’t give meha flaming hot cheetos and diet coke, cuz meha looks like she’s sweating and red and her belly looks all distended out and shit and every time she sips at that cola she like makes a face like it’s fukin lickwid plummer aye least just give her regular like seven up or mounten dew’s and I’m like ‘LoNeLy mind your own bizzness bich’ and sometimes we argue and that’s when fukin pinche huero was all ‘um hello uh can you keep it down pleas?’ like all smart assy And I was like ‘mind your own bizness, this got nothing to do with your huero ass’ and then he’s like ‘it’s 12:30 and it’s got everything to do with me because your outside my window, I’ll call the cops’ and this huero had balls aye, cuz like we got homies all over the block, I was like ‘shit whatever, call the huda then liL SpOoKy was all ‘I’ll blast that foo aye fuck that lil’ blanco bitch’ and I was like ‘you ain’t blasting no one’ and my abolita came in from the back room and was like what are you locas doing? why is the huero yelling? what is happening? And I’m like ‘gramma go back to your little room, we got this go watch your programs’ we converted a walk in closet to a bedroom for her she has a little tv and we cut into the cable cuz my homeboy 5nIpEr works for Time Werner but gramma pitches in for rent with her social security and also I get WIC and that’s my monthly card for womans infants an childrens like milk and cheese and diapers and eggs and shit so like my tio biG pAnThEr lives here occasionally but he gets all perverted when he drinks and does speed and so my tia LiL’ dReAmEr who used to be with him but she went all machona tortillera when she went to the pen in chowchilla she loves to eat pussy she came at me and was like ‘sHyGiRl lemme taste that sweet lil pinoche’ like at her own daughter’s quincinera and I was drunk and horny and tempted but the bible says that shit is wrong so… then like last week she warned me and said that pAnThEr weird sexual extendencies but only just when he drinks and does tweak – but then I decided I still I don’t want him around my dotter… because another tio of mine bIg JoKeR is a sick fucker who touch my lil cussin Carla and she said he showed her his serpiente and she should touch it til it recoils back to its cave and shit and then he said she made it bled white on her hand, so she should pt it in her mouth to get the rest of the blood out of it and make it better, so he had to fkn go so but that sick motherfucker disappeared after I toll liL SpOoKy, I think liL SpOoKy he put his ass somewheres – but bIg JoKeR was abuse by has papi mR. sMiLeY like bIg JoKeR had to suck his papi mR. sMiLeY dick and got buttfucked by sMiLeY so, like they said shit rolls down hill so we nips that shit in the butt like quik fast I think he brought jOkErZ ass to TJ and blasted that sick ninos toucher and put his ass somewhere anyhwowz so then we jus kep partying and listnin to my favrit narco corridore jamz (rip Ariel Comacho mi corazon) Then like huero was slamming windows and shit like a lil’ bitch and then at like two in the morning pUpPeT and 5iLeNt show up they just came from the clubz and pUpPeT has blood all over his boots and jeans and he’s like ‘I just kikd this mother fuckerz head in like bad, he tried to talk shit when we were leving’ and there like gacked out smoking speed and I was like ‘you fuckerz cant do that here because last time the speed was all hot an likwid and spilled out the pipe onto meja’s feet an burnt it and I don’t want that shit and I was by the stove cooking and then 5iLeNt was like, ‘Shud up sHyGiRl bitch you still got that infection cuz my verga burns like fuck after putting it in your culo’ and I was fkn mad so I grabbed a hot pot of menudo and threw it on his back and he let out a bitch scream like you here in the movies and shit and I was like don’t ever put my shit on the streets pinche motherfucker lil’ dick bitch! Jus then the door knocked and was like police and these fools all bugged the fuck out and pUpPet 5iLeNt an rascal are all on probation so it was fkd up cuz it was like three am and the cops saw the kids awake and on the floor craw ling round the kegger and the ese’s are all bug eyed and jacked up and I toll them kick back aye and they started all this shit and the funny part too was that they tased 5iLeNt because he was like trying to fan his back with a dish rag and huda thought he was coming at them so like they zap that foo! And my abulita like ducked her head out and waved it all off and went back to her program. And those fools all got taken in and sent up for violations and now I gotta find more people to move in and pay the rent or something.